Page 2 of Stolen Magic

The pulsing magic was docile as it obediently waited for whatever instruction I might impart. I stretched out my hands, palms up, watching in awe as the light danced between my fingers, casting tiny shadows on the soil. I moved them slowly and the light followed, a visible testament to the power that I wielded.

But the exhilarating sensation faded as quickly as it had awakened; the magic retreated as suddenly as it had appeared, the light dimming until only the memory of its brilliance lingered. My shoulders sank and I was filled with a strange emptiness.

“It’s all right,” Mother reassured me. “It’s only the beginning, Lysa. Your journey into magic is just getting started.”

I nodded my understanding, but my heart still raced with the thrill of discovery, the desire to feel that connection again and weave my own thread into magic’s vast, vibrant tapestry.Patience, I reminded myself as I looked at my hands, remembering the soft glow and the indescribable exhilaration of being chosen by magic.

The afternoon stretched warm and languid as Mother and I delved into the mysteries of my burgeoning powers, a soft breeze teasing the curtains of our small cottage as we worked, the air rich with the scents of juniper and sage. With continued practice I was able to repeatedly coax my magic out, and after several experiments in trial and error, hold it long enough to mold it to my whims. My hands began to shake with excitement, but Mother’s gentle voice steadied me as she guided me through the delicate threads of magic that wove around us.

“Focus, Lysa,” she instructed. “Feel the energy, but don’t force it.” Her hands enveloped mine, guiding them in smooth arcs through the air.

A laugh bubbled from my lips as a shimmering ribbon of light danced from our fingertips, swirling in vibrant hues before dissipating in a shower of sparks. My heart soared with the thrill of it. I wanted to explore all the possibilities filled in each spark within my fingertips and delve into all manner of spells, but Mother had a different plan in mind to begin my formal magical education.

“Magic is about more than spellwork; potions and the ingredients that comprise them are an essential element to any witch’s craft. I will teach you how to grow each herb and brew every draft, beginning by harvesting lavender and sage.” She led me outside to walk me through the orderly rows, her movements assured as she snipped the plants. “Lavender is for protection and calm, sage for cleansing and strength. Magic is about more than just power—it’s about intention and harmony with the world around us.”

I followed her movements, mimicking the careful way she cradled the herbs. There was a rhythm to our work, soothing and familiar. As we filled our baskets, she shared tales of the ancient witches from our genealogy, women whose stories were woven with the same threads of courage and wisdom she was weaving into me.

A budding sprig of curiosity grew inside me with each tale. “Was their magic like ours?” I asked.

“Each had her own gifts,” she replied. “Just like you. Your magic is as unique to you as your spirit.” She touched my cheek with a dirt-smudged finger, leaving a warm trace of affection.

After she deemed we’d gathered enough herbs, we moved to the kitchen. The stone counters were covered with jars and vials, each containing possibilities waiting to be unlocked; thecontainers of dry leaves and various-colored liquids seemed much more exciting now that I held the potential to actually create with them. Mother showed me how to grind sage into a fine powder, her hands moving with a grace that made even this simple task seem like a sacred ritual.

“Watch carefully,” she instructed as she combined the sage with lavender and a drop of dew collected at dawn from one of the many vials lining the shelves. She murmured a spell, her voice a soft cadence that filled the room with a palpable energy. The mixture glowed briefly, a sign of a successful enchantment.

“Now you try.” She stepped back to give me space.

With a deep breath I reached for the source that simmered just beneath my skin, untrained yet eager. I repeated her motions…only to stumble over the words, causing my power to sputter out. Disappointment prickled, but before it could take root, Mother rested her hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Magic is like a muscle that strengthens with practice. I will be here to guide you every step of the way.”

I took a slow breath and shifted my stance, straightening my posture before I carefully measured out a fresh spoonful of sage. Painstakingly I mixed in the lavender and dispensed the dewdrop, holding my breath as it shimmered atop the herbs.

“Close your eyes,” Mother whispered. “Take your time and feel the power inside; don’t try to force it out.”

I obediently shut my eyes, mentally rehearsing the words before slowly but clearly speaking them aloud. I heard Mother’s breath catch and opened my eyes to see a lilac glow rising in a swirl above the clay bowl where I’d mixed my ingredients. With a happy squeal, I flung my arms around Mother and she squeezed me in return, her delight nearly as acute as mine.

I looked towards the cupboard where the jars of concentrated magic waited. “When can I try using some of them?”

Mother smiled indulgently. “You need to master the skill of speaking your spells first,” she explained. “The magic within you is powerful, but easier to control because it is part of you. Using the magic we’ve caught or harvested is trickier, as it is wild and sometimes acts in unexpected ways.”

We spent the remainder of the afternoon concocting remedies and charms, Mother’s voice gentle as she guided me through the intricacies of our craft, her patience unwavering as the sun tracked its path across the sky. When the day waned, she wrapped me in a hug, her presence a comforting fortress against the encroaching dusk.

“In you lies the future of our line,” she whispered, as if confiding a precious secret. “Whatever comes, know that you are the magic I cherish most.”

This simple and profound moment should have been one of many woven into a loving, enchanted tapestry I could carry in my heart through the dark days that followed. Instead, this joy we'd created together was short-lived.

The ground suddenly trembled and a distant clamor shattered our pocket of peace. Mother’s head snapped up, her eyes darkened with sudden fear. Before I even had time to wonder what was happening, she pushed me towards the trapdoor beneath the kitchen rug, her hands trembling as she lifted it.

“Inside.” Her usual calm demeanor cracked with urgency. “No matter what you hear, stay hidden until I come for you.”

I couldn’t move. I yearned to protest, to remain by her side…but her stern look brooked no argument. She helped me into the dark space below, her fingers lingering on mine with a final squeeze. “I love you.”

The last glimpse I caught of her face was of her lips moving in the cadence of a protective spell before the hatch closed, plunging me into darkness.

At first all was still and silent, the only sound my pounding heart’s frightful tremors. Then a deafening crash shook the house, followed by the muffled sounds of chaos bleeding through the floorboards above, each clash of metal, shout, and cry of pain a dagger in my heart. I huddled in the cramped darkness, pressing my hands to my ears, willing it all to fade away.

Suddenly, silence descended—a quiet far more terrifying than the recent tumult. Time crawled, each second stretching interminably as I waited for a whispered sign, anything to indicate it was safe for me to come out. When the silence grew unbearable, I pushed open the trapdoor and emerged into a nightmare.

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