Page 18 of Hollow

What is it?

Then I feel a blast of cold air rush through my palm, like ice cracking up my arm, and I immediately withdraw my hand, trying to shake out the pins and needles.

“How did you do that?” I gasp, my hand still feeling numb and hot at the same time as I cradle it against my chest.

She stares at her palm, her eyes big. It’s clear it was a surprise to her too.

“I don’t know,” she says slowly, turning her hand around. “I just took the energy you were giving me, and I gave it back to you.”

“Were you thinking of anything at the time?” I ask, opening my desk drawer with my other hand and fishing out a pad of paper and a pencil.

“Just that it felt hot, so I imagined ice. Like I wanted to freeze you out.”

I give my hand a final shake, flexing my fingers, then excitedly write down the findings on the paper. “That is very interesting,” I tell her.

“Is that not normal?”

I glance up at her. “Normal? No. Most can’t tell when I’m trying to sift through them. The fact that you not only could but that you were able to combat me means you’re a lot more in tune with your energy than most.” I give her a wry smile. “In time, I think you might be at the top of your class.”

She doesn’t look too convinced. But I am determined to convince her now. She may not want to be here, but it’s undeniable that the power her aunts have runs in her blood. Who knows what kind of powerful witch this girl might become?

And then there’s the fact that we share something, something in our pasts that we’ve both experienced, something indulgent and raw that’s on the tip of my tongue, and yet I can’t quite wrap my head around it. What on earth could possibly link the two of us together?

“Is this the only class you teach?” she asks.

“Not at all. I also teach divination and manifestation through tarot and crystals, mimicry, and psionic skills.” I pause. “Are you in those classes too?”

She exhales. “I don’t know what my classes are. I feel so utterly ill-prepared to be here. No books, no pencils or paper, no class schedule. My mother just put me on my horse, and away I went.”

“You rode here?” I repeat. “No chariot to take you?”

“You may be from New York City, Mr. Crane, but I live on a farm,” she says with a bemused twinkle in her eye. “I’ve been riding horses my whole life. No point in taking a carriage if you don’t have to.”

“But I’m sure your family is quite wealthy.”

“We are,” she says, then shakes her head, her eyes turning melancholy. “We were. My mother was born into wealth, of course, but my father died when I was nine. Without him working, we don’t have as much money as we did. But we live in a great house on a lovely old farm, and we aren’t lacking for anything.”

“Certainly not your wardrobe,” I note, still avoiding her chest like the plague.

She glances down at her ample décolletage. “Yes, well, that was all my fault. I thought people dressed up for school. I underestimated the types of students that would be coming here.”

“Lower class, you mean,” I say. “Tell me, Kat, are you a bit of a snob?”

“No,” she says adamantly, her cheeks flushing. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” I say, raising my hand. “I’m only teasing you. From what I gather, you’re an outlier. Most men and women with any sort of magic tend to exist on the fringes of society. It’s their otherness that puts them there, whether they like it or not.”

She folds her hands in front of her and studies me. “And is that where you came from? The fringes?” She looks me up and down. “I see a smart suit, a nice watch. I see a man with intelligence and manners. And magic.”

“I have lived a life of many beginnings,” I admit. “Along the way, I discovered that’s the best way to live.”

“So what was your last beginning?”

“Knock knock,” a voice says, and I turn to see Sister Margaret at the door, her cloak over her head, casting shadows over her face. Her features seem to dance and sway for a moment, as if rearranging themselves, something I noticed that’s consistant amongst Leona and Ana Van Tassel, as well as Margaret and Sophie Jensen. I know it’s some sort of spell they must have going on, a glamor of sorts, but I can’t figure out the point of it.

“It’s time for your tour,” Sister Margaret says to Kat. “If you’re still interested, of course. We have an hour before your next class with Ms. Peters.”

“Of course,” Kat says. Her hand flexes over the ripped sheets of paper in her hand.

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