Chapter Six

The Calm Before the Swarm

“Which Brood are you?” Sabbath asks, smiling away her confusion.

“Brood?” Nik’s gaze dances between us, momentarily obscured by a burst of smoke from the cauldron at our table.

“You’re a Fringe witch,” I realize slowly. Full Fringe by the sound of it—even witches who live among the enchantless usually at least know about the Broods.

The smoke rises to take on the shape of a grinning skull and quickly vanishes right where Nik’s face is. He kind of has the same expression—a little wide-eyed, possibly on the cusp of maniacal laughter.

“We all get divvied into groups at the end of fifth year,” I explain when the smoke clears. “Broods are the five concentrations of magic. Usually people get into a Brood that aligns with their natural gifting, but I’m not sure which Brood they’d put cyclone wielders in.”

“You really didn’t know this?” Sabbath sets her chin on her palm, her head tilting a little as she takes Nik in with awe. “You grew up, like, without magic?”

“My parents were witches, I guess. I don’t know if they practiced, no one ever told me. Until a month ago.” He frowns, and I sense a story. “So, I guess I’ll have to choose one of these Broods soon, huh?”

“You don’t choose,” Sabbath corrects sweetly. “They assign you to one. After the Trials.”

“Sounds like a buzzkill.” That sideways smile saunters back onto his face. It’s a good look for him, but if it melts Sabbath into a pool on the floor, I will not be responsible for cleaning her up afterward. “Maybe I’ll be the first warlock to refuse,” Nik counters with a grin. “It is warlock, right? I’m not, like, a male witch who has to qualify his witchiness with a gendered adjective?”

“You’re a warlock,” Sabbath promises with a chuckle.

Nik’s bewilderment has decreased considerably, thanks to our friendly conversation, but he’s yet to see anything truly magical, and that will be the real test.

“So which Brood do I want to be in?” he asks.

“Well, Runes and Necromancy are the hardest to get into,” I inform him. “Alchemy is the easiest.”

“I’m Necromancy,” Sabbath says, quickly catching how proud she sounds, and seeming shocked at herself. Today, of all days, she deserves it.

“She raises people from the dead,” I say, matter-of-fact. Under the table, Sabbath shoves me with her knee.

“Are there any other schools?” Nik asks, like now he might want to try a different one.

Sabbath and I volley the answer between us, counting on our fingers.

“Spellfall, Burnbright Institute, Mittenfist School of the Dark Arts.”

“House of Fates, Mirrorthorn’s Academy for Mages and Magicians.”

“Carthwright’s Conservatory of Unlikely Magic.”

I shrug. “I mean, there are more, but you get the poi—”

“Étudiants!” Madame Sorcière rises to the dais at the front of the hall and claps her hands, the sound reverberating magnificently.

The scattered conversations peter off, the din of the banquet hall receding as we all turn in rapt silence to heed our headmistress.

“Bienvenue à tous! Tonight is our All Hallows’ feast, celebrating the start of a new year at Spellfall Academy of Enchantment!”

This rouses cheers from the assembly, a few whistles cutting severely through the applause. “The château is enchanted so that we can all understand each other,” Sabbath projects over the clattering sound of hands. “But sometimes, if you try hard enough, or learn enough of another language, you can hear through the spell.”

Nik’s eyebrow arches in pleasant surprise as the clamor dies down, until there’s only the low, occasional spew of bubbles from a cauldron that perforate the silence.

“To our new students,” Sorcière continues in her barely-there French accent, “those who have traveled far and wide to find this little pocket in space, we welcome you into the fold of our ancient and prestigious institution. We hope you are finding your feet in a world apart from the enchantless. You have no doubt heard of the five Broods, the five pillars of our witching community: the Spellwriting Brood. The creatives, the romantics, the truth-tellers, the out-of-the-box thinkers of our world, who wield magic through the power of well-formed words.”

I lock eyes with spellwriter Tuesday Jones farther down the table. She gives me a dreamy smile, her emerald hair swaying in its messy pony, and I can’t be entirely sure she’s actually looking at me. Her identical twin, Tomorrow, scowls at nothing in particular as Sorcière continues on to her specialty.

“Transfiguration Brood,” the headmistress continues. “Those who are gifted in illusion, in invention. Whose transformative magic can change all that we can taste, touch, see, hear, and smell. The Alchemy Brood. Our healers, our homemakers, our heart. Their magic steadies us. It is the foundation of all that we promise to achieve.”

Sab’s elbow connects with my ribs as I snort. “Far better to be average than to be evil…” I can practically hear her voice in my mind.

“Runes Brood. The ones who give and take, who sacrifice for the power we all share, whose magic is the life force of all magic. And finally, Necromancy Brood. Our thrill-seekers and heroes. Our dark-minded and dark-gifted practitioners of soul magic, who must never, under any circumstances, take their eye off of their own desires.”

The subtlest of shifts comes over Madame Sorcière’s eyes as they glance at some of the Necromancy Brood—Amandine, Cecily… they finally land on Sabbath, before gliding back across the gathering. Sabbath passes me a look from over her shoulder, and I wiggle my eyebrows at her to reassure her. We are in the clear, no one suspects a thing.

“Remember,” Sorcière says, an air of conspiratorial whimsy unfurling in her tone, “all magic is creativity. You cannot wield magic without first conceiving of the magic you wish to do, but we urge you to exercise caution as you explore your abilities here at Spellfall. Each choice you make, each spell you learn—every fear you do or do not conquer—will lead you down a path that will determine your future. And now, we congratulate our new sixth-years, who have been matched to their new Broods!”

A fluttering of polite applause instantly spreads throughout the banquet hall.

“A few rules for our new students to remember, and for those who seemed not to hear in years past: the streets of Paris are not for cavorting. You are here to learn, and we ask that you respect the secrecy and discretion of this academy by staying on the premises at all times. Excursions into the city are expressly forbidden without direct approval from the head of your year.”

I glance at Thorncaster, sitting among the other professors. She has a nice flush to her face and an unusual sparkle in her eye. A twinge of guilt tugs at my chest, but it’s quickly swallowed up by gratitude; clearly, we owe our good fortune to a night that’s going her way.

“Lastly, as you all very well know by now, Spellfall is situated in a pocket of space which has been around nearing on two centuries. It is essential that you stay vigilant when venturing out onto the grounds, as many a creature has come to settle here, lurking beyond the walls of our château. Some are friendly, some dangerous.”

Sorcière pauses, transitioning us with arms outstretched like a ballet dancer, her strawberry-blond curls pinned tightly to her head as she casts a wide net with her gaze. Her lips split into a wide smile.

“Now, we celebrate All Hallow’s Eve, one of our most honored traditions. On this night, the spirits of our ancestors pass over us, move among us, bringing with them a current of power that has flowed throughout eons. Let us share in the feast, shall we? Let us ask our ancestors to come among us, and bless us in this coming year with the echoes of their own magic.”

The short arm of the clock behind Sorcière twitches to midnight, and the bell tower beyond the walls tolls a long, solemn note. With this, wind seems to gather overhead. Nik’s hair tousles while he looks up, his jaw set like at any moment he could totally bolt. With each clang of the hour, the whooshing sound collects, like a kicked beehive descending on our feast.

The first-years’ ooooh’s and ahhhh’s ring through the hall, and I imagine the spiritual realm must get a kick out of how easily entertained we all are by its mere existence. If I look closely enough, I can even see the wispy rush of ethereal bodies racing overhead, merging together like the current of a river.

The spirits moan in response to the husky sound of hundreds of knitted whispers, offered in supplication. Sabbath and I never do this part—Sab because, well, she has her God hang-ups. Me? Honestly, it always seemed kind of impolite to only ask the spirits for something we want, and to store up all that conviction into one single prayer that happens in twelve seconds once a year.

“Uncle Phineas, honor me with your presence tonight, come and stir the air around us,” Cecily pleads, her eyelids clenched shut, lashes fluttering as her voice rings with conviction. Calm it down, Cess. The spirit of your great uncle Phineas will still be dead next year.

It occurs to me that I’ve just done basically the same thing earlier tonight, but the thought falls away when I catch Enzo’s eye in the glow of the jack-o'-lanterns.

Oh, Enzo. How was one to qualify him these days? My unintentionally estranged boyfriend, Enzo? Or perhaps, Spellfall’s Up and Coming Potions Dealer, Enzo? The second seems like a more suitable introduction.

He grins at me, and I decide that, right now, I want him to be my boyfriend. Near-death experiences will give a gal rose-colored glasses, for sure.

I make a face, seeing him slant his head down toward the space next to him, inquiring why I’m not there. My head tilts toward Sabbath in response, indicating that we came together.

“Wow, what impressive non-verbal communication,” Sabbath speaks over the mumbly groan of the ancestors. Every year I kind of want them to speak up. It’s hard to put the wisdom of your deceased elders to use when they’re not articulating.

“Ugh, I’m going to have to tell Enzo,” my nose wrinkles with the admission, and I purse my lips—the best expression I can muster to, well, express how much I look forward to this.

“You don’t have to tell Enzo.”

“He’s still my boyfriend, in theory. Tell me how I get away with not telling him I died an hour ago.”

“Ha! Tell him you were murdered, and see if he has enough brain cells left to process that after he’s snorted a line of pixie dust.”

Another grin curves Enzo’s lips as he looks at me, toothy and gleeful, and unfortunately, Sabbath’s right. That is not the man to defend my honor.

Jutting his chin out at me, he wiggles thick eyebrows, brown eyes alight with something other than sobriety. I know what this non-verbal communication means. It’s a proposition.

I sigh. “Up and Coming Potions Dealer Enzo, it is,” I mutter.

Near the front of the room, coils of black smoke drop down from where the ancestors are busy swarming and groaning, blooming against the backdrop of purples and greens and golds. A different sound arises from the cacophony—a screeching sound that shears the air. I look to see a cluster of people solidifying, tendrils of black smoke still curling off of them like steam.

“Bring me the Skin Carver!” The man at the front of the group roars.

I smile, despite the chill that runs up my spine. They’ve never put on a little performance like this for the All Hallows’ Eve feast before, but I bet it’s something new they’re trying out to amuse the first-years.

With the final toll of the bell, hundreds of little flames snap up from the offering candles. The commotion riled by the ancestors lifts, the final ring of the midnight hour dousing the supernatural activity until it wanes to a murmur.

“Miiiika,” I hear Sabbath whisper out of the side of her mouth, but I’m too busy watching the new addition to the show.

Their movements trail with wisps of black, but they’re still hard to make out in this lighting. A crawling sensation edges up my spine, and I find myself unable to look away. I nudge Sab, eyes still on the group at the front, but she doesn’t react. The room appears to have grown sinister, cold—though no one else seems intrigued by this production.

“Mikaaa, Mika!” I ignore Sabbath—that is, until she stomps on my foot and I grunt in shock.

Turning to her slowly, I direct all the pain screaming at me through my toes into my glare.

“Yes, Sabbath?” I ask tightly.

She flashes a quick, nervous smile at Nik, whose attention I seem to capture with my reaction. Yet, her alarmed eyes cut to my hand, resting on the table, and as I focus on it, confusion grips me.

I stand corrected. My hand isn’t resting on the table, it’s hovering over the plate—or, to be more specific, through the plate.

Midnight has turned me into a ghost.

I'm really excited to play with the idea of the enchantless/fringe witches throughout the series. Nik was one of those characters who popped into my head boldly and brightly, but who still feels a bit like a wildcard on the page. What are some things you're excited to learn about witching culture in Spellfall?!

xx Jessa

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