Theodora shook her head. “Never mind that. What’s important is that Amarante figures out how keep her powers under control.”
“Can’t you three help me?” I asked. “Can’t you teach me how to use magic?”
They all exchanged glances. I was getting tired of not knowing what was going on.
“Are you sure you want to use it?” Rowena said, furrowing her brows. “It could be dangerous.”
“If there’s no other option, yes,” I said. “I only need to know enough to keep it hidden. Like you and Theodora.”
Theodora sighed. “No, I’m afraid we cannot teach you.” She looked to Miriam. “Tell her why.”
Miriam nodded. “Witches are split into two categories, generally speaking. Herbwitches have an affinity to the living world, to animals and plants. Charmwitches specialize in nonorganic magic, like enchantments and jinxes and protective spells,” Miriam said. “You, my girl, are an herbwitch.”
“What kind of witch are you?” I said.
“Me?” She winked. “I’m a businesswoman.”
“What Miriam is trying to say,” Theodora said irritably, “is that each witch specializes in magic from the organic world or the inorganic world. This simulation of outdoors, for example, is a blend of both kinds of magic.”
I shook my head, barely understanding. “What do herbwitches do, exactly?”
“The most common is potions and plant magic,” Rowena said. “Even then, each witch’s magic is unique and works differently. For example, some witches can talk to plants. Some can merely grow them out of thin air.”
“So you can’t tell me what the colors in my vision mean?” I said.
Rowena shook her head. “That’s for you to figure out, dear.”
When we finally reached the field at the base of the village, Miriam summoned the passageway by mumbling a few words. I figured from that she was a charmwitch.
We traversed the tunnel yet again. This time I was too overwhelmed to be afraid of the darkness. I didn’t know what to make of the stillness of Witch Village, Lana’s anger, or Seraphina, the name that seemed to cause so much trouble.
11
The colors were gettingdifficult to control.
Flashes of chartreuse, yellow, and magenta flickered before my vision. The mount I rode didn’t help my nausea. It was a spirited pony by the name of Thunderstorm, supposedly because her coat was as dark as a stormy sky. But I had been too distracted by the neon green fog on the stableboy’s pants to pay attention to what he was saying.
