Epilogue
FIVE YEARS LATER
There are some traditions witches do differently than the non-magical population, and then there are some traditions, like graduation ceremonies, that are quite similar. Minus, perhaps, the caps.
I adjust the wide brim of my pointed hat as I stand off to the edge of Slain Maiden’s Meadow alongside my coven sisters, all of us clad in black graduation gowns. Ahead of us, a makeshift stage has been set up where we’ll receive our diploma.
From the other side of it, the high priestess speaks to a woman with black hair, thin lips, and hawkish eyes whom I vaguely recall wanting to deny me admission to Henbane five years ago.
I try my hardest to gloat about that, if only to distract myself from the fact that my feet and hips are killing me and I desperately need to pee.
I turn, my eyes briefly sweeping over the sea of family and friends sitting in the audience before my gaze settles on the line of graduating coven sisters.
Some of these witches have been here since Henbane reopened, and a few, like my best friend several bodies ahead of me, have been here since before.
Henbane ended up reopening a year after it closed, much to my relief, and many of us former students re-enrolled. Some, like Sybil, even stayed on an extra year. But there were many more who never returned. I feel their absence now, as I stand in the field where I watched a few of them die.
I face forward again, accidentally knocking my very large, very round belly into the witch in front of me.
“Sorry,” I apologize again.
The witch, Geraldine, doesn’t even respond this time. Which is fair since I keep bumping her. In my defense, I’m still not used to how far out this full-term belly of mine juts.
The high priestess strides up to the podium of the makeshift stage, and a hush falls across the field. There isn’t a microphone waiting for her, but I see her tap two fingers to her throat, and a wisp of her powder blue magic curls itself around her throat.
“Welcome family, friends, and students,” she says, her voice booming, “to the one hundred and ninetieth graduating class of Henbane Coven.”
A cheer goes up in the crowd.
The high priestess’s gaze passes over us as her white raven swoops down from the sky above and lands on her shoulder. “For many of these witches, it’s been a battle to get here…”
A sharp cramp tightens the muscles of my belly. I suck in a breath, my hand going to my abdomen.
That was probably nothing, right?
As quickly as I notice it, it lets up, and I exhale.
Just nerves, I reassure myself.
“…wasn’t clear whether we’d reopen,” the high priestess carries on.
“But we did, in no small part thanks to several generous donations from folks like you,” she says, gesturing to the crowd, “and the perseverance of these witches.” Her gaze returns to us, and I swear they linger on my own for a prolonged moment.
“They made this happen, and I think that speaks to the heart of this student body.” She smiles at us, then turns to the crowd.
“And now they are about to leave here and embark on their greatest adventures yet. The world needs the power and grace witches have to offer, a power born of love, fealty, community, and passion …”
It’s a lovely speech, but I find my eyes drifting as I listen.
Along the treetops that surround the field, dozens of winged familiars sit perched, watching the events below.
Among the bunch, I spot Sybil’s owl. My own familiar leans against my lower leg like he might be able to meld with it if he concentrates really heard.
Nero has gotten particularly protective of me while I’ve been pregnant.
So much so that he will in fact endure a graduation ceremony for my sake.
He really is a good boy, even if he will never, ever let me say so to his face.
I refocus on the high priestess just as she says, “…with that let’s give a round of applause to our graduating class!”
The seated crowd erupts in claps.
And then she begins to announce names. First it’s Tatiana Abbot, then Michaela Acosta, then an Addams, an Ahmad, an Ainsworth, then Aldridge, and then—
“Sybil Andalucia!”
I clap and holler as my best friend crosses the stage and takes her diploma. It takes only a few more minutes to call out the last of the “A” surnames, the line ahead of me getting shorter and shorter until I’m standing on the edge of the stage.
“Selene Bowers!”
The name I wrote over and over again in my notebooks, in case one day my magic took the memory of it from me.
The irony is that Selene Bowers isn’t my first true name.
That one is lost to time. Nor is it my second name, the one that was given to me by a Roman woman whose memory isn’t worth lingering on.
Then there’s Uvagukis Roxilana, the name Memnon gave me when I wanted something of my own.
But, for now, Selene Bowers—or Selene Uvagukis—is what I go by.
I’ve found, in the end, that my name isn’t nearly so important to me when I have recreated myself more than a few times. My existence stretches far into the past, and by all accounts, it will stretch far, far into the future.
My graduation gown swishes as Nero and I cross the stage. I clasp the high priestess’s hand and my ink-stained fingers take my diploma from her. During the time Henbane was closed, I started writing my first intentional grimoire, and since then I never really stopped.
It turns out, writing down my memories for all those years and transcribing an entire language in my past life are both really good skillsets for authoring magical books.
So much so that one supernatural press has already published two of them: Sarmatian Phrases for Beginners and The Old Soul’s Spellbook.
The high priestess gives my hand a tight squeeze, and now I know I’m not imagining her keen attention on me.
She leans forward and whispers, “Well done, Selene,” as my parents and a few others clap and cheer.
But then Memnon’s completely unhinged war cry cuts through it all.
It’s such a ridiculous sound, considering the occasion, that I laugh as I release the high priestess’s hand and waddle off the stage with my familiar.
My gaze finds Memnon’s in the audience, and even across all this distance, I feel the searing heat of those burning eyes.
Well done, my queen. My skin pricks at how the soft words seem to stroke me from the inside.
I smile at him. Thank you, est vexsava.
My love.
I head to the empty seat waiting for me among the graduates. I’ve just settled into the rickety chair and Nero has curled up at my feet when another cramp tenses up my abdominal muscles.
My breath catches at the sensation, but it’s mild, and like the time before, after only a few seconds, it abates.
Slowly, the chairs around me fill up with my coven sisters, until, finally, the last witch receives her diploma and returns to her seat.
The high priestess clears her throat.
“May I present to you Henbane’s newest graduates. Congratulations, sisters!” A cry rises up from us and the rest of the audience.
My coven sisters and I reach under our chairs, grasping the brooms that’ve been stowed away there. I pull mine between my legs.
This is another way in which coven graduations differ from regular ones.
“I’ll see you in a moment,” I tell Nero, magic already spilling from my palms.
My power wraps around the broomstick handle. “Ofkavak,” I incant.
Fly.
I lift up alongside my sisters, and oh dear Goddess, this hurts my crotch way more than it probably should, and my center of gravity is not what it used to be, and I’m pretty sure I resemble a flying bowling ball more than anything else.
But I gamely loop the circle around the meadow, the wind rippling my robes and knocking my hat off.
It falls alongside dozens of other hats as witches throw them off or let them tumble from their heads.
I watch all of those dark hats rain down like confetti, and I take a moment to appreciate that even after a couple rejections from Henbane, a slew of murders, an ancient sorcerer hellbent on murdering—then marrying—me, several demon attacks, a school closure, and the death of an age-old nemesis, I finally, finally managed to finish my courses and graduate from Henbane.
It’s been a long and windy road, one that even now I’m still navigating.
Like the strange and sometimes anomalous ways my Otherworldly powers interact with regular, earthly magic.
Or how, when the moon is dark and the night is very quiet, I sometimes hear the Hungering Ones beneath my feet, calling out to me in a language only Memnon and I still know.
I sense them waiting, watching, and I’m aware that perhaps for as long as I live, I might have to hear their whispered words.
I try not to think of that part—my lifespan. Memnon and I have spoken with the Bargainer and his (much lovelier) wife on this, and it sounds like we might truly be as eternal as the fae are.
I glance at my stomach. I also do not know whether my child will live for as long as Memnon and I will. But…it seems like he or she might.
My feet touch down on the wild grass, and I set my broom aside.
My gaze meanders over the crowd, looking for my family.
Instead, I see Sawyer, Sybil’s mate and fiancé, who stares up at the sky, his eyes tracking my friend.
Next to him is Kane, whose eyes snag on mine.
His gaze slips to my round stomach. I don’t think I was supposed to notice how his lips press together, but he gives a soft wave.
I wave back. Kane and I are mostly friends, but every so often there are moments when a look or action of his reminds me that we were once almost something, and he has never fully forgotten.
I catch sight of my parents winding through the crowd, and I move to meet them.
“Sweetheart,” my mom says, when she gets close enough to drag me into a hug, “we are so proud of you.”
My mom has tears in her eyes when she pulls away. She gives me a tight smile, like she’s fighting back emotion, and she pats my cheek. “So proud,” she whispers.