I can do something about this.
She recoiled at the notion, scoffing. Being able to convince the wind to blow snow off a roof was entirely different from bringing astorm to heel. The wind liked to blow. Telling itnotto blow would be met with considerably less good humor.
But what if she could convince it to divert from their path? It wouldn’t have to stop—just go around.
Shit, it was worth a try.
After only a few moments more of hesitation, Rowan did her best to relax and open herself up, but the energy of the storm zapped her like a live wire. The mountain kicked and screamed.
She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and plunged back in, gritting her teeth. When she pulled in the storm’s energy, it lit her every nerve on fire, but she pushed on, building power, trying to catch the attention of the wind. It was usually so pliant, but it lashed out as she approached. It wanted nothing but to howl mindlessly.
She pushed against it, asserting her will as she formed a protective circle, visualized their pathway growing still and safe, and then began to chant in a low voice,
Clear us a path, let us go,
Unharmed, unharried through the snow.
By the power of three by three,
As I do will it, so mote it be.
The wind screamed in resistance. She asserted herself again. Sweat, long since gathered from the effort of skiing, dripped down her face. There was a genuine risk that when this was over, she would be left completely worn out, and if it didn’t work, she was screwed. Still, she drew in power, and then tried again, repeating the words and visualizing the outcome they needed.
Please.
In a blink, the resistance gave and the wind stilled. The sudden dropout was eerie, especially because it was still audibly howling in the not-too-distant surroundings. But their path was quiet, still. The party stopped, gazing around with wide eyes.
Holy shit—I did it.
She had calmed a storm. Ahead, Dennis murmured, “Fifty-seven years on this mountain, and I’ve seen nothing like this.”
“I think I read about this somewhere,” said Rowan in a quick lie. “Maybe they call it a wind tunnel?”
Gavin studied her close. “Isn’t a ‘wind tunnel’ the opposite?”
“Okay, not that, then,” said Rowan, averting her gaze, as if he might see what she’d done reflected in her eyes.
“Well,” said Dennis, “we should get going before it changes its mind. We’re almost there. Let’s go.” He kicked off.
“One more push,” said Gavin in an encouraging tone.
She should have been exhausted, but she was wired. High on the elation that she had called out to the wind, and that it had listened.
Their ride down the mountain was quiet. Rowan went over the moment with the wind again and again. Her instinct to find fault in what she’d done was finally quiet. She only reveled in the feeling that there had been a need, and she had risen to meet it. Whatever was going on in Gavin’s mind, behind the shutters of his eyes, she left him to it.
“I’ll call you” was all he said as he dropped her at the doorstep and gave her a brief kiss.
Then he was gone, speeding off to his obligations to his father.
26
Blanketed in snow, the coven’s circle was even more beautiful than it had been when last they assembled. The candlelight reflected off its smooth white surface and the hopeful faces of the coven. With little light pollution, the velvety night sky was lit with brilliant pinpricks and the smears of distant galaxies.
Despite her fatigue, raising power came easily this time, and Rowan simply enjoyed the feeling of her voice joining that of her family and her oldest friends. Her body synced to the music they made, luxuriating in ripples of muscle and a rhythmic tapping of feet. The pulse of unity swept her up, and she appreciated how, when her energy would naturally dip, someone else’s magic rose to meet it, buoying her and the spell until she had recovered.
It was a far cry from Rowan’s normal existence, in which every day was a careful measure of exactly what she and she alone could accomplish, and if she was sick, or waylaid, or simply exhausted, it all backed up, like logs snagging in a jam to dam a river, requiring her to triple her efforts to make up for it all before the flood waters burst.
To return to that in a week—back to a life where she had to solve every problem and wash every dish and woke up most mornings only to move to the desk under the window. Well, the thought of it all arrived with an ever-mounting dread and resistance.
