Eighteen
Donag’s cackle makes me jump, and I yelp like a startled child.
She only grins, eyes flicking from the amulet to the candle, then back to me with atut-tut.
“Look at your precious wee charm.”
I stiffen. “It’s a spell. To take me home.”
She shrieks with laughter, wheezing by the time she catches her breath. “Who told you such nonsense?”
“Are you saying I can’t cast my own spells?” I press on, sidestepping the question. I have to know if I’m on the right track, or if I’ll need an actual witch to help me. “Is it because the magic isn’t in the chant but in the person who recites it?”
She studies me, calculating.
I can’t let the opportunity pass. I need to find out all I can.
“Please,” I beg earnestly. “I just want to understand. There’s no harm in telling me, is there?” I add a little flattery for good measure. “It’s incredible, what you do. You’re sopowerful. I’ve never met anyone so…” I let the pause linger. “Formidable.”
She takes the bait. A smirk crooks her mouth, proud and satisfied. “Power flows thick in my family’s blood.”
I make a mental note.Sorcery runs in families.
“What if someone isn’t born with power? Could they still cast a spell?”
“A person can recite all they like, but if there’s nae magic in their blood, then it’s just a waste of breath.”
To cast a spell, you need at least a little inherent power.
I quickly press another question, eager to capitalize while I can. “What about the moon? Does it have to be in a certain phase?”
“Every bit helps. If the season is right, or the moon is ripe, or if you’re in a place of magic.”
That confirms what Callum’s told me already.
“So it’s like cooking,” I muse. “The more ingredients you add, the stronger it gets.”
She nods, and it’s not one of the impatient head-jerks she usually gives me. It’s gratifying. Almost as though she no longer believes me acompleteidiot.
I stupidly let my guard down, joking, “Though the kitchen isn’t exactly a magical place. I was talking to one girl who?—”
Sudden fury distorts her face. “Who did you speak to?” When I don’t answer right away, she snaps her fingers. “Out with it.”
Her quick change jolts me, as startling as a thunderclap on a clear day. “I didn’t tell anyone anything. I’m not that stupid.”
“Are you nae?” She snatches the amulet from the floorwith a scowl. “Then explain this foolishness. Who taught you to make this?”
“It was Margie. But I didn’t give her any details, I swear.”
“That huddy?” Rolling her eyes, she throws the amulet to the floor. “She’s dim as a new moon on a cloudy night. Charms will get you naught but scorched fingers.”
I keep my face blank, but inside I’m spiraling. “Maybe you’re just scared I’ll figure out how to cast spells for myself.”
“You?” Her face goes mock serious. “And a pig might whistle.”
Her mockery is a cold wave of reality. I stare at my charm for what it is—child’s play, as ridiculous as a Harry Potter Halloween prop. I sigh deeply, hope hissing from me like air from a dying balloon.
I can’t give up. I need this.
