In my first memory, I stand in a doorway. Mother yells, while Dad tries to calm her. My tiny legs wobble as I try to stay as quiet as possible. Even as a child, I knew I needed to listen. “You travel the world, any one of those towns could be her new home. She ...

I open my eyes to the stars. Thousands of them light up the colorful painting of space dust that circles the sky. My hands are tingly and numb, my head pounds, and my mouth is dry. Something soft brushes my hand, making me jolt upright. I spot a tiny rabbit near my fingers and let ...

The knife comes loose with a tug as I inspect the wall. There isn’t much damage, but it will need to be refinished. I’ll need to have dad cleanse the house when he gets back. Another chore. Another day. Downstairs in the kitchen, the poorly wrapped cake mix sits on the counter. I shove it ...

“You’re a witch!” Hawthorne holds her hands up. If it were anyone else, it would be a symbol of surrender. But from a witch, it’s a threat. Her eyes darted around desperately. “But I–” “But what? Did you poison the tea?” The knife shook in my hands. “No, I swear! I’ll leave; you’ll never see ...

Out in the forest clearing, Hawthorn and I sit in the grass with fresh cups of tea. The sun is warm on my skin. “Now what?” “Just breathe in the air. Feel the surrounding roots. Witchcraft is about connecting with nature.” I close my eyes and try to focus. I’m able to pick out the ...

I walk home, holding my potion tightly. It glows blue in the afternoon sun. The concoction is one of illusion. If you give it to someone, they’ll see whatever you choose. There’s a burning taper in the kitchen window. Seeing it makes me stop. I haven’t lit a candle in days. I don’t need them ...

I love my family. My brothers and I always get along, despite their loud, obnoxious nature. Having a dad to take care of me is a breath of fresh air when I’m normally so alone. But two weeks is the longest break I can remember them taking between hunts. Since Quince turned eighteen, at least ...

A flower pushed its way through the soil toward the sun. It coils upwards, then, just before blooming, tilts down and sheds its petals. “Damn,” I say. Hawthorn smiles with a flash of disappointment in her eyes. “You got close.” “Not close enough.” “You’re being too hard on yourself. It took me months to get ...

“Stop!” All the tranquility of our grotto snaps in an instant. The grass physically recoils in fear, like a hundred frightened children, and the greenery dulls. Pollen grows stale on my tongue, and he wind grows still. I’m on my feet in a second. Quince stands just beyond the birch tree line, eyes stormy. Hawthorn ...