A wave of longing moves through me, and I have to tamp down the panicky, desperate feeling that follows in its wake.

I glance down at the open notebook in my hand.

Tuesday, August 29

10:00 a.m. meeting with Henbane Coven’s admissions office in Morgana Hall.

*Leave an extra twenty minutes early. You have a bad habit of arriving late.

I frown at the note, then glance at my phone: 9:57 a.m.

Well, shit.

I begin walking again, heading toward the weathered stone buildings, even as my eyes flick back to my notebook.

Beneath my scrawled instructions is a drawing of a crest with flowers rising from a cauldron atop two crisscrossing brooms. Next to the drawing, I taped a Polaroid picture of one of the stone structures in front of me, and I’ve scrawled the words Morgana Hall beneath it. At the bottom I’ve written in red:

Meeting will be held in the Receiving Room—second door on the right.

I head up the stone steps of Morgana Hall, growing breathless with my churning emotions. For the past century and a half, any witch worth her weight in magic has been an active member of an accredited coven.

And today I’m determined to join that list.

It didn’t happen last year or when you reapplied at the beginning of this one. Perhaps they simply don’t want you.

I take a deep breath and force the insidious thought away. This time is different. I’m on the official wait list, and they arranged for this interview only last week. They must be taking my application seriously, and that’s all I need: a foot in the door.

I open one of the massive doors into the building and head inside.

The first thing I see in the main hallway is a grand statue of the triple goddess. Her three forms stand back-to-back—the maiden, flowers woven into her unbound hair; the mother, her hands cradling her pregnant stomach; and the crone, wearing a crown of bones, her hands resting atop her cane.

Along the walls are portraits of past coven members, many of whom have wild hair and wilder eyes. Mounted in between them are wands and brooms and framed excerpts of famous grimoires.

I breathe it all in for a moment. I can feel the gentle hum of magic in the air, and it feels like home.

I will get in.

I stride down the hall, my determination renewed. When I get to the second door on the right, I knock, then wait.

A witch with soft features and a kind smile opens the door for me. “Selene Bowers?” she says.

I nod.

“Come on in.”

I follow her inside. A massive crescent-moon table takes up most of the space, and on the far side of it, half a dozen witches sit patiently. Across from them is a single seat.

The witch ahead of me gestures to it, and despite all my encouraging thoughts, my heart hammers.

I take the proffered seat, folding my hands in my lap to stop them from trembling while the woman who led me in takes her own seat on the other side of the table.

Directly across from me is a witch with raven-black hair, thin downturned lips, and shrewd eyes. I think I’ve spoken to her before, there’s something vaguely familiar about her features, but her identity lies just beyond my reach…

She looks up from her notes and squints at me. After a moment, her frown deepens. “You again?”

With that question, I swear the entire mood of the room shifts from inviting to tense.

I swallow delicately. “Yes, me,” I say hoarsely before clearing my throat. I’m frightened this interview is now doomed before it’s even begun.

The witch who spoke returns her attention to the papers in front of her. She licks her finger and flips through them. “I was under the impression we were interviewing a different applicant,” she says.

What am I supposed to say to that? Sorry I’m not someone else?

Short of shape-shifting into another person, I don’t think I can appease her.

Another witch, one with a hooked nose and wiry gray hair, says gently, “Selene Bowers, it’s lovely to meet you. Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself and why you’d like to join Henbane Coven?”

This is it. My chance.

I take a deep breath, and I dive in.

For thirty minutes, I answer various questions about my abilities, my background, and my magical interests. Most of the witches nod encouragingly. The only notable exception to this is that hawk-eyed witch who looks at me like I’m a spell gone bad. It’s all I can do to answer the questions I get without letting her intimidate me into silence.

“It’s been a dream of mine to be a part of Henbane Coven for as long as I can remember.”

“How long can you remember?” says the witch in front of me.

I squeeze my hands together, a wisp of pale orange magic slipping from between them. I’ve danced around this topic in my previous responses, not quite sure how to handle it.

“It…depends,” I say now. “But my memory in no way affects my determination or my abilities,” I say.

“But it would,” she counters. “It would affect your ability. Spellcasting costs you your memories, correct?”

There it is, out in the open.

I tighten my jaw. “Yes, but—”

She flips through the papers in front of her before pulling one out and placing it on top of the others. “The medical records you released suggest that, and I quote, ‘It is believed that the patient’s memory loss is a magic-based disease with no known equivalent and no known cure. It appears to be a progressive disease. Prognosis: terminal.’”

The silence that follows her words is somehow very, very loud. I can hear my own breath leaving my lungs. More magic has slipped out of me, rising from my hands like a wisp of smoke.

“So,” she continues, “every bit of power you use chips away at your mind, am I correct?”

After a moment’s hesitation, I give her a halting nod.

“And with every use of your magic, your brain deteriorates.”

“It doesn’t deteriorate,” I protest, annoyed by that word. I lose memories, not functionality.

Now the witch’s expression softens, but it’s pity I see on her face. I hate that, more than anything else. I hate it so much, it’s hard to breathe.

“At Henbane Coven,” she says, “we don’t simply embrace all manner of disabilities—we hold those witches in particularly high regard.”

She’s not lying. There’s a reason some of the most powerful witches have been blind, and the first recorded witch in Europe to fly a broom—Hildegard Von Goethe—did so because she had limited mobility.

“But at Henbane Coven,” she continues, “you will be asked to rigorously perform magic. If your magic use is directly related to your memory loss, then being here will undoubtedly speed up your…condition. How can we, in good conscience, ask that of you?”

I swallow. It’s a fair question. It makes me feel panicked and desperate, but it’s fair all the same.

I glance down at my hands. I’ve had to think over this very thing so many times. Do I walk away from magic simply because using it will one day kill me?

I look up at the woman across from me. “I’ve had to live with my memory loss for the past three years,” I admit. “Ever since my powers Awoke. And yes, spellcasting eats my memories, and it can make my life very complicated.

“But I cannot live without magic. Surely you understand that,” I say, my gaze sweeping over all the witches sitting across from me. “And there’s so much more to me and my magic than my memory loss.” Like the fact I’m organized as hell. I’m so goddessdamned organized, it would make her head spin. “I would like the chance to show Henbane that side of me. I have a lot to offer.”

By the time I’m finished, my magic has swathed me in its soft sunset glow. I’m wearing all my emotions out in the open, and it’s making me feel uncomfortable and exposed.

The head witch stares at me for several seconds. Eventually, she taps the table, then stands. “Thank you for your time,” she says. Everything about her expression and posture looks solemn and guarded.