Page 112 of Big Little Spells

It’s then I see Coronis, sitting on the highest branch of the highest tree. And everything in me...relaxes.

Because I get the feeling Nicholas is somehow right there, looking out through his familiar’s eyes. Biding his time. He doesn’t want the Joywood to know he’s here just yet. I can think of all kinds of different strategies that would be helped by his seeming indifference, and I know him now.

He might not want to love me, but he does.

“Emerson Wilde and Rebekah Wilde,” Carol says now, as if she’s sermonizing. This close to her, that gleam in her gaze is dangerous and there’s not the faintest hint of the friendliness she projects out into the crowd. Not a single stray hint. “Failures of their first pubertatum. Untrustworthy hoarders of misused power.”

I really feel like our names are introduction enough, I complain to Emerson in our heads, in our own language.

I wish this was a duel, Emerson replies, sounding bloodthirsty when she looks perfectly saintly on the outside.

My hero.

“Show us, novices,” Carol says, finally getting to the ritual itself and the words that make it sacred, “can you balance light and dark?”

We know the responses by heart. We knew them a decade ago. “It is our honor to show you, Warrior,” we reply formally.

Carol’s gaze glitters, but she inclines her head. Emerson and I follow the ritual as it was written lifetimes ago—likely by the man who I last saw naked and beautiful in his bed, splayed out in the starlight.

The ritual wasn’t written for sisters, and as Emerson and I go down the line of the Joywood coven, dutifully expressing how honored we are to have the chance to prove ourselves to them, I think that they’ve miscalculated.

Because part of why the pubertatum is so overwhelming is because you have to do it alone. It’s just you, staring down the grim-faced Joywood, well aware that everyone else is watching you. It’s you and whatever you bring with you—all your fear, your shame, your doubt.

Your daddy issues. Your rage.

Your dreams and hopes. Your hidden what-ifs.

It’s the loneliest thing in the world.

But it only works on adolescents, I think now. And only if they’re made to feel as alone as teenagers always feel.

Because Emerson and I are together, and unfortunately for the Joywood, we’re grown.

We know we’re loved. We know that people who love us are standing right here on this stage with us. We know we love each other.

We make it all the way down the line, and now it’s time.

We don’t turn to each other at first. We follow the rules. We face the Joywood, and we each bring forth light and balance dark. Perfectly. Expertly. Like we were made to do this all along.

We make our demonstration bigger than the teenagers do, partly for the metaphor of it all. And also because we want to make sure everyone can see exactly what we’re doing.

Then, because there aren’t any strict rules for a team, we forego the usual weak finish.

Instead, we turn to each other like we did back in my room at Wilde House. First of the year, last of the year. Two sides of the same coin.

A prophecy worth fulfilling. Because the prophecy is us.

The prophecy is this.

In a typical pubertatum, the dismount is a fizzle. The balance bleeds into light or dark, and sometimes the whole thing explodes. Mind you, that doesn’t mean those witches fail. That seems to be just us.

So Emerson and I put on a little show. Our lights and darks grow bigger and move around, perfectly mirroring each other.

And then they meld.

Not light, not dark, but both at once. All things instead of none. And we hold them together like it’s nothing, raising them up until they hang high over the confluence like our very own moon.

Then we let it shine.

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