Chapter 4: Wren - Twisted Vows

It was, in fact, not easy.

Wren had never felt more profoundly and utterly overwhelmed, seated among the other students in her Elemental Activation and Sense Connection class, watching as they crafted elemental magic from seemingly nothing. A girl seated a few rows in front of Wren extended her hands and a miniature tornado formed in her palms, swirling in smooth, even circles. A boy a few seats to her left lifted his hands in the air, flexing his fingers, and a perfectly blossomed tulip sprouted from the desk, fluorescent pink petals popping out of the stem.

Maya, who was seated directly next to Wren, created a river of water between her hands, which ebbed and flowed gently as she twisted her hands left and right. When she noticed Wren gawking, she chuckled under her breath.

“Come on, Wren. Give it a try.”

“I did try,” Wren grumbled. She really, really had. After hearing Housemaster Marigold explain how elemental magic was activated—by attributing each element with a specific sense-driven memory and latching that chosen memory to the core of the caster’s magic—Wren had attempted the easiest elemental spell she could try, according to Maya: wind. A gentle gust from the palm of her hand.

She’d done all the steps. She’d closed her eyes. She’d focused all her energy on the source of her elemental magic—her fingers. She’d fixated on the senses that she attributed to wind. Coldness. A faint tickle on the skin. The scent of freshly cut grass filling her nose. And though she’d felt a tiny spark in her fingertips—the gentlest presence of magic—nothing had happened.

“I find that sometimes it helps to get really specific with the sense memory,” Maya explained, placing a pen on her palm and extending her hands in front of Wren. “Find an image from your past. Allow yourself to really feel it. For instance . . .” Maya closed her eyes as she continued to speak. “When I conjure wind, I imagine standing on the balcony of my apartment in Barcelona . . . the soft kiss of the wind against my skin . . . the way I could hear my mom making coffee in the kitchen . . . the clattering of plates . . .”

As the words left her lips, Wren watched as the pen began to float up and up, gently pushed along by the wind forming in Maya’s palm. As soon as Maya’s eyes fluttered open, the pen fell back onto her palm.

“See?” she smiled. “It’s simple, really.”

Simple was the last word Wren would use to describe any of this, but she wasn’t going to correct Maya. Either way, another thought had occurred to her as Maya was explaining her memory.

“How do we all communicate with one another?” Wren asked suddenly.

Maya blinked, taken back. “What do you mean?”

“I can understand you,” Wren clarified. “I assume you were born in Barcelona. And I assume everyone at Blackwood was born in different countries and continents. Yet we’re all speaking the same language . . . How is that possible?”

“Language doesn’t really exist in the afterlife,” Maya explained. “Not in the same way it does when you’re alive.” She placed her hand delicately against her own throat. “Think of it as all of us being reborn with a universal translator. We all speak the same language now. That’s why we can all understand each other, despite where and when we were born.”

It was somehow a beautiful yet sad thought. The barriers between them no longer existed, they were connected by a universal thread, but so many of their unique differences had been washed away as well. Language brought a sense of home . . . of identity. And now that was gone, forever.

“But that’s not important right now,” Maya cut in, pulling Wren away from her spiraling thoughts and back into the present. “Come on, Wren. Focus. Pick a memory. Feel it. Let it consume you.”

With a reluctant sigh, Wren grabbed the pen from Maya and placed it on her own palm. She tried to relax in her seat, loosening her muscles, allowing her body to slowly sink into the wooden chair.

With a long, deep inhale, Wren closed her eyes and sank into the recess of her memory. She was no longer seated in the classroom but standing at the top of a slide. She recognized her surroundings instantly. It was her favorite park, the one she used to go to with her sister when they were little. Only a few miles from their house, wedged between an old church and an elementary school. Around her, children shrieked and giggled. It was summer, and the heat of the sun was beating down against her exposed neck, warming the hot metal of the slide. In the memory, Wren closed her eyes. The wind was hot and thick, and it was almost as if she could reach out and scoop it with her fingers. She let it travel across her arms, through her hair, whipping strands behind her back and across her face. The scent of brine and freshly cut grass filled her lungs, and she could practically taste it on her tongue.

When Wren opened her eyes, finding herself back in the classroom, the pen was floating inches above her palm, cradled in a gentle rivulet of wind. She let out a breathless chuckle, watching as the pen bobbed in the current, before slowly letting it drift back down.

“Told you,” Maya said, grinning. “Simple.”

* * *

After class, Maya ushered Wren back into the hallway, a bundle of hyperactive energy. “You did it!” she cried, looping her arm around Wren’s elbow. “I knew you could. I can always tell when a student is going to be exceptional. And you, Wren Loughty, are exceptional.” Her voice was all high-pitched and wobbly, as if she were seconds away from exploding in a puff of glitter and confetti.

“Exceptionally lucky, maybe.” Wren chuckled, flushing. “I don’t even know how I did it.”

“You connected to your magic, that’s how.” Maya beamed, coming to a halt. “And you did it more than once! Usually it takes a couple of classes to cast multiple elemental spells.”

Wren didn’t want to boast, but Maya was right. Wren had managed to cast three different elemental spells by the time the class had ended—wind, water and fire. It had taken her a couple of tries, and each element hadn’t been the strongest it could have been, but she’d done it. She’d actually cast magic.

Before Wren could say anything else, Maya glanced down at the thin silver watch on her wrist and grimaced. “Shoot. My next class is in a few minutes, and it’s in Dalemont Hall, unfortunately. I’d walk you to your class, but I was a bit late yesterday . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wren assured her. “I promise I won’t go running off.” And Wren was surprised to find that she actually meant it. Not only did she not want to run the risk of being sent to reformatory, whatever that entailed, but she also didn’t want Maya getting in trouble for doing what she had been instructed to do.

Maya smiled, clearly relieved. “Thanks, Wren.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Well, I should probably get going. But I’ll see you afterward, okay? You can meet me by the Main Yard after your last class and I’ll walk you back to Pettyworth. Maybe we can even keep practicing in the common room!”

Wren nodded.

“Sounds good.”

Maya smiled. “See you later.” She lifted her hands, and suddenly a plume of lavender smoke swallowed her whole. When it cleared, she’d vanished, gone from one blink to the next. Wren startled, not yet entirely accustomed to literal fucking magic. The concept still felt insane, despite not only seeing it with her own two eyes but also having cast it herself.

“Okay, then . . .” Wren whispered to herself. She turned to face the hallway, glancing down at the map in her hands, eyes following the glowing path illuminated on its surface. She hadn’t wanted to admit it out loud, but a part of her was the tiniest bit worried about navigating Blackwood on her own.

But she had a map. She had literal instructions.

How hard could it be?