Page 5 of Big Little Spells

Emerson’s forehead wrinkles, and I imagine mine does too as we both look at Georgie. “The adult test?” we ask in unison.

Though all I actually do is move my mouth, with no sound coming out.

This is one of the things that used to keep me up at night. The pettiness of St. Cyprian witchcraft when it’s magic. You could build whole worlds if you were Carol Simon, and instead you slither around hexing younger witches, just because you can.

Georgie eyes Carol, but then looks back to us. “There’s recourse for when an adult spell dim witch finds some power. But it’s much more difficult than the pubertatum. You’ll need time to prepare. To study.”

“You’ll have until Litha,” Carol says. Litha is what stuffy older witch types call the summer solstice. Then she intones, as I have heard her do many times before, “The longest day of the year, when we celebrate the light yet welcome back the darkness, and in so doing recognize the great gifts of witchkind in our young. The current class of fledgling witches will take their test then, as usual. You may take your adult test at the same time.”

That last part is offered like Carol is doing us a great favor. As if the solstice isn’t a mere two months away when the fledglings spend their entire lives getting ready for their supposedly easier test.

“I reject the entire paradigm of test-taking,” I say, which is how I discover she’s returned my voice to me. Everyone in the field stares at me. I smile. Okay, it’s more of a smirk, and yes, I’m still slouching. “I mean, historically, I’m pretty bad at tests.”

“What you were bad at was studying,” Emerson says, frowning at me in all her big sister glory.

That brings back all kinds of memories, most of them ending in sisterly conflict, but this is not high school, I tell myself for the nine millionth time tonight.

“I’m sure your well-informed Historian will help you,” Carol says in that slimy way of hers, complete with that insincere smile that’s always been her calling card.

Then she turns her back, dismissing us. The Joywood disappear in an over-the-top display of light and power, but Carol’s voice echoes after they’ve gone, like a thunderclap so loud it makes the trees shake.

Don’t try to run away this time, Rebekah. We’ll only have to drag you back.

I want to scream. Rage. Set something on fire like I may or may not have done the last time I failed—but I don’t like to think about that night or what I did. I do know I want nothing to do with tests. With these witches messing with me, implying that I ran away like a baby instead of claiming the only path I could live with. With my overzealous, endlessly perfect big sister. With too much high school drama in the air and a brooding, unfathomable immortal like a cherry on top of a shit sundae.

I want to be as far away from St. Cyprian as I can be.

But as I stand there, fuming, Emerson comes over and twines her fingers with mine. Anchoring me here, maybe, but I can’t deny that it comforts me.

Her hand doesn’t feel the way I remember it, and I look down to see a ring on my sister’s finger. Clearly an engagement ring, so I guess I have some catching up to do. I want to congratulate her, but something stops me. Because I have visions. I always have. Like all great Diviners, a universe of chances and paths not taken exists within me.

The light from Emerson’s ring seems to blind me—but I know I’m the only one who sees it. The way I’m the only one who’ll see what comes next. The magical alchemy of what a future might look like for Emerson.

Usually our shared blood—filled with generations of Wilde power no matter what the Joywood say—means my visions of Emerson come in pure and strong.

But something is wrong tonight. The visions come tumbling at me, too fast, and they’re all...garbled. Cracked. There are too many lines, pictures, all scrambled. Nothing is clear. Nothing is right. It’s neither good nor bad. It’s nothing.

I’m used to visions coming at me full and clear, whether I seek them or not.

I focus on Emerson’s ring. I try to see any one future line of events to completion. I even go so far as to whisper the old words I haven’t dared say out loud in over a decade.

“I am the mirror, the Diviner, the crystal ball bright.

Scry me a future, let the path ignite.”

But it’s like a mirror that’s been shattered into a million pieces. Static on an old TV. Something is wrong.

And even though I’m usually what’s wrong in St. Cyprian, tonight I don’t think it’s me, or Emerson’s future. It’s... something else. Something bigger.

“I have the literature,” Georgie is saying. “We can find out what kind of tests have been used before and practice for them, but there hasn’t been an adult test in over a century. Firsthand knowledge would be better.” Georgie’s eyes dart over to the shadows. Over to Nicholas Frost.

Everyone turns to him, but his too-knowing gaze never leaves mine. Even if I was tempted—and okay, I’m tempted despite the fact I already know he’d betray me in a heartbeat, because he has—I wouldn’t try to see his future. I have some concerns about the weight of his past. Anyone messing with visions knows you have to be careful. There’s always the possibility they might move in more than one direction.

“I do not wish to take part in your study group, thank you,” he says in that mocking voice. And something’s wrong with me that I find it hot. Or maybe it’s just the way he looks at me. Too long. Too dark. Like he already knows all kinds of futures I’m not ready to face. Like we’re alone. “Welcome home, witchling.”

Then, because he’s Nicholas Frost, he disappears in a literal puff of smoke while a raven caws dramatically from the trees.

Show-off.

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