Then one day, it was needed.
I was fourteen years old, testing my father’s patience and my own insolence when I swam out farther than I knew I should. My father called for me from the shore, but I pretended not to hear him, fully submerging myself instead of keeping to the surface and swimming back in. My eyes were open, and I noticed the sand on the seafloor had been disturbed, swirling around in a violent spiral that reduced my visibility to nothing. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late.
The current found my arm first, pulling me under with such strength that it forced the air from my lungs. I don’t remember much after that except the desperate need to breathe and the sheer terror of knowing I couldn’t.
My dad pulled me from the water, pushing down on my chest and giving me breaths until I ejected the salt water from my lungs. I thought he’d be mad at me, furious for what I’d put him through, but it wasn’t me he was mad at. That night, after I’d gone to bed, my parents had their worst fight ever. My father doesn’t yell, never raises his voice or speaks with aggression, but he yelled at my mother that night.
I couldn’t make out all the words, but I heard enough to piece together that he was blaming the currents on her. Until that moment, I’d thought the currents were a natural part of our complex Earth; I didn’t realize they were our fault, a consequence of our rushes where we expel our excess magic into the sea. I couldn’t sleep that night, trying to make sense of what I’d heard when my bedroom door creaked open and my mother quietly walked to my bed. I kept my eyes shut, not wanting her to know I was awake. She sat down on the bed and gently began to stroke my hair, her hand shaking, her breaths shallow as if she was fighting back tears. But the next morning, she was calm and collected, scolding me for swimming too far out.
I tried to ask my parents about what I’d heard, to understand how my father could blame such a thing on my mother, but I never got an answer.
I have tried many times since with the same result.
It took months before my parents let me in the water again, and it was only after seeing how miserable I was without it. They were shocked I wanted to go back in after almost losing my life, but I never saw it like that. I have only ever seen the sea as perfect. They set strict parameters around when I could swim, for how long, and where. I push the boundaries every so often, but for the most part I stay within them.
When I think back to that day, I don’t think about the current or the fear or the horrible tightness in my chest. I think about my dad yelling at my mom, blaming her for something that couldn’t possibly be her fault. And I think about my mom, hand trembling, fighting back tears as she stroked my hair.
“Tana?” My mother’s voice brings me back to the present, and I realize I’ve been staring at the large oil painting of the Passage that hangs behind the counter of the perfumery. “Mrs. Mayweather asked you a question.”
“My apologies, I must have been somewhere else,” I say, smiling at the woman in front of me. She’s about my mother’s age, and she has a daughter on the mainland who attended secondary school with Landon. She has become a regular visitor of the Witchery in recent weeks, and I can’t help but think it’s because of the whispers that have started about me.
“Probably thinking about the ball tonight,” she says with a knowing smile. “Can we expect your presence?”
I look to my mom, and she gives a single nod.
“I think that would be a safe assumption,” I say, mimicking the tone I’ve heard my mother use a thousand times when she wants to seem modest about something.
“Then I will look forward to it even more.” Mrs. Mayweather grabs her ivory bag from the counter, says goodbye, and leaves.
I slip into the back room before another customer can stop me, itching for my magic, for the way it calms my nerves and quiets my mind. In this room, surrounded by flowers and herbs and empty glass jars, everything else seems to recede. I know my ancestors gave up a lot to create the new order, but I can’t imagine anything better than the tender magic that fills this space. It isn’t a sacrifice, this life; it’s a gift.
I gather fresh rose petals and pile them high in my mortar. I’m not as polished as my mother, and I don’t always know the right words to say to people, but magic is one thing I don’t have to try at. I don’t have to do several test batches to get things just right or continually tweak my spells until I’ve achieved the desired effect; magic comes naturally to me, the way leadership comes to my mother and sincerity comes to my father.