My mind strains to find a similar memory to this, one that either happened here at Henbane or at Peel Academy. None comes to me.
If the memory once existed, it’s become a casualty of my magic.
Our instructor continues. “I recommend repeating this test every few years. As we all know, magic is wily and wild, and it likes to grow and change just as much as we do.”
Once we’ve all lined up, Professor Huang moves to the table and the witch at the front. “Now let’s begin.”
One by one, my classmates step up to the table and pick out several items that represent their magical preferences. Most end up gravitating to the potted plant—green magic—as well as the loaf of bread and the bundle of herbs, all items that really speak to the life-giving, medicinal nature of witchcraft.
Every so often someone reaches for the locket, or the piece of paper, or the crystal. I watch, fascinated, curious about what I’ll end up picking.
When it’s my turn, I step up to the table, my magic buzzing beneath my veins. My eyes sweep over the items. I already know what my magic likes best—memories. But the items before me are conduits, allowing magic to be used to its furthest extent.
“Eyes closed, hand out,” Professor Huang instructs.
I do as they ask. I can’t see the objects clearly with my eyes closed, but I can sense the magic pulsing through each one. I reach out an arm, my palm turned toward the items.
Almost immediately, my hand moves, drifting to the right, then down, until my fingertips touch something wet.
“Water,” my instructor murmurs. “Go on.”
My arm moves again, now drawn to a different section of the table. When my hand drops into another bowl, I don’t even need to hear what my instructor has to say. I can feel the soft soil sifting between my fingers.
I lift my hand out of the dirt. Right next to it is another item tugging at me for attention.
My hand wraps around a smooth stone.
“River rock,” Professor Huang says. “Anything else?”
I release the smooth stone. My magic is calling me to two final points on the table. I go with the closest item first, my fingers brushing the rough rim of something and nearly knocking it over. I place my palm more firmly over it.
“The Vin?a cup,” my instructor murmurs. “Interesting, my dear.”
A sharp pull has my arm moving once more. With my eyes still shut, I close my hand around a cool glass vial. This is it, the last item.
“Moon dust,” Professor Huang says as my eyes flutter open. Beneath my hand is the vial filled with dark dirt.
“Good job,” my instructor says. “What an unusual combination.”
My disappointment leaves a bitter tang on my tongue.
Water, dirt, a rock, a pot, and…moon dust? Those are the things I’m drawn to? Not the herbs? Not the bread? I fucking adore bread.
My magic feels cold and lifeless.
“Water may indicate you’ll have a knack for potion making,” my instructor says. “It’s interesting that you picked the river rock but not the crystals and the soil but not the plant. The clay pot is particularly notable as it is nearly five thousand years old, and it contains some of the first forms of writing etched onto it.” They point to a small and crudely made spiral. “Finally, the moon dust is an indication that your power may be sensitive to the lunar phases—those can really heighten spells, but you’ll need to read up on them.”
They pat me on the shoulder.
“Wonderful job,” they murmur. “Remember too that there are objects not present that could also tap into your powers—solar magic, astral magic, and numeric magic are just a few. Your homework assignment is to write a paper on your specific magical affinities and how you think they interact with your magic. Due next Friday.”
With that, they dismiss me. And now I’m left to wonder what I’m supposed to do with a power that likes dirt and rocks, clay and water, but not plants. Or herbs.
Or bread.
I mean, what sort of twisted magic doesn’t like motherfucking bread?
It’s only as I’m nearly home that I realize there was a very obvious life-giving item not present, one my instructor did not address at all.
Flesh.
Blood and bone can produce life-giving magic just as much as plants and dried herbs can. They also happen to tease that line between light magic and dark.
As I head for the residence hall, I can’t help wondering if my power isn’t as cold and lifeless as I think it is.
Perhaps it does like life-giving items. Perhaps it hungers for something that comes from the soil and returns to it, something more substantive than plants. Something that grows and dies.