She laughs and tugs me toward the woods. And despite claiming I know how to move my legs in a normal manner, I end up a touch bowlegged until I adjust myself.
The woods swallow us, the evening growing darker with a thick canopy of leaves overhead.
“I was going to find a good tree to kiss you against,” Ophelia informs me. A tight note to her voice that replaces the lighthearted tone from before.
“Sounds like a good plan to me.”
And any other time, just the thought would melt me into a puddle beneath her feet.
But with Ophelia’s hand in mine, I have a closer connection to her emotional state. A clearer view of her aura. Creeping orange tendrils twine through the air around her, and her fingers tighten in mine with each step we take.
Is she shaking?
“Ophelia—”
Her gasp cuts me off, and she whirls to face me with wide eyes, pupils dilated. Overhead, the owl screeches. On instinct, I gather the firebird into my arms. Her body is sweltering against mine. I send a brief prayer to The Bright One that I’m not about to be burned alive.
“You’re safe,” I tell her. “What’s wrong? Why are you scared?”
The magical urge to soothe her terror is so strong that my skin actually stings from holding my power back.
Not without her permission.
“D-dark,” she forces out through chattering teeth. “P-panic. Panic attack.” Ophelia squeezes her eyes shut, but not before tears flow from them. Her breathing is erratic, short gasps and ragged exhales.
I hold her closer, not sure if my embrace is helping or hurting.
But I know something that can solve this—at least temporarily.
“Ophelia. Sweetheart. Will you let me use my magic on you?” There’s a desperate rasp in my question. “I can stop the panic attack. That’s all I’ll do, I swear.”
For a long stretch, she only shudders and sobs in my arms. But eventually, she manages a weak, “Yes.”
In a secret compartment on my watch, I keep an emergency dose of the red powder us Shellys use to amplify our magic, making it easy to manipulate. I press the notch now that releases the dry potion and spread the clinging crimson dust on my palm.
Then, I cup the back of Ophelia’s neck and focus on the tangled orange of fear that’s suffocating her. I guide my magic over the sickly color, easing the vivid shade until it turns into the rich emerald of contentment. The power tingles along my nerves, like all my limbs fell asleep and are suddenly regaining blood flow. Not the most comfortable sensation, but worth it.
Ophelia sags in my hold, and I guide the both of us to the leaf-strewn forest floor. We settle there, the two of us breathing in time as our owl observer coos a soothing hoot overhead.
“I’m sorry,” I say after a stretch. “For the magic. I know it can’t be easy after … everything.” I clear my throat and try not to let my fury rise, like it does every time I think of that evil sorcerer using Ophelia as a power source for his sick spells.
“Can you explain what you did?” She asks the question against the collar of my shirt, giving nothing of her feelings away.
Now that she’s not panicking, I hold off on trying to explore her aura.
“All witches have specialties. A type of magic that comes naturally to us. Shellys are emotion witches.” I draw on my professor voice, pretending I’m in a lecture hall and not terrified I’ve screwed up everything with Ophelia. “Mor has a generalkind of control over all emotions. Ame senses and can affect desires. Anthony deals in jealousy when he wants.” I try not to hold her too tight to me as I explain the next bit. “I’m acquainted with fear.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can sense it. See it.” I clear my throat. “Not the cause though. Not unless I perform certain spell work.”
“And you can get rid of it?”
“I can ease it,” I agree. “Soothe the harsh edges.”
Ophelia tilts her head up to stare into my eyes, her brows dipped. “How often do you soothe my fear?”
“I don’t.” The words rush out of me as I experience another wave of my own panic. “This was the first time and only because you told me I could, I swear.”
