Page 10 of Big Little Spells

4

HALFWAY DOWN THE LONG staircase, a loud knocking begins echoing through the house, the walls practically vibrating with it. And this is an old, sturdy house that has withstood centuries of river shenanigans and magical nonsense, so this means it’s either a wrecking ball out there or someone is using a whole lot of unnecessary magic to announce themselves.

Ellowyn and I exchange a look, and even Smudge looks almost interested as she saunters for the door.

When Emerson doesn’t come running to answer it, I shrug and move forward. I feel a little jolt as my hand skims over the dragon newel post at the bottom of the grand old staircase. I jerk my hand back because while it’s hardly the first time that’s happened, I used to think it was one of my mother’s little land mines. Shocking the unwary so we would always stay on our toes in this house. It never occurred to me it was just...the post itself.

I stare at the dragon carving for a moment, but the knocking continues. Ellowyn beats me to the door and swears as she looks through the sidelight. “Maybe we can hide,” she mutters.

“Why? Who is it?”

But I look out the window and see the answer myself, in all its horror. Especially at this hour.

Felicia.

“We could fly off to Tahiti,” I offer.

“We could,” Ellowyn says, but she clearly thinks I’m kidding. I know this by her rueful smile and also because she pulls open the door.

Felicia Ipswitch is standing on the front porch, looking as officious as ever and worse, holding a stack of white binders.

Hi, welcome to hell, I think. All your enemies are here.

“Rebekah. Ellowyn.” She manages to say our names like they taste bad, then looks beyond us. Pointedly. I assume she’s looking for Emerson and Georgie, or evidence of unsavory behavior that will convince her that Ellowyn and I are the delinquents she’s always thought us to be. Both, probably. She continues to peer past us, but when we don’t do anything but stare back at her, she lets out that sniff. “Here you are.” She hands me a binder, then gives one to Ellowyn.

I’m not the only one who takes it automatically, but I hate myself for it.

“What is this?” I ask, but dread settles into my stomach at the sight of St. Cyprian High’s familiar logo on the cover.

“It’s your syllabus. Your work will begin in May if you have the faintest hope of readying yourself for Litha.” Felicia makes it clear she has no such hope that I’ll be ready for anything.

And still I laugh, because what I know is that laughing at bullies is one of the strongest weapons there is. Felicia, bully extraordinaire, is not moved to join me. I’m surprised that Ellowyn doesn’t laugh along the way she usually does, but she’s flipping through her much smaller binder. I decide not to give Felicia the satisfaction of opening mine.

Felicia sniffs again, then hands Ellowyn another slim volume like the one she’s already holding. “You’ll give this to Ms. Pendell.”

“Will I?” Ellowyn returns, sounding like her old, insolent self. But she takes the second binder anyway.

“And you’ll give this to your sister,” she says to me, somehow making sister sound like criminal, which is hilarious when aimed at Emerson, of all people. Still, I notice Emerson and my binders are much thicker than Georgie’s and Ellowyn’s.

“You’ve been given a great opportunity here, girls,” Felicia says sternly. Girls. When we are nearly thirty. “The Joywood have been kind enough to give you the time and space to prepare, to prove yourselves, little as some might think you deserve such consideration. I suggest that, for once, you two take that opportunity seriously and prepare for your test with the weight and gravity it deserves.”

I flick my wrist, and the door slams shut in Felicia’s face, leaving her huffing on the porch. “How about that for some weight and gravity,” I mutter. I look over at Ellowyn, expecting a conspiratorial grin, but she’s got her nose in the binder again.

I feel the faintest little trickle of foreboding, right down the length of my spine.

“It’s like an assignment notebook,” Ellowyn says, making a face. “A list of things we have to do as penance for our many infractions.”

I look down at my binder, afraid to open it and find out why mine is thicker. Much thicker. Apparently, it turns out that proving you have magic when you’re supposed to have none is not the boon you’d think.

Ellowyn is flipping through pages. Loudly. Then she makes a yelping sound. “Holy shit. Rebekah, we have to go to Beltane prom.”

I don’t open my binder. I’m still stuck on the whole SCH logo on the cover, a symbol of the confluence I always thought looked suspiciously like a butt, like they wanted all that teenage sniggering. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m not joking.” She holds up her open binder and shows me the page. “It’s listed in big, bold, underlined letters. ‘For all who aided the exiled and mind wiped. Attendance mandatory to remind you of the importance of your place in the witch community.’”

I blink at the words, sure if I blink enough times it’ll all go away. Or I’ll wake up. But no. I can read the same words she does, complete with time and date. “I’m not reliving that horror. This is...” I struggle to find words beyond the renewed buzzing in my head. I expected, like, public hangings and blood rituals. Proper witch shit. Not reliving the torture of high school. “This is just petty.”

“Yeah, funny how pettiness is damn effective in ruining my day,” Ellowyn says darkly.

---