Chapter Sixteen
If there was ever a day the universe should’ve sent down a disclaimer, it was the day my friends decided to teach me how to fly.
The Butterfly Ward shimmered around us, all honeyed light and drifting petals, pretending to be a peaceful, reasonable place.
Butterflies, both the winged kind and the made-of-light kind, looped calmly overhead, as if this was just another day at the magical spa and not a day that might end with my face intimately acquainted with the ground.
In the center of the Ward, Nova had drawn a circle with powdered chalk and hedge clippings, and inside that circle lay three brooms.
One looked like it had been passed down through thirteen generations of stern aunts. One had polished ash wood and bristles trimmed as neatly as a haircut you regret. The third looked like it might be part broom, part shrub, part… feral enthusiasm.
Twobble pointed at the feral one. “That’s yours.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “That broom has opinions.”
“It has character,” Stella corrected, perched on a stone bench like a glamorous bird of prey. “And if Maeve is going to fly, she ought to do it on something with personality. We can’t have you wobbling through the air on a beige stick. It would ruin your brand.”
Skonk was holding a clipboard. I wasn’t sure who had given him a clipboard, but I suspected it had been a mistake.
“According to my notes,” he said, squinting at scrawl only he could interpret, “this broom has been pre-charmed for stability, lift, and minimal screaming.”
“Minimal screaming by whom?” I asked.
“Bystanders,” Twobble said.
“Oh good,” I muttered. “As long as you are comfortable.”
Keegan leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating mixture of concern and quiet amusement.
The Silver Wolf stood beside him, human still, eyes following every movement in the Ward like she could see ten seconds into the future and didn’t like all of them but had faith in the odds.
Nova stepped up, staff grounded, hair loose around her shoulders.
“Remember,” she said, perfectly calm, “we’re not asking you to soar. Just hover.”
“I hover emotionally all the time,” I said. “Can’t that count?”
“This time we’d like your body to join the experience,” Nova said dryly. “Think of it as… vertical hedging.”
“Terrible visual,” I said.
Twobble bounced, earmuffs askew.
“Okay, class! Lesson One: Up-ish. Maeve, please mount the broom in a non-litigious way.”
“You are not qualified to teach this,” Keegan murmured.
“False,” Twobble said. “I’ve personally witnessed at least nine broom-related mishaps. I’m basically an expert in what not to do.”
Skonk raised a finger. “And I’ve written a safety protocol.”
“Of course you have,” I sighed.
I picked up the broom.
It buzzed.
“See?” I said, clutching it. “Opinions.”
The bristles rustled as if deeply offended by my tone.
“Just swing a leg over,” Stella said. “It’s a broom, not a unicorn. Start simple.”
“Don’t bring unicorns into this,” I muttered, but I swung a leg over. The broom wobbled, then settled between my knees like a very tense, very judgmental equine.
The Ward magic hummed under my boots in curious, sympathetic beats like it was waiting to see if this would be a new game or a funeral.
“Now,” Nova said, “close your eyes and feel the Ward lifting you. The way it did when you saved the Luminaries loop. The way it does when you walk into a place with good intentions.”
“That’s very subjective,” I said, but I closed my eyes anyway.
Warmth moved under my feet, up my legs, curling along my spine. The Ward had always loved me a little too loudly, but today, it felt like it was cupping its hands under me, ready to boost.
“Let it gather,” Nova said. “Ask for an inch. No more.”
“One inch,” I whispered to the Ward. “No sudden ambitions. I am not a kite.”
Somewhere to my left, Twobble whispered, “This is where it either works or becomes a story.”
“Not helpful,” Keegan said.
I inhaled, exhaled, and nudged my magic the way I do when I’m coaxing herbs to grow faster or convincing Wards to accept a new energy.
Just a little.
Just enough.
The broom shivered. The bristles lifted off the ground a hair.
I cracked an eye open.
I was still on the ground. Good.
Then I smelled smoke.
I frowned. “Okay, which one of you brought a smoker into the Ward again? Because if something’s on fire, I swear—”
Keegan’s head snapped up. “Do you smell that?”
Stella’s nose wrinkled. “That is not one of my candles.”
Skonk squinted at his clipboard.
“There was absolutely nothing flammable in step one,” he muttered. “That I know of.”
Twobble sniffed the air, alarm dawning. He looked down.
“So,” he said. “Slight update. The broom is on fire.”
“What?” I yelped.
I looked.
The very, very end of the broom bristles smoldered like a rebellious marshmallow. A faint line of sparks snaked through the dried twigs, brightening.
“Oh no,” I said. “Nope. Abort. We are aborting.”
“Feet down,” Nova said sharply. “Maeve, release the lift. Now.”
I tried. I really did. But panic and magic have a long history of miscommunication in my world.
Instead of going down, the Ward panicked with me.
The ground dropped.
The broom lurched.
And suddenly I was airborne and on fire.
“NOPE!” I shrieked as the world did a small, rude cartwheel. The Ward grabbed me fully this time, as if it had misunderstood “one inch” as “let’s show off.”
“Maeve!” Keegan shouted.
“MAJESTIC!” Twobble howled.
The broom shot up at a steep angle, trailing a pretty, horrifying comet-tail of sparks. The smolder at the bristles bloomed into full flame with thin, blue-edged lines racing along the straw like it had been waiting its whole life for this chance to impress someone.
“You’re on fire!” Skonk yelled, pointing helpfully.
“I NOTICED,” I screamed back.
The air tore at my hair, my eyes streaming. Butterflies scattered ahead of me in a flurry of shimmering wings. The Ward itself, offended by open flame, started trying to smother the broom with pockets of cooler air, which only made the ride bumpier and the flames hotter.
“Oh,” I gasped, clinging. “Oh no oh no oh no—”
“MIND YOUR POSTURE!” Stella yelled from below. “Back straight! Chin up! If you’re going to die, at least do it photogenically!”
“Lower your center of gravity!” Nova called. “Bend your knees!”
“What center of gravity?” I shouted. “It left with the ground!”
The broom was determined to obey mostly physics and, to some extent, spite. Instead of the smooth, elegant hover we’d envisioned, I was zipping in wild, looping arcs across the Ward like a flaming candy wrapper in a wind tunnel.
Below, Twobble sprinted after me, head tipped back, arms spread as if he could catch me through sheer optimism. Skonk was reading from his clipboard at high speed, voice cracking. “Step four: in case of unexpected combustion, return to ground immediately—”
“How,” I yelled, “DO YOU SUGGEST I DO THAT?”
Keegan was tracking me with hawk eyes, magic simmering under his skin in a way that made my birthmark prickle. The Silver Wolf moved with him, steps precise, both of them ready to leap the moment the broom dropped me.
The fire licked higher. The very end of the broom was now definitely, undeniably aflame.
On the upside, it didn’t seem to be hurting me.
On the downside, I was a woman on a burning broom in the middle of a sunny afternoon.
This was not the majestic witchy fantasy I’d allowed myself to entertain for three seconds earlier.
Cackling gracefully against the moon? No. Screaming like a boiling teakettle while my broom tried to set itself free? Yes.
And yet—
There it was. Under the terror. Woven through the panic, right alongside the oh no oh no oh no…
Pride.
Ridiculous, inappropriate, stubborn pride.
I was flying. Not falling. Not being flung by someone else’s spell. My magic, clumsy and overexcited, had lifted me. The Ward, temperamental as it was, was holding me up. The broom, even on fire, wasn’t throwing me.
Somewhere between one wild loop and the next, the screaming shifted. I heard it, belatedly, and realized I’d started laughing.
“Maeve!” Keegan shouted again, voice tight.
“I’M FINE!” I yelled back, and to my own surprise, I meant it. “THIS IS TERRIBLE! I LOVE IT!”
Nova’s voice cut across the Ward. “Maeve! Listen to me. You can feel where the ground is, yes?”
“Yes?” I shouted, wind whipping the word out of my mouth.
“Good. Now feel where you are,” she called. “Not the broom. You. Your magic is holding you up, not the kindling you’re currently riding. Tell it to soften. Not drop—soften. Think less.
Less. I could do less. Less was my specialty.
I took a breath so deep it stole sound from my throat and reached for that familiar Hedge magic, the thread that ran from my ribs into the earth and back again. It was stretched thin, humming with the Ward’s energy, but it was mine.
Less, I told it. Not off. Not stop. Just… less.
The broom bucked, then steadied.
My wild arc flattened out, resolving into a jerky but recognizable spiral. I could feel the Ward listening, recalibrating, offended that I’d asked for less but willing to oblige.
“Good!” Nova cried. “Now point your toes at where you want to end up!”
“That is not a thing,” I yelled, but I did it anyway. I tilted my toes toward the center of the Ward, where they’d set up an absolutely ridiculous safety net: cushions, old mattresses, a mound of hay, and one extremely put-out shrub in a pot all conjured on the spot.
The Ward nudged me. The broom followed. The fire, apparently bored, began to sputter.
Keegan and the Silver Wolf moved to intercept, matching my slow descent with intent. Twobble kept pace, hands out, as if he could catch me and the broom and maybe also the meaning of life.
Stella cupped her hands around her mouth. “Stick the landing, darling! Knees bent! Try not to set the shrub on fire!”