“Is that just because you’re immune?”
He shook his head. “You know it doesn’t work that way. I can feel the press of your magic, but I can also tell that it’s nowhere near as strong as it used to be.”
“I guess the ultimate test will be when Wanda, Imani, and Poppy return.”
I swallowed hard as I thought about it.
“Are you ready for them?” Mike asked.
I just nodded and he stood up, moving to the door to call them back in. I didn’t even hear them enter. I just noticed that they were suddenly there, hovering nearby.
“Did everything go okay?” Poppy asked.
“Everything was fine,” Mike answered. “So, now it’s time to test it on you three?”
My breath hitched but I seemed to be the only one who was concerned.
“Okay, let’s hear it,” Wanda said.
My lips parted and a flurry of sound escaped, pouring out of me like water. It felt so cleansing, so damngoodthat I couldn’t stop. The song lasted for maybe another few seconds. Then I realized I hadn’t even checked to see if it was hurting anyone.
And yet they were all sitting around me placidly, smiling. No one screamed. No one cursed. No one rushed me. And that had to mean one thing. It had worked.
Whatever charm they’d woven around me—it had worked.
My voice was basically now human.
It wasmine.
“I’m fine,” Wanda said as she looked at Poppy and Imani. “You?”
“I’m fine too,” Poppy said and Imani said the same.
“I’d say it worked,” Mike said.
Poppy was actually grinning from ear to ear, and there was a strange golden glow that was surrounding her. From what I understood, it had something to do with her newly acquired alchemy. She looked like an ecstatic little angel.
The description fit. Because she’d just handed me a miracle.
Chapter Six
Every note I’d ever locked away, every melody I’d buried in fear, poured out of me in waves, filling every room, every corner of the circus, the coven’s space, even the tiny kitchen of Jean-Baptiste’s trailer.
I hummed while making tea, trilled while walking through the yard, and hit high notes while doing paperwork or at least pretending to. The song was constant, relentless, and it felt like breathing.
Mike, bless him, was still around. Still willing. Still patient. Mostly. Lately, I’d caught him rolling his eyes at my little bursts of spontaneous arias, muttering under his breath, “You’re going to give me a headache.”
But I knew the truth: he’d been through enough of my song’s chaos to appreciate the controlled freedom now. And besides… his Anarchy mind-lock kept him from reallysufferingfrom it anymore.
JB, on the other hand, smiled every time I launched into another melody. I didn’t understand it. The rest of his family reacted like my voice was a bandsaw, easing away from me every time I joined in with the radio. Not Jean-Baptiste. He didn’t just tolerate my outbursts. He encouraged them, inflicting me on his family with a degree of sadistic glee. Only their sense of Southern hospitality kept them from kicking me out the moment I started tapping my foot to the beat.
And though Mike occasionally groaned and threatened to plug his ears, and JB smirked at every impromptu aria, it didn’t matter. I was happy. My voice was no longer a threat. It was no longer a plague. It was safe.
“Why do you put up with me?” I asked him one evening. “With all the singing? I know sirens sound like audio feedback toyou, but you give me this big dopey grin every time I start belting out show tunes. What gives?”
Jean-Baptiste leaned back, crossing his arms. “Dopey? You’re calling me dopey, cher? That’s cold.”
I gave him a good-natured shove. “I call it like I see it.”
