The soft breeze tickling the tall grass and the setting sun lull me further into my own mind—reminding me of afternoons in Central Park with a to-go cup of peppermint tea and hours of people-watching. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the city but a lot of my best memories are there.
My late father would take my older sister, Agatha, and me on business trips into the city, and we would spend our afternoons planning how we’d run away together one day. It’s a forty-five minute train ride from Hemlocke, but it felt like a whole new world to us. One with enough magic to keep us sane, but full of people to get lost in.
When our father passed away ten years ago, everything between Agatha and me changed. Sometimes, I still think about leaving mymother’s home and getting lost in New York City. To create a new life for myself in one of the small magical districts out there.
Yet something always brings me back.
Not my mother or sisters, who all carry nothing but disdain for me.
Butsomething.
Something bigger than me, I’m certain of it.
It’s been six years since I last visited the city—the same year I found Hexate, which meant my magic had fully matured and my mother wasn’t taking any chances. Over half a decade later, I still spend almost every day regretting my decision to come home that final night in New York City.
Everything was normal—I went with no plans in mind, just the need to get out of my head and be surrounded by people who don’t know me. The anonymity it gave me was my favorite part of it all.
Before the sun had risen, she and Agatha were waiting for me as I stepped off the train. It had been years since my sister and I had a relationship, but I didn’t miss the worry in her eyes.
My mother dragged me home like I was a naughty six-year-old, not a twenty-one-year-old woman. For the first time in my life, she took out a leather strip. Typically, her go to methods were the wooden spoon she always keeps in her apron or her own hand. I’d argue her words were sometimes worse than the physical abuse.
Even now at twenty-seven, my mother treats me as if I’m no better than a prisoner—always a burden, even on our best days.
There’s something particularly miserable about being the only witch of a different type of magic in your family.
It’s not that I hate working in the gardens or spending my time drying herbs. I don’t thrive here, and I never will. My skills are those of a human with a green thumb. I have a natural talent to keep plants alive and healthy, like all witches do, but I’ll never be able to create lush fields and meadows full of blooms like my mother and sisters. If I’m not paying attention, my magic can cause a plant to wither within seconds.
As a Gray Witch, whose magic leans more toward the spirit realm, my natural connection is with death and the night.
Pretty much the opposite of what Green Witches are known for.
It’s more than that. A coven is supposed to be a family—supportive, accepting, and loving. It doesn’t matter whether your coven members areblood-related or not. The bond is different—deeper, than an average family relation. Most witches crave the comfort it brings. I always have.
My mother keeps our coven to immediate family members, like her mother had. However, she created a battleground rather than a home.
For years, I’ve asked myself why I stay in her home when it’s clear my mother doesn’t want me here, but she doesn’t want to let me out of her sight either. I wondered if it was simply because multi-generational homes are the norm for witches, so I felt pressured to stay, and she felt obligated to keep me. Then one day, I realized I’m only harming myself—no one stays because they want to be abused or hurt by the people meant to love them. They have nowhere else to go or no way to safely escape.
I started saving the small amount of money I earn for my work at the family apothecary, and I keep a small bag of clothes and essentials in the trunk of my car at all times.
If only there were a sign showing me where to go.
As if the universe can finally hear my desperation, my older sister Agatha comes into the room with the mail—odd, since it’s a Sunday.
I’m the second oldest of four girls. Agatha, who is three years older than me, used to be my best friend growing up. She and our father were the only people in our family who treated my gifts as if they were just that—gifts. Unlike my mother, who believes Gray Witches are a reminder of the curse on our family line.
As far as I’m aware, there have been three Gray Witches born into the Blackthorn family in the last century—and we are the only ones who end up going mad due to our magic and the Blackthorn curse.
My mother brainwashed the younger girls when they were toddlers, so they were always against me. Sometimes even fearful of me.
It’s harder to navigate my situation with Agatha because we were once so close. I’m not sure whether it was having to deny her request to resurrect our father or some sort of manipulation from our mother that changed things.
I suspect a mix of both, and the former sends a surge of anger through me.
Does she really think I wouldn’t have used my magic to do so if it were possible? If I were strong enough, or nearly experiencedenough, at seventeen to harness such power? I hadn’t even found Hexate yet, so my magic was still too young, too raw.
She rolls her eyes when she sees an envelope, presumably with my name on it, judging by the way she thrusts her hand in my direction. When I don’t take it quickly enough, she shakes it impatiently.
Hexate lifts from her perch on my shoulder and hisses at her.
