Chapter Three
Chrysanthemum Quinn locked up her bike outside the Thornhaven Historical Society building and wondered if the first day of school was too early to start a countdown-to-the-end-of-the-year calendar. Possibly it was a bit like starting your Christmas countdown calendar on December 26—a sign of a disturbingly overeager and one-track mind.
But screw it. She needed something to look forward to, and five days a week of getting up before the sun rose, breathing the same air as her classmates (99 percent of whom were as obnoxious as they were rich), and having to do pointless homework was almost as intolerable as waiting tables for tourists had been all summer at the Pirate Shack.
Almost, because at least she didn’t have to wear a ridiculous hat or address people as matey while she carried trays of fish and chips every day.
On the other hand, she’d gotten paid for waiting those tables and putting up with the indignity of it all. No one paid her to put up with the indignity of high school, and her mother had forbidden her from working during the school year, even though they could use the money. When Chrys had pointed this out, Samantha Quinn had told her that school was her job from September to June, and she shouldn’t worry. As if her worries could be snuffed out of existence as easily as a candle flame when they roared inside her like a bonfire.
Despite the foulness of her mood, Chrys’s shoulders released their tension as she entered the Historical Society building. Although she cynically thought of the organization as the Craft Country Club, it was the closest thing the island had to a coven—a shared meeting space for teaching, socializing, and when required, working magic together.
A tingling sensation washed over her skin as she crossed the threshold, thanks to the many wards poking and prodding her, assessing her for any kind of threat—whatever that might be. And a muddy brown tinge—the result of so many witches’ magical contributions—permanently clung to the doorway. (The wards also magically repelled mundanes.)
The building’s scents were muddled as well, but pleasingly so. Over the years, burning herbs had permeated the plaster walls and dark wainscotting, and their presence whispered in Chrys’s nose like ghosts of magic long past—frankincense and myrrh, sandalwood and jasmine. Under the sweet smell was the scent of old wood and ocean salt and the mustiness born of centuries of use. Chrys liked the mustiness—drafty rooms, creaky floors, narrow staircases, and low ceilings included.
Many of her peers lamented that witch school didn’t meet at someone’s house or in one of the nice modern hotels down by the harbor, but that was one more thing Chrys didn’t have in common with these people. She liked it here. History gave her a sense of place and belonging that she rarely felt in the present. History was a reminder that she was part of something bigger than herself, a legacy of witches … even if the witches she personally knew treated her like she was an interloper.
They could ignore her, but they couldn’t deny her entry into this world.
Back when she and her mom had moved to Thornhaven, the possibility of belonging had been tantalizing. Her mother had lived the first twelve years of her life in Thornhaven, so Chrys had heard all about the island, including that she’d get to attend witch school. Crossing the water from mainland Massachusetts had felt magical itself. She was leaving her old life, and all the misfit feelings that had plagued her existence, behind. On Thornhaven, she’d be one of many witches, no longer the weird kid whose secret abilities made her feel like an outsider.
What a bunch of bullshit that had turned out to be.
Yes, Chrys had a few friends here, but none of them were witches. In some ways, they were like her—students who didn’t quite fit. But in other ways, they were nothing like her, because she couldn’t truly be herself around them.
On Thornhaven, the witches had rejected her just as surely as the normies had rejected her back on the mainland. But to hell with them. She’d showed them all that she was every bit as good as them her first year, and if they couldn’t deal with it, that was their problem. She’d never forget the way Lily Allerton had whined about losing to her at her first magic fair—it was like Lily believed she deserved to win, just because her family’s legacy was old and they were rich.
She could still hear Lily’s tantrum as if it were yesterday. This isn’t fair! There’s no way she could do that spell on her own when she’s only been attending witch school for a year. She must have cheated. Who does she think she is?
And then a man’s voice—Lily’s father, presumably: Your competition, that’s who. And the reason you’ll try harder next year.
Chrys was embarrassed to remember that she’d spent most of that year fixated on how pretty Lily was, and wishing Lily would notice her. Her fourteen-year-old self had needed better taste in crushes, but at least Lily’s behavior had cured her of that one.
Exiting the stairwell, Chrys paused in the doorway of one of the third-floor rooms that had been turned into a classroom. Most of the other eleventh- and twelfth-grade witches were already here, and Chrys took a seat as far from everyone else as possible. Hopefully, witch school would be more interesting than regular school this year.
“When magic goes awry, we have a tendency to blame the magic,”
Ms. LaPlant was saying ten minutes later.
“You may have heard it’s wild and can’t be controlled, that spells are only suggestions. To a point that’s true, but if we couldn’t guide it, then no spells would work.”
At the front of the room, she sat on a table, her legs swinging beneath her. Brown boots dotted with silver buttons peeked out beneath the green fabric of her skirt. She’d worn the same outfit at school, but in the Thornhaven Historical Society’s classroom, it took on a whole new vibe, as did Ms. LaPlant herself. She was still an authority figure and a teacher, but she seemed softer and friendlier.
Following Ms. LaPlant’s instructions, Chrys pulled out her personal Book of Shadows and ran her thumb over the embossed black leather cover, enjoying the feel. For her sixteenth birthday last year, she’d used her gift money to splurge on the fancy journal from the bookstore downtown. Even though such extravagance wasn’t necessary and several of her classmates just used spiral-bound notebooks, Chrys liked the sense of importance the journal provided. Far more than a spell book, a Book of Shadows was a workbook, a chronicle of each witch’s journey into the secrets of magic and the discovery of their power.
Some witches, cough, Lily, color coded and indexed theirs. Chrys enjoyed watching Lily squirm with frustration every time she was forced to cross something out. Chrys’s book, on the other hand, was filled as much with doodles and song lyrics as it was with magical insights.
“By now, you all understand the basics of spell work. This year, we’re concentrating on how to create and focus intent,”
Ms. LaPlant said.
“I want you to think about the last time you attempted magic and it didn’t work as planned. What were you trying to do versus what happened? Where was the disconnect?”
Chrys blew a strand of hair from her face. The last time? Who knew. Most of what she attempted didn’t work—but that was probably her own fault for following her gut when she did spells, not instructions.
Her saving grace was that when her gut worked for her, it really worked.
The strand of hair returned to itching her nose, and Chrys wrapped it around her pen. She’d tried again before school started this year to change her hair color, and again she’d failed. She was starting to think she’d only succeeded in changing it once—and, even then, badly—out of pure luck.
“Chrys, could you stay a moment?”
Ms. LaPlant called out when class broke up forty-five minutes later.
Chrys frowned, taking her time to put away her Book of Shadows. A sinking feeling in her stomach warned her what this might be about, and she didn’t need anyone else around for the conversation. Luckily, at nine o’clock on a school night, no one seemed inclined to hang out, so they were alone when Chrys dragged herself to the front of the room.
“How was your first day?”
Ms. LaPlant asked.
“Fine.”
Chrys tucked her hair behind her ears, realized she was still frowning, and forced her lips into a smile. None of this was Ms. LaPlant’s fault. “Thanks.”
“Wonderful.”
Her teacher’s smile seemed genuinely delighted, but delighted was her default mood.
“I’m excited to have one of the two most talented witches of your age group in both my classes this year.”
Ignoring who the other person might be (Lily, she had to be referring to Lily), Chrys braced herself. Although she did consider herself one of the most talented witches of her age group, being flattered was never a good sign.
“I hate to bring this up,”
Ms. LaPlant continued.
“but your mother forgot to pay her dues for the year. I wanted to let you know so you could remind her in case she missed the email.”
All the island’s witches paid dues to the Historical Society. The money covered upkeep on the building and maintaining a library filled with books and expensive supplies that could be borrowed, and it also enabled people like Ms. LaPlant to be paid for their time teaching students how to control and use their power.
The dues probably weren’t a lot for the average witch family—the Historical Society also hosted a giant Halloween ball as a fundraiser every year—but a lot meant something different to the Quinns than it did to, say, the Allertons. Or even a schoolteacher. As Ms. LaPlant surely knew, judging by the sympathy in her eyes.
Chrys was thankful she’d already grasped her backpack’s shoulder strap, and she squeezed it tighter. The only thing worse than people like Lily, who looked down on her for not having as much money, were people like Ms. LaPlant, who were kind about it. The former, Chrys could get angry at. The latter made her want to curl up and die.
“Oh, she’s been really busy,”
Chrys said, hoping her voice didn’t waver.
“I’ll remind her. Thanks.”
Then she turned and raced out of the room before Ms. LaPlant could say anything else.
Shit. Her mom got paid on Friday. Odds were, there would be no money for dues until then unless she or her mom attempted some sort of money spell, and her mom would never do that. Money spells were risky.
Magic was very good at certain types of effects, especially the intangible and ephemeral. It could create fantastic illusions, manipulate thoughts and emotions, and protect people and things. With more effort, it could alter objects that already existed, like turning your brown hair black, fixing a broken glass, or swelling apples to the size of pumpkins. And, in talented hands, it could combine all of those effects.
But magic couldn’t create something out of nothing.
For Chrys to magic an extra two hundred dollars into her hand, if she were even skilled enough to do so (which she was not), someone else had to lose it. Everyone knew a horror story of a witch who cast a poorly thought-out money spell and ended up with a loved one dying and leaving them an inheritance. Chrys had witnessed the Society’s most powerful witches perform some incredible spells, but anything that wasn’t a mere glamour—that is, anything that caused actual change in the world—carried risk.
Her mother would probably be in bed by the time Chrys got home, so she pulled out her phone and began a text to her about the dues. Since she was fairly certain there wouldn’t be a spare two hundred bucks in the bank until Friday, she could have waited, but Chrys had no interest in having this conversation in person. Her mom would make it sound like everything was fine, and Chrys would have to pretend to believe it.
For a moment before she hit SEND, she considered not telling her mom at all; she could pay the dues herself with some of the money she’d earned over the summer. But Chrys discarded that idea as easily as she had the money spell. When her mom found out—and she would find out—she would insist on returning the money to Chrys, and Chrys would have succeeded only in making her feel bad.
Our luck will change now that we’re in Thornhaven and have full access to our power, her mom had insisted when they first moved, and Chrys had believed that for a time.
In fact, for a time, it had seemed like her mom was right. Their apartment was small, but because they were witches, they got an excellent deal on the rent. They’d never struggled for food, although—as her mom joked—they weren’t buying the gourmet cheese. And the old car that they’d inherited from Chrys’s grandparents, which used to break down regularly, had (with some magical assistance) run without issue since the move. But money remained tight, and her mom hadn’t yet figured out a way to get her business dream off the ground.
As for Chrys’s friendship hopes, the less said, the better.
A hint of autumn brushed her cheeks in the breeze as she unlocked her bike. Soon, that crispness would be more pronounced, and as the cool weather rolled in, so, too, would the celebratory atmosphere. Thornhaven Island was pretty in the summer—flowers crawled up its white picket fences, sailboats filled the harbor, and the wild blackberry brambles that gave the island its name were in bloom.
But fall was when the inhabitants partied, and decorations were already beginning to cover the buildings downtown. Dried cornstalks and early pumpkins had sprung up around the Historical Society’s doors. The Cauldron Supply magic shop had replaced its summery flag with a Halloween-themed one, and Black Cat Coffee was advertising autumn specials, including cranberry muffins, and—of course—everything pumpkin spice.
Lost in her thoughts, Chrys startled when she heard her name drop from Lily’s lips.
“I can’t believe he sat next to Chrysanthemum.”
Lily must be right on the other side of the row of parked SUVs. The Witch Princess of Thornhaven refused to call her Chrys for some stupid reason.
“Right?”
And that was Lily’s sycophantic best friend, Sonia.
“He sat with her and her friends at lunch, too!”
Ah, they were talking about the new kid, Luke. As much as Chrys wanted to sneer at their incredulous tones, she couldn’t argue with their skepticism. Luke’s whole everything screamed that he belonged with Lily’s crowd. That didn’t mean he was a witch, but that he possessed the other source of popularity on Thornhaven—money.
Chrys had spent years perfecting her resting bitch face precisely to keep people like Luke away, and he’d been completely unfazed by it.
Almost as bad, she kind of liked him for defying her expectations. Not liked him, liked him, since she’d figured out a few years ago that boys didn’t hold any interest for her that way, but he seemed friendly and funny, and it was pretty obvious that half the school had already developed crushes. Just walking into choir class with him this morning had drawn more attention Chrys’s way than she preferred, but she hadn’t been about to blow him off when he’d asked for directions after math class.
“You’re taking choir?”
She’d wished she hadn’t sounded so surprised, but Luke didn’t strike her as the musical type. Also, perhaps more to the point, she wasn’t used to being the person anyone sought out for assistance.
His lip quirked in a way that suggested he was giving her the benefit of the doubt—that she hadn’t intended to be rude.
“If that’s okay with you.”
It had been a while since Chrys had wished, quite so strongly, for the floor to swallow her. When she finished full-body cringing, though, she thought she detected humor in Luke’s eyes.
“Um, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t have enough coffee this morning. Isaiah and I are heading there, so just stick with us.”
She hadn’t dared turn in Isaiah’s direction to see the way they were laughing at her stupidity.
“So, coffee impacts your ability to believe I might take choir?”
Luke asked as they entered the stairwell.
Next to her, Isaiah snickered.
“Coffee impacts my ability to function,”
Chrys said, which was a bit of an exaggeration, but not an outright lie.
“Don’t take it personally.”
“Yeah,”
Isaiah chimed in.
“If Chrys wanted to be rude, trust me—you’d know. She’d just glare at you, and you’d feel your soul shriveling inside your skin. It’s brutal.”
Chrys tried to pretend that description didn’t please her.
“Wait till you meet Ms. McNeil, current choir director, former prima donna. Your soul hasn’t shriveled until an ex-professional opera singer is disappointed with your performance.”
“For real?”
Luke looked excited about that, and Chrys’s opinion of him moved another inch in the positive direction.
“Does she have us sing opera?”
“Occasionally she’s tried it,”
Isaiah said.
“but that’s where the disappointment usually shines. We do a lot of show tunes.”
Luke’s eyes lit up.
“Modern or classics? I love them all. I was Seymour in my old school’s performance of Little Shop of Horrors last year.”
Chrys was so taken aback by this confession that she couldn’t even manage a joke. Luke and Isaiah started comparing opinions about Little Shop and every other show their schools had put on. Her opinion of Luke slid even further toward the positive.
“I just figured … it has to be a mistake, right?”
Lily said, and her voice drew Chrys back to the present like a blast of frozen air.
“New school. He was nervous and glommed on to the first people who were friendly to him, but who looks at Chrysanthemum and thinks friendly?”
Chrys snorted and clasped a hand over her mouth.
“It makes no sense,”
Lily continued.
“I told you about my tarot reading. If we’re meant to be together, then it’s up to me to help him.”
Wait—Lily had done a tarot reading about Luke already and thought they were meant to date? That was hilarious. The first genuine grin of the day spread over Chrys’s face.
“I was holding out hope that he might be a witch since that would make it easier,”
Lily said.
“but since he’s not, we have to run an intervention and save him from himself.”
Chrys couldn’t stifle her laughter any longer. Stepping between two parked cars, she emerged in their row, pleased to see Lily’s cheeks turn red with the realization she’d been overheard. Sonia looked less embarrassed and more uncomfortable, and she glanced down at her sandals.
“An intervention?”
Chrys was close to cackling, but standing so close to Lily, her amusement gave way to something darker. Irritation. These spoiled rich witches.
“Save him from himself? From me? Did you ever think that not everyone in this town is interested in falling at your feet?”
Lily’s cheeks continued to redden until Chrys wondered if her face would explode.
“He deserves the chance to have normal friends, and not just”—her gaze flicked up and down Chrys’s body as she clearly strained for her best insult—“Wednesday Addams.”
Okay, that was almost too funny to get annoyed about.
“Have you ever actually watched that show?”
Judging from the look on Lily’s face, the answer was no. Same with Sonia. Probably the only things Lily watched were Disney movies.
Chrys placed a hand over her heart.
“Why yes, I am a smart, sarcastic goth girl with no interest in your bullshit. A-plus powers of observation. What a devastating insult.”
Not waiting around for a retort that would probably be every bit as ridiculous as that attempt at an attack was, Chrys returned to her bike and rode home. The whole conversation was absurd. Laughable. Lily really did expect everyone to worship at her altar.
When Chrys had moved here, Lily had taken one glance at her and dismissed her without a second thought, despite Chrys being an actual witch. Someone who shared a bond—theoretically anyway—with Lily. Someone who had actually wanted to adore Lily and, if nothing else, be her friend.
Chrys knew better now. Lily was shallow and obnoxious and spoiled. And Luke, who’d seemed genuinely nice, deserved better than that. Chrys didn’t have to want to date him herself to also believe he deserved saving—from Lily.
So that was how it was going to be. After three years of being snubbed, the only thing Chrys had thought she wanted was to ignore Lily the way Lily ignored her. But the resentment that had been simmering in her blood wasn’t ignorable any longer.
For a moment, she considered a dozen different hexes—spells to give Lily acne, to cause all her teeth to fall out, to simply make it so that no one would ever consider dating her for no other reason at all besides magic. But Chrys had never cast a hex, and the more she thought on it, the less she wanted to use one. It would be infinitely more satisfying to just show Luke what Lily’s true personality was. Snobbish. Self-absorbed. Superficial.
It would hurt Lily more that way, too. To be rejected for who she was.
How hard could it be? Chrys had never set out to compete with Lily, but she’d already proven that she could beat Lily at magic, and she was going to beat her for valedictorian. Her GPA was behind by only one one-hundredth of a point.
In short, it stood to reason that she could protect Luke from Lily’s greedy clutches, too.
Let the best witch win.