At first it was an idea born of pure desperation, that magic could be something to delight in instead of something to fear. That this island could be a place mainlanders wanted to visit instead of a hideaway for witches and evil. Out of sheer force of will, my ancestors created an entirely new order of magic, softening their power and tending to the island so they could survive. They only practiced magic in daylight, never hiding it in darkness. They gave up the terrifying parts of magic and magnified the wondrous parts. They were kind to the mainlanders who monitored the island, smiling when they really wanted to curse them to the depths of the sea.
And it paid off.
The waves are coming quicker now, rolling up the shore and licking at my legs. I close my eyes and listen, let the rest of the Witchery fade away as I imagine myself under the water. Most silence is unbearably fragile, stolen by a single voice, a shattered glass, a muffled cry. But the silence underwater is thick and sturdy and impenetrable.
The sky is turning orange and pink, as if Mrs. Rhodes has taken her brightest eye shadows and smeared them across the horizon. I’ll be scolded for more than just my appearance if I’m not home for dinner, so I push myself off the ground and stretch.
I take one long, deep breath and let the salty air fill my lungs, but I stop when something in the water catches my eye.
A flower, exactly like the one I thought I saw this morning.
The world is getting darker by the minute, but I’m sure of what I’m seeing. Without thinking, I rush into the waves and dive under, swimming toward the bloom that bobs and sways with the rolling of the sea.
It stays put as I get closer, as if it’s anchored to the bottom somehow. The waves still and the flower comes into sharper focus, my entire body tensing as it does. I gasp and thrash backward.
It can’t be real. I’ve never seen one in person. My heart slams into my ribs, fear seizing me.
The flower rocks side to side, only unfurling with the arrival of evening or in the presence of a witch. The trumpet-shaped bloom has stark white petals that almost shimmer, reminiscent of the moon at its fullest.
Moonflower, deceptively beautiful and fatal to witches.
It doesn’t look threatening, though, with its long, white petals tightly curled together. It looks beautiful.
But I suppose we’re meant to think the most dangerous things are lovely.
The flower slowly unfurls, opening up to me as I shake with terror. The sea is stirring, and my breath catches when the flower gets caught in a current and swirls around in the water, going faster and faster until it’s finally sucked below the surface. I kick my legs and shoot my arms out in front of me, pulling with everything I have, trying to create some distance between the current and me. I swim as fast as I can and beg the shore to meet me halfway.
Land is getting closer, and I reach for it, stretching my arms as far as they’ll go. I finally touch the bottom and pull myself the rest of the way up the beach, ignoring the jagged rocks that cut up my knees.
The moonflower is gone, but I’m certain it was there, so mesmerizing that I can’t quite bring myself to see it for what it is: a harbinger.
Before the witches moved here, the island was used solely for harvesting plants and herbs, and only rarely. Endless fields of the poisonous flowers made it a perilous task, but when the mainland outlawed the use of magic, the witches chose to move to the island, a refuge just beyond the reach of the mainland’s laws. It took years to get rid of the flowers, and I wish I could go back in time and tell the witches who came before me that one day the mainlanders would help us get rid of the deadly blooms, help us create a home here after all but banishing us so many years ago. And they would do such a good job of it that there would be a generation of new witches who would never see a single moonflower in person.
Until now.
A sharp, prickling sensation begins at the base of my neck, crawling all the way down my spine. I turn my back on the water and run the whole way home. Every light is on in the two-story house, the tall glass windows framing my father cooking dinner and my mother pouring a glass of red wine.
She puts the glass to her lips and closes her eyes, creating her own kind of silence.
I walk around to the back of the house and quietly slip into the mudroom. As soon as I’m inside, I pull my soaking-wet dress up and over my head, wrap a towel around me, and quietly walk up the back staircase.
“Tana,” my mother says behind me. I jump. “Where have you been?”
She asks the question even though it’s obvious where I was. “I thought I saw something in the water,” I say. My dress is dripping on the hardwood steps, and I roll it into my towel to stop the mess.