And suddenly I was airborne and on fire.
“NOPE!” I shrieked as the world did a small, rude cartwheel. The Ward grabbed me fully this time, as if it had misunderstood “one inch” as “let’s show off.”
“Maeve!” Keegan shouted.
“MAJESTIC!” Twobble howled.
The broom shot up at a steep angle, trailing a pretty, horrifying comet-tail of sparks. The smolder at the bristles bloomed into full flame with thin, blue-edged lines racing along the straw like it had been waiting its whole life for this chance to impress someone.
“You’re on fire!” Skonk yelled, pointing helpfully.
“I NOTICED,” I screamed back.
The air tore at my hair, my eyes streaming. Butterflies scattered ahead of me in a flurry of shimmering wings. The Ward itself, offended by open flame, started trying to smother the broom with pockets of cooler air, which only made the ride bumpier and the flames hotter.
“Oh,” I gasped, clinging. “Oh no oh no oh no—”
“MIND YOUR POSTURE!” Stella yelled from below. “Back straight! Chin up! If you’re going to die, at least do it photogenically!”
“Lower your center of gravity!” Nova called. “Bend your knees!”
“What center of gravity?” I shouted. “It left with the ground!”
The broom was determined to obey mostly physics and, to some extent, spite. Instead of the smooth, elegant hover we’d envisioned, I was zipping in wild, looping arcs across the Ward like a flaming candy wrapper in a wind tunnel.
Below, Twobble sprinted after me, head tipped back, arms spread as if he could catch me through sheer optimism. Skonk was reading from his clipboard at high speed, voice cracking. “Step four: in case of unexpected combustion, return to ground immediately—”
“How,” I yelled, “DO YOU SUGGEST I DO THAT?”
Keegan was tracking me with hawk eyes, magic simmering under his skin in a way that made my birthmark prickle. The Silver Wolf moved with him, steps precise, both of them ready to leap the moment the broom dropped me.
The fire licked higher. The very end of the broom was now definitely, undeniably aflame. On the upside, it didn’t seem tobe hurting me. On the downside, I was a woman on a burning broom in the middle of a sunny afternoon. This was not the majestic witchy fantasy I’d allowed myself to entertain for three seconds earlier.
Cackling gracefully against the moon? No. Screaming like a boiling teakettle while my broom tried to set itself free? Yes.
And yet—
There it was. Under the terror. Woven through the panic, right alongside the oh no oh no oh no…
Pride.
Ridiculous, inappropriate, stubborn pride.
I was flying. Not falling. Not being flung by someone else’s spell. My magic, clumsy and overexcited, had lifted me. The Ward, temperamental as it was, was holding me up. The broom, even on fire, wasn’t throwing me.
Somewhere between one wild loop and the next, the screaming shifted. I heard it, belatedly, and realized I’d started laughing.
“Maeve!” Keegan shouted again, voice tight.
“I’M FINE!” I yelled back, and to my own surprise, I meant it. “THIS IS TERRIBLE! I LOVE IT!”
Nova’s voice cut across the Ward. “Maeve! Listen to me. You can feel where the ground is, yes?”
“Yes?” I shouted, wind whipping the word out of my mouth.
“Good. Now feel whereyouare,” she called. “Not the broom. You. Your magic is holding you up, not the kindlingyou’re currently riding. Tell it to soften. Not drop—soften.Thinkless.
Less. I could do less. Less was my specialty.
