“Yes, everyone in Crenshaw is a witch or a hob.”
“But you don’t usually steal new witches,” Miss Brandeau clarified. “Your roommate”—she nodded in the foyer’s direction—“mentioned that.”
“New witches attend the college, learn laws and their magical strengths.” Prospero debated how much to reveal so soon, but time was of the essence, and if the prophecy declared Miss Brandeau essential, the question before them waswhy.“There was a prophecy about you, however.”
Prospero replayed the whole prophecy in her mind:The woman who will change everything is called Elleanor Brandeau. She’s in the Barbarian Lands, refusing her innate magic. If you don’t awaken her, Crenshaw will suffer.And though she was dubious of any one person changing the world, Prospero had yet to see any of Cassandra’s prophecies fail. If she said Prospero needed to awaken this woman’s magic, Prosperohad told herself shehad tomake a serious attempt on her life. Magic only awakened if one was in imminent risk of death; no minor thing would work.
Prospero wasn’t sure what to say to Miss Brandeau.
What about her is so unusual?
And how do I figure that out?
When Prospero said nothing more, Miss Brandeau ordered, “Tell me the crisis that’s caused you to hide me here.”
Prospero felt as if she were about to argue before their governing body. She smoothed her trouser legs down, sat taller, and pronounced, “Our water and worsening air pose a growing problem, a conflict that has no answer. We cannot move en masse. Where would we go? If we open our borders, we risk conflict with non-magic users—although there are others who argue for that very thing. The New Economists think we must go tothatworld, especially now that we are trapped in a poisonous place.” Prospero’s voice drifted off. “Witches cannot thrive around non-witches, however. That is my stance.”
“And what are you called?”
“A Traditionalist.” Prospero frowned. “The New Economists want to war with the neighbors, simply take what we need, but that way lies devastation of all witches in my opinion.”
Miss Brandeau stood and paced as she listened.
Prospero swung her hand downward, as if to hit a lectern or table, but she stopped short of the gesture. “To add to the problem, wemusthave growth in population if we are to survive. Werequireimmigrants so we can have the resources to purify the water we have.”
“Resources means magic?”
“Yes, magic,” Prospero agreed. “Some people who arrive here will have their magic added to the current of energy that sustains our community. Those who don’t stay must leave their magic behind.”
“So I could go home?” Miss Brandeau asked. “I could reject this whole witch thing?”
Prospero shrugged. She had little desire to tell Miss Brandeau thatsome people were too magical to be siphoned, so she deflected that question with, “There’s a whole speech at the college.”
Miss Brandeau laughed unexpectedly. “Not a fan of the college?”
“The headmaster would love to see me destroyed.” Prospero kept her tone mild, but the fear she might be adding to his ammunition against her added a wobble to her voice. “Hiding you from them would not earn me grace.”
For a moment, Miss Brandeau paused. Like any witch, she could undoubtedly hear the raw truth in Prospero’s admission. “And yet here I am.”
“Wouldyousacrifice yourself for a greater good, Miss Brandeau? For love? For country?” Prospero asked, although she suspected she knew the answer.
“Who wouldn’t?” Miss Brandeau said lightly.
Then Prospero smiled. “That is why you are worth the risk.”
Miss Brandeau paused her pacing, and for a moment, Prospero thought she might ask the normal sorts of things, focus on her own situation, but instead, she asked, “Are there options that have worked to improve the water?”
Prospero’s smile widened. Perhaps it was her era of origin, but she found herself eternally attracted to women who looked at a problem as a puzzle to solve. Miss Brandeau’s eyes sparkled as she analyzed the situation, which was rather more attractive to Prospero than those people who doused themselves in perfumes and wore scanty clothing.
Intellectwas irresistible to Prospero.
Miss Brandeau sat down again, perched like a bird at the edge of the seat, and leveled a stern look at Prospero. “You aren’t telling me where I fit in—or what your role is. Whoareyou, Prospero?”
Prospero felt as if that question struck her physically. “I am a witch who is feared, hated, and grudgingly tolerated. All witches have a propensity for a type of magic, but mine is frightening to many people here.”
“You do not want me to know what you are capable of,” Miss Brandeau surmised.
“I find that I want you tolikeme,” Prospero admitted awkwardly.
