“Do not say a single word to me,” I snap at him. I can feel the mirth radiating off him.
“‘Sirens are evil, Marley’,” he says, spluttering with laughter and pitching his voice high, as he does a terrible impersonation of me. “‘We’ve got to stop them. We’ve got to make sure’—”
“Shut. Up.”
“‘Just not my boyfriend, he’s different’.”
“I will end you. I will pound you into these cobblestones and Edinburgh ghost guides will point at you and make tourists give them money. Here lies Marley, cousin of Ramya Knox, and he died not minding his own business.”
“I’ll book the church hall for you both!” Opal yells, making Marley shriek.
“I hate you all!” I call back.
*
Blue nuzzles against my hand, as Marley and I reach the hillside of Arthur’s Seat.
“You’re getting too brazen, girl,” I tell her. “Anyone could see you.”
She chuffs and I laugh. We are far up, and tucked in near the entrance to the old kingdom. Finding the door took a bit of searching but we located it eventually.
I’ve been practicing. Every single day after school, I read books and practice with Aunt Opal.
Preparing for this.
I cast a shield, one that has Glamour built in. We will not be disturbed by hillwalkers or geology classes on this day. I open the door hidden in the great rock and ask Blue to stand guard, as Marley and I step inside the darkness and begin our descent. I cast a little flame and we use it to light our way.
“What if Portia is still here?” Marley whispers nervously.
I’m concentrating on the steps but then decide to let magic take over. I float, my feet airborne above the stone and I glide down towards the lower ground. I land gracefully.
As I said, I’ve been practicing.
I wait for Marley, and we push open the great wooden doors together. We hold our breath, both secretly and silently worrying that the Siren might still be here.
She is not. Only the tree stands, solitary and unmoving, in the centre of the ample hall.
I walk slowly towards the oak.
I’ve been practicing. Every day. When I’m not, I think about it. I think about improvement when I go to sleep, and I wake up with the answers. I remember what the Stranger said, even if his face is blurry.
It would take quite the witch to do it.
I am the witch to do it.
I begin to conjure. The spell is pinkish and light, buzzing between my hands with electric energy and a need to be cast. It is strong, stronger than anything I have ever done, but I am calm as I prepare to release it.
I am not defined by handwriting workshops. Or the disapproval of others. I am not even defined by my family. This feeling, this ability, these hands that are able to create despite the strain they are sometimes under, that is what I choose to be defined by. In moments like this, I have learned to let the blue inside of me go.
When magic is blue, it is not for you. I was told
that once.
I let all colours of magic inside of my heart. The darker tones, the lighter shades, the fire and the water and the earth.
The pink turns into a pale blue and I know that I am ready. I cast. I release. The spell breaks loose and hits the trunk of the tree with the force of an arrow shooting through the air.
A branch begins to slowly transform, bark becoming flesh. Nimble twigs snap into bone, fingers that are reaching out for someone. The roots become two legs, bent into a crouching position. The withered leaves meld together and become hair.
A still and unmoving tree transforms into a Dryad before both of our eyes. She stays crouched, her head hung low for a few seconds before breathing in a huge gulp of air and looking up.
We stare at each other.
Then, as her chapped lips part to say my name, I throw my arms around her and squeeze. I hold on with as much strength as I used all those months ago, when I thought I would never see her again.
It’s a spell I could’ve only cast in my dreams last
year, but I made it happen. I hold on, too emotional
to let go.
Her hand touches my face, as if she can’t believe I am real. Then it travels up to my head, feeling the woollen garment I am now wearing with pride.
I put it away, with some parts of myself, and I want to wear them all again. No more masks, no more hidden places. I know that sometimes I might misplace pieces of myself. I might forget a part of myself in a rude conversation or a bad deed. Someone might pass on and take pieces of me with them. Maybe some pieces are gone, and they won’t come back.
Maybe that’s fine. Maybe you grow new parts of yourself, or other pieces get stronger. I’ve been made to feel incomplete my whole life, but that is not the story at all.
“Nice hat,” Alona says.
