Then again, it was only November 2. Give it time to heal, Nadia reminded herself.
Verlaine stopped short, her Converse sneakers kicking up dust on the path. “There. My parents are over there.”
She pointed at a still-smooth granite block, one of the long tombstones that bracketed dual graves. Nadia helped lead her toward them. She noticed Mateo taking care not to step on any place where a dead person might lie. From some people that would only have been superstition; from Mateo, she knew, it was a sign of respect.
Finally they were at the foot of the graves, looking at an epitaph that read: Richard and Maisie Laughton, beloved children, loving parents.
Gone from us too soon.
“They don’t have any flowers.” Verlaine’s voice was small. “I used to want to bring them when I was little, but it always made Uncle Dave cry. He was close to my mom; he said she was his best friend, always. Coming here hurt him so much that I quit asking. But now they haven’t had flowers for years and years.”
“It’s okay,” Mateo said. “They know you still love them.”
“Do they? We proved magic exists, and witches exist, and also crazy-ass sorceresses who sit near you in chemistry class, but we don’t know anything about heaven, last I checked.” Verlaine wiped at her face, though she wasn’t crying; it was as though she was trying to focus herself, Nadia thought. “Or is that in your Book of Shadows, Nadia? Proof that there’s an afterlife?”
“Nope. That’s as mysterious to you as it is to me.” Nadia decided the best way to comfort Verlaine at this point was to stay focused on the task at hand. “Verlaine, I want you to go stand between the two graves.”
The effect was immediate. Verlaine steadied just at the thought of having something constructive to do. “Up by the gravestone? Or does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, but there might be some, uh, physical impact. So standing farther back is good.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Getting a little distance is a good idea for you, too, Mateo.”
He smiled at her, and it was one of those moments where it hit her all over again—how somehow this wonderful guy had come into her life exactly when she was trying to shut everyone out. Mateo had beaten down the doors. Burned the fences. Picked the lock on the gate. “Distance,” he said. “Got it. You don’t need a Steadfast for this?”
“I always need my Steadfast,” Nadia said softly. “But you’ll be more than close enough.”
Verlaine positioned herself between her parents’ graves, a strange look on her face as she gazed down at the place where her mother lay. Her usual vintage look was less polished today, but she’d put on acid-washed jeans and a poufy white sweater for an eighties vibe. All Nadia could think was how pale and thin she looked. Like a ghost among the graves. “Here?”
“That works.” Nadia lifted her hand and took hold of her wrist—specifically, the quartz charm that dangled from her bracelet. The bracelet wasn’t just a piece of jewelry; it was her way of keeping the primal elements she needed for her witchcraft close at every moment.
But the elements alone weren’t the magic. They only grounded Nadia, made her ready. For magic, she needed the spell.
For revealing magic done long ago:
Fear conquered.
Love betrayed.
Secrets laid bare.
Those were the ingredients. Now, to give them power. Nadia closed her eyes and thought of the deepest, most emotionally resonant memories that fulfilled each—
Standing with Mateo in the Halloween carnival fire, aware the house was about to collapse around them, facing Elizabeth’s magic and fighting back with her own.
“It’s better this way,” Mom said at the doorway, suitcase in hand, not even looking Nadia directly in the face before she left her daughter behind forever.
Meeting Elizabeth’s eyes across the chemistry lab as one of Nadia’s spells went haywire, and Elizabeth’s mocking smile, her utter lack of surprise, revealing that she was another witch—but horribly, undoubtedly, a Sorceress.
Nadia opened her eyes to see a bottle-green mist drifting around them—centered on the graves, and on Verlaine. A soft sound rustled through the air, like silk on silk. Verlaine’s long, silver hair began to drift around her, as though she were underwater.
“It’s cold,” Verlaine whispered.
“Stay very still.” Nadia held up one hand as a warning. Verlaine’s eyes went wide, but she didn’t move.
The mist swirled a little faster, then froze in place—literally. One moment it was vapor; the next moment, greenish crystals of ice sleeted down around them. Verlaine winced and covered her head as the ice rattled on her parents’ gravestones. It instantly melted, running through the carved letters to drip down onto the brownish grass below.
Verlaine peeked through her fingers. “. . . That’s it?”
Nadia nodded. Mateo stepped closer to them, and when she turned toward him, what she already suspected was confirmed in his eyes.
“What did it look like to you?” she asked. Mateo, as her Steadfast, possessed a window into magic that even she could never match.
“Dark red metallic . . . streaks, I guess.” He struggled, obviously trying to find the right words. “Like they were raining down in this greenish mist.”
“We saw the mist, too. That was a freebie.” Verlaine walked toward them, her steps unsteady. Nadia wasn’t sure whether that was from the lingering effects of what Elizabeth had done to her last week or the emotions she had to be feeling. “So. Dark red. That’s old magic, right? What did the spell tell you, Nadia?”
Verlaine stopped short, her Converse sneakers kicking up dust on the path. “There. My parents are over there.”
She pointed at a still-smooth granite block, one of the long tombstones that bracketed dual graves. Nadia helped lead her toward them. She noticed Mateo taking care not to step on any place where a dead person might lie. From some people that would only have been superstition; from Mateo, she knew, it was a sign of respect.
Finally they were at the foot of the graves, looking at an epitaph that read: Richard and Maisie Laughton, beloved children, loving parents.
Gone from us too soon.
“They don’t have any flowers.” Verlaine’s voice was small. “I used to want to bring them when I was little, but it always made Uncle Dave cry. He was close to my mom; he said she was his best friend, always. Coming here hurt him so much that I quit asking. But now they haven’t had flowers for years and years.”
“It’s okay,” Mateo said. “They know you still love them.”
“Do they? We proved magic exists, and witches exist, and also crazy-ass sorceresses who sit near you in chemistry class, but we don’t know anything about heaven, last I checked.” Verlaine wiped at her face, though she wasn’t crying; it was as though she was trying to focus herself, Nadia thought. “Or is that in your Book of Shadows, Nadia? Proof that there’s an afterlife?”
“Nope. That’s as mysterious to you as it is to me.” Nadia decided the best way to comfort Verlaine at this point was to stay focused on the task at hand. “Verlaine, I want you to go stand between the two graves.”
The effect was immediate. Verlaine steadied just at the thought of having something constructive to do. “Up by the gravestone? Or does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, but there might be some, uh, physical impact. So standing farther back is good.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Getting a little distance is a good idea for you, too, Mateo.”
He smiled at her, and it was one of those moments where it hit her all over again—how somehow this wonderful guy had come into her life exactly when she was trying to shut everyone out. Mateo had beaten down the doors. Burned the fences. Picked the lock on the gate. “Distance,” he said. “Got it. You don’t need a Steadfast for this?”
“I always need my Steadfast,” Nadia said softly. “But you’ll be more than close enough.”
Verlaine positioned herself between her parents’ graves, a strange look on her face as she gazed down at the place where her mother lay. Her usual vintage look was less polished today, but she’d put on acid-washed jeans and a poufy white sweater for an eighties vibe. All Nadia could think was how pale and thin she looked. Like a ghost among the graves. “Here?”
“That works.” Nadia lifted her hand and took hold of her wrist—specifically, the quartz charm that dangled from her bracelet. The bracelet wasn’t just a piece of jewelry; it was her way of keeping the primal elements she needed for her witchcraft close at every moment.
But the elements alone weren’t the magic. They only grounded Nadia, made her ready. For magic, she needed the spell.
For revealing magic done long ago:
Fear conquered.
Love betrayed.
Secrets laid bare.
Those were the ingredients. Now, to give them power. Nadia closed her eyes and thought of the deepest, most emotionally resonant memories that fulfilled each—
Standing with Mateo in the Halloween carnival fire, aware the house was about to collapse around them, facing Elizabeth’s magic and fighting back with her own.
“It’s better this way,” Mom said at the doorway, suitcase in hand, not even looking Nadia directly in the face before she left her daughter behind forever.
Meeting Elizabeth’s eyes across the chemistry lab as one of Nadia’s spells went haywire, and Elizabeth’s mocking smile, her utter lack of surprise, revealing that she was another witch—but horribly, undoubtedly, a Sorceress.
Nadia opened her eyes to see a bottle-green mist drifting around them—centered on the graves, and on Verlaine. A soft sound rustled through the air, like silk on silk. Verlaine’s long, silver hair began to drift around her, as though she were underwater.
“It’s cold,” Verlaine whispered.
“Stay very still.” Nadia held up one hand as a warning. Verlaine’s eyes went wide, but she didn’t move.
The mist swirled a little faster, then froze in place—literally. One moment it was vapor; the next moment, greenish crystals of ice sleeted down around them. Verlaine winced and covered her head as the ice rattled on her parents’ gravestones. It instantly melted, running through the carved letters to drip down onto the brownish grass below.
Verlaine peeked through her fingers. “. . . That’s it?”
Nadia nodded. Mateo stepped closer to them, and when she turned toward him, what she already suspected was confirmed in his eyes.
“What did it look like to you?” she asked. Mateo, as her Steadfast, possessed a window into magic that even she could never match.
“Dark red metallic . . . streaks, I guess.” He struggled, obviously trying to find the right words. “Like they were raining down in this greenish mist.”
“We saw the mist, too. That was a freebie.” Verlaine walked toward them, her steps unsteady. Nadia wasn’t sure whether that was from the lingering effects of what Elizabeth had done to her last week or the emotions she had to be feeling. “So. Dark red. That’s old magic, right? What did the spell tell you, Nadia?”
