Page 108 of Big Little Spells

Looking at them makes me realize our friends never wear theirs. And while no witch is required to wear theirs all the time, many witches do.

“Why don’t you wear those more?” I ask. I think of Zander’s necklace with the three rivers that Aunt Zelda gave him that morning ten years ago. As far as I know, he never takes it off. “Zander always wears his.”

Georgie and Ellowyn exchanged looks.

“Because you can’t,” Ellowyn says, almost gruffly. “Neither of you.”

“And in fairness, Guardians need to wear their amulets to control the ferries on the river if there are any big storms,” Georgie adds. “So Zander has to wear his. Just in case.”

Emerson looks at them both, her eyes looking much too bright. I think if she cries, we’ll all cry—but instead, she performs a perfectly executed fist pump. One of her specialties.

“Every little rebellion counts,” she says, as we all smile goofily at each other.

It’s all sweet and wonderful and so them, but it also gives me a stab of pain that the Joywood took things away not just from Emerson and me, but everyone who loved us. Too many things to count at this point. With more to come tonight, if they have their way.

Anger simmers in my gut, but I know I can’t sink into it. Not now. Because like it or not, tonight is all about balance.

I repeat that word to myself. I try to breathe.

Ellowyn glances at the clock on the wall. “You know I don’t care about being punctual, generally speaking—”

“Bite your tongue!” Emerson replies in mock horror.

Ellowyn doesn’t laugh the way she usually does. “The guys are running late. I’m not sure tonight’s the night to test whether or not punctuality is actually a virtue.”

We all glare at the clock, like that might help.

“Jacob went over to Aunt Zelda’s this morning,” Emerson says quietly. “I haven’t heard from him since.”

And I haven’t heard from Aunt Zelda either. I check my phone, just in case, but the last text is from me to her. The day before yesterday. My stomach twists.

We all fall into silence. We watch the clock. We get more tense with every minute that creeps by, yet no one seems to want to state the obvious or come up with an alternate plan—until the side door into the kitchen opens.

Zander and Jacob stagger inside, bringing the sunset with them, and I know immediately.

Jacob is so gray he’s almost transparent. Emerson rushes to his side, helping him into a chair. But Zander’s coloring is worse. And his eyes are red-rimmed and wild with anguish.

I think we all know.

But no one wants to say it.

“Jacob,” Emerson says carefully. I watch as she curls her hand over the chair’s back to stay upright. She wants to fight the truth away.

If we could, I know we would. Isn’t that the point of having magic? Of being witches? Of existing outside human rules of life and death and—

“She’s gone.” Zander’s voice is a rasp.

I move before I know I’m going to, wrapping my arms around Zander from one side. Emerson comes over and does the same from the other side. I want to be strong, but I can’t be. I’m not even sure why I want to be, but this isn’t the time. I want to argue, to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong—but all I can do is cry while I hold on to him and Ellowyn cries silently on Georgie’s shoulder.

Zander stands stock-still, like he feels none of it.

“There are seven others,” Jacob says into the silence, and though he sounds less gray than he looks, there’s something else in his voice that I recognize. Guilt. “Eight witches died today, all with ties to St. Cyprian and long before they should have. From something no Healer has ever seen. Or was able to stop.”

I understand the guilt he feels, but I also remember what my grandmother said.

Pain is coming. Grief. It is not happenstance. It is not accidental. It is purposeful. When it comes, don’t let it change who you all are. Let it fuel you instead. Grief is love. And love is magic.

I only realize I’ve said it out loud when everyone looks at me like I’ve turned into an oracle on the kitchen floor.

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