Chapter 3

The morning after the fire, I sat over my empty breakfast plate, mustering the strength to call my mother. She wasn’t someone I looked forward to talking to under normal circumstances so I was dreading this conversation. That familiar, cold weight was already settling in the pit of my stomach. Why did I let her make me feel like this?

I decided to get it over with. I pick up my phone and for some reason it feels heavier than a brick.

She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“How are you doing, honey?”

At least she sounded like she was in a good mood. Which was only going to make this harder. I had to tell her about the shed, and the fact that I’d managed to destroy yet another piece of property that she couldn’t tell the insurance company about. I knew what she’d be thinking before I even said it: Six months out there, and still zero progress.

“I had an accident yesterday,” I said, my voice tight.

A heavy pause stretched over the line. “Oh dear. What kind of accident?” She let out a long sigh. “Please tell me this incident doesn’t involve fire.” If a tone of voice could kill, I’d be dead.

“I lit the shed on fire last night,” I forced out, my voice shaking. I immediately wished I had called my dad instead; he was always the understanding one, he might have even kept it between us. I purposely left out the part about the forest practically burning down, or the handsome firefighter who’d had to come save the day. Thinking of him made my heart skip a beat. That’s not good. I shake the thought of his muscly arms and green eyes out of my head.

“Clara, what is going on with you?” Her tone snapped from gentle to sharp within seconds. “You’ve been up there for months. At this point, it might just be best to bind your powers for good. Having this power is a bit responsibility; one I don’t think you will ever quite understand.”

That was a low blow. Binding powers is the worst thing you can do to a witch.

“I know, Mom,” I choked out, swallowing the lump in my throat. I didn’t want to lose my powers. “I swear I’m trying.”

But maybe she was right. Maybe binding my magic was the only way I’d ever be allowed to come back home and be around other people again. Knowing I couldn’t hurt anyone would give me a lot of peace of mind.

“It doesn’t seem like it,” she muttered.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn't get it. How could she? My mom, dad and my older brother, Tyler, shared the same effortless perfection. Tyler was annoyingly good at everything he tried to do, and he was an even better witch. Mom had never made a mistake in her life.

“I know you are, but sometimes sorry isn’t good enough” she said, though her tone was distant. “I just want you to come home.”

I didn’t believe her. She was probably just sick of making up excuses for my "incidents" back in Pembroke. Having me isolated out here was easier for everyone, but especially her.

“I’ll keep practicing,” I offered weakly, knowing it didn’t mean much.

“We’ll send someone down to fix the shed. I’ll let you know when,” she said, completely ignoring me. “Anyway, I have an appointment to get to. Good luck, Clara. I’ll see you next week. Bye.”I wasn’t looking forward to that visit.

“Bye—”

The line went dead before the word even left my mouth.

I set the phone down and finally let the tears fall, it felt like everytime I talked to her she made me cry. My family viewed magic as a holy gift, but I was the first person in our bloodline that I knew of who couldn't control it. Tyler could manipulate the wind; my cousin could command all plant life. But my power was pure, senseless destruction. The harder I tried to hold it in, the hotter it burned everything around me.

That was how I ended up banished to this glorified wood bunkie on our family's property near Pancake Bay, right on the shores of Lake Superior. Back home, after I set our house on fire for the third time, the local police started throwing around words like pyromaniac and mentally disturbed. Mom suggested I come out here "to practice," but we both knew the truth: she just wanted me out of the way before the cops started asking real questions that might ruin her reputation.

Six months ago, the solitude felt like a prison, my thoughts almost unbearable. Now? I was starting to prefer it. This is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived and there are no people which takes a lot of pressure off of me to be someone I’m not.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I headed outside to face the damage from the day before. The burnt shed stood even more charred in the light of day, a still smoking monument of my failure to be a witch. I pulled on the door, and it snapped off its melted hinges, crashing to the dirt in a plume of ash.

Great start.

I spent the next several hours clearing out the debris, loading melted tools into the trailer hooked up to my black Ford F-150. The worst part was pulling out my once beautiful paintings. Before I was exiled out here, I used to teach art. Now, months of work were just blackened frames and melted canvas. My chest ached as I threw them into the back of the truck out of my sight.

By mid-afternoon, my muscles ached and my hands were stained black with soot. I dragged myself back inside the bunkie, collapsing onto the couch.

Archie, my nineteen-year-old mangy looking cat, trotted over and let out a rusty meow. Most witches had soft beautiful black familiars, but Archie was a bright, chaotic orange—a constant reminder of the fire trapped inside me. I scratched behind his soft ears, listening to the steady rhythm of his purr as he curled up beside my head on my pillow. I am twenty-three and I’ve had him almost as long as I can remember, my oldest and only friend.

I grabbed a well-worn paperback off the side table, opening to a page I’d already read a dozen times, wondering if I’d ever actually be allowed to go home and if staying here forever might be so bad after all.