I did as she said, trying to envision that same pulse, but in me. I imagined it flowing through my veins. Then I imagined a little offshoot—a place from which I could siphon off that energy, so that it could pour from me to the blossom. I heard my mother gasp and opened my eyes.
The peony, slightly drooping a moment before, now stood with every petal at attention. The solid white color of the petals was now tinged with pink at the center. I dropped my hands to my sides in shock.
“It… did I actually do that?” I whispered.
My mom laughed. “You certainly did!”
“Are you sure you didn’t cheat? Give it a little nudge of your own while I wasn’t looking?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.
She lifted her hands in surrender. “Cross my heart! That was all you!”
I looked back down at the peony in wonder, and then sighed. “Oh, man.”
“What?”
“This is one of the first bits of magic I’ve managed to produce on purpose, and we’re literally going to light it on fire,” I grumbled.
My mom laughed, and threw her arms around me. “It doesn’t need to last forever to be magic, Wren. You’re doing great.”
I thought of what I’d done on the beach the night the Darkness tried to take me. The magic had come through me suddenly, as bright and powerful as the bolt of lightning that answered my call. I looked down past the cliffs to the beach where, still hidden under the white tent, the cage of lightning sand still stood, proof that it had all really happened—a testament to my power. I remembered Eva’s scolding words at the theater. Why did I doubt myself so much? Why couldn’t I admit that the only thing standing between me and my power was… well,me?
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Persi beckoning me away from the sun wheel. I dropped my handful of wire and roses, and followed her.
“What’s up?” I asked. Persi was looking shifty. Her eyes kept darting to the other adults as she reached into a little pouch slung around her waist, and pulled two small vials from it, each one sealed with wax.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the vials into my hands.
“What are these for?” I asked, staring down at them. Their contents had a slight iridescence to them, like they might glow when darkness set in.
“It’s a little something to help make your pageant special,” Persi whispered. “Magic isn’t allowed to be used in the pageant,strictly speaking—no one wants to tip off the tourists about what really goes on around here. But this is just a bit of fun.”
I looked over my shoulder, too, to make sure the others were occupied. “But what are they?”
“Pour this one with the blue wax on the Holly King’s staff. And this one,” she pointed to the other vial, sealed with gold wax, “you pour on the Oak King’s staff.”
“What do they do?” I asked.
Persi smiled. “Nothing, until the staffs hit each other. Then they’ll create a little… special effect for you.”
“Are you gonna tell me what the special effect is?” I asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Persi said, smirking.
“This is why everyone in this town is half-afraid of you, isn’t it?” I sighed, pocketing the vials.
“Probably,” Persi admitted, and sauntered away.
The morningof the Midsummer Festival dawned bright and beautiful, to no one’s surprise. Though Rhi insisted that the witches of Sedgwick Cove could not control the weather, she nonetheless admitted that they had never had a rainy day for the festival in the entire history of the celebration, which led me to believe they had more collective influence than they were willing to admit.
Main Street had been blocked off from traffic. Shops and restaurants were spilling out onto the sidewalks with tables and tents and booths, all decorated with suns and balloons and bright yellow flags. Banners had been strung up across the street, welcoming the influx of tourists who began to trickle in first thing in the morning. A large field to the west of Main Street had been cordoned off with cones and yellow tape, and carswere lining up in shiny rows, like beetles. Street performers had staked their claims to their corners, and were busy setting up their acts. The celebration in the air was palpable as I rode my bike through the growing crowds, and came to a stop in front of the stage in the center of the roundabout. Zale was already there, ordering around the sound crew, and making sure the wires were taped down in front of the stairs that led to the platform.
“Hey, Mr. Director,” I said, as I approached him. “How are you feeling about tonight?”
Zale looked up with that slightly manic look I knew so well—the look of a director who is constantly mentally cycling through his to-do list, while also contemplating all the myriad ways the performance could go off the rails. “Does the day of the show always feel like this?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re going to simultaneously implode and explode with stress?”
