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PRAISE FOR H. B. AKUMIAH

“A witty, perfectly mixed cocktail full of twists, turns, and fantastical intrigue. Perfect for anyone who wants to read about New York halcyon days without teetering into excess. Immense fun.”

—Grace Byron, contributor for Vogue and elsewhere

“I loved everything about Bad Witches. I wish I could cast a spell to go back and read it again for the first time. I can’t remember the last time a book was so unique, exciting, well executed, and funny at the same time. With a rich and incredibly crafted story, characters I cannot wait to meet again, and an ending that left me desperate for more, I know this is the beginning of not only an absolutely stellar series, but a truly thriving career for an exceptional writer. Bad Witches is phenomenal!”

—Ore Agbaje-Williams, author of The Three of Us

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“[A] sweet urban fantasy debut…One part fantasy and one part celebration of sisterhood, this is a loving paean to all that can be accomplished when women pool their experience and power.”

—Publishers Weekly

“H. B. Akumiah’s Bad Witches is Charmed meets Sex and the City meets The City We Became, and I’m here for all the fun, smart, stylish, magical joy of it.”

—Addie Citchens, writer for the New Yorker and the Paris Review

“Wit, grit, and glamor reign in Bad Witches. All the rhinestoned thrills of nineties TV friendship dramas doused in Dirty Shirleys and lit on fire. I tore through it in one sitting. This debut is such a delight!”

—August Clarke, award-nominated author of the Scapegracers trilogy and Metal from Heaven

Copyright © 2024 by Heather Akumiah

E-book published in 2024 by Blackstone Publishing

Cover design by Sarah Riedlinger

Author photograph by JT Anderson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-212-19523-2

Library e-book ISBN 979-8-212-19522-5

Fiction / Fantasy / Contemporary

Blackstone Publishing

31 Mistletoe Rd.

Ashland, OR 97520

www.BlackstonePublishing.com

CHAPTER ONE

On the very top floor of the Witch Health Organization headquarters, at the very back of the lab, at the last bench on the left, Nadia Nox was wiping down her worktop and consolidating her notes when she felt her phone vibrate in the front pocket of her eggplant-colored lab coat.

The phone was a typic (read: human) device, but it had been treated with a personalization charm common in the Sphere, so that whenever Nadia received a call or message from another witch, she knew instantly who she was hearing from. The vibration Nadia felt now was one she knew well. It was her mother, Natasha. Nadia touched her hand to her pocket, giving the phone permission to display the message, and two words appeared in the air before her in a stressful red script: Urgent—Eve.

Nadia tightened her grip around the stack of paper she was holding. Her sister had been due to give birth over a week ago, but she’d been in the hospital for days, resisting the doctors’ appeals to induce labor. Nadia had canceled her dinner plans so she could crowd into the hospital room with her family and wait, only to be sent home in the early hours of the morning. She called her mom.

“Nadia,” Natasha answered. Nadia tensed—there was a subtle, nearly imperceptible note of anxiety in her mother’s voice. “Nadia, please come to the hospital as soon as possible. Whatever you’re working on, put it aside.”

“Is the baby okay?” Her mother’s message was lean, and a sudden fear erupted in Nadia’s chest, one she hadn’t realized was waiting to be released. She heard a soft snapping noise and looked down to see that she had managed to puncture the finger of her magic-fortified latex glove with one of her black acrylic nails. She should’ve known better than to go with an almond shape.

“The baby is healthy—that’s not the concern. I’ll see you soon.”

Nadia hurried out of the lab, careful not to knock over any of the containers of unstable magic lining the counters. Most of her peers would be afraid to leave like this—early, frantically, directly in view of Dr. Diop’s glass-walled office—but Nadia’s role in the Atmospheric Magic Effort made her much more valuable to the WHO than most other researchers. Nadia rarely abused her position, but she was definitely aware of it.

On the stairs outside the building, Nadia stooped down and hugged her knees, gathered the tails of her lab coat around her, and closed her eyes. Though she’d improved over the years, transporting wasn’t her strong suit, and she needed absolute concentration to make sure she didn’t end up in a random hospital on the other side of the world. She steadied her breathing, blocking out all anxieties about the baby, her research, and whether the auburn she’d dyed her close-cropped hair yesterday complemented her eyes. Then, she focused all her thoughts on the hospital: how it looked, how it smelled, how the air had felt the last time she’d been there. When she opened her eyes, the thoughts had come to life, and she was in the bustling delivery wing of the 72,88 Witch’s Ward.

“Excuse me?” Nadia stopped a nurse dressed in lavender scrubs. “I’m looking for room 3B.”

The nurse stared, apparently taken aback.

“I’m looking for Eve Nox’s room,” Nadia clarified.

“Of course.” The nurse’s face cleared into a broad smile. “It’s down that hall and to the right. Oh, it’s wonderful news—Nadia, right? You’re her sister? It’s just wonderful news, congratulations.”

Nadia turned away and headed down the hall, annoyed to hear the nurse speak to her so familiarly. Unlike her sister, Nadia didn’t bask in the notoriety that came with the Nox family name. She hadn’t used her name to be more popular in training school, didn’t enjoy small talk with strangers who approached her, and had done her best to hide her identity when she applied for her research position at the WHO. When her friends planned their weekends, she was often the only one to vote in favor of staying in instead of having a night out drinking and dancing in Centre Sphere.

She’d carried a vague distaste for the celebrity of the Nox name throughout childhood, but it had solidified into something permanent on her first day at Bekere University (alternately known as 81,22, a coordinate that landed in Switzerland). She’d been so excited for the opportunity—it was the top-ranked medical school in the Sphere—and thought of it as a chance to get away, to be somewhere her family and its history didn’t loom over her like a low-flying drone. But at orientation, in a room full of witches she’d never met, Nadia was met with the familiar sidelong glances and judgmental stares, and she realized that no matter where she went in the Sphere, she’d always be a Nox.

Nadia rounded the corner of the hall leading to room 3B, her chunky patent leather loafers squeaking across the floor as she turned. She placed her hand on the door, which had been treated with a popular interior design charm. The door was glass, and behind it was a swirling, starry nightscape, so lucid and lifelike you would think you could step into the sky. Nadia paused before turning the handle. The nurse’s congratulations could’ve meant anything, but Nadia, reluctant optimist that she was, couldn’t help but think of the best-case scenario, one in which the WHO’s efforts to end the Typic Crisis had actually, finally worked.

Nadia pushed the door open. Her parents and Eve’s husband, James, stood over her sister’s bed. The baby had already been cleaned and swaddled, and Eve had even made herself up, looking comically tidy and calm. If Nadia hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought Eve was on her way out to dinner, not lying in a hospital bed moments after giving birth. All eyes snapped to Nadia as she entered.

“Honey,” her mother said quietly. She broke into a tentative smile. “Come look.”

Nadia walked over to the bed, joining her family and peering at the baby gurgling in Eve’s arms. The baby’s face was at once familiar and unrecognizable, the way all babies’ faces are—an innocent canvas for parents to project themselves onto. With her eyes trained on Eve, Natasha reached into the blankets and gently pulled out the baby’s foot. There, stark and unmistakable, was the mark Nadia recognized from her own baby pictures, Eve’s baby pictures, and the baby pictures of every witch she had ever known: a purple print that started at the heel, so dark it seemed black, then bled out to the middle of the foot, fading like watercolor. In just eight hours, the print would disappear completely, giving way to normal flesh.

Eve gazed up at her sister, eyes shining with the tears she’d refused to release since her first daughter, Helia, had been born without the mark three years ago. “Nadia,” she whispered. “She’s a witch.”

CHAPTER TWO

It was September first, a sunny day in Manhattan, and Maya was thanking God, or whoever was there, for her empty apartment. Elbows on the rim of her toilet seat and twenty-five inches of body wave pulled from her face with a hot-pink alligator clip, Maya heaved and vomited every last bit of moisture out of her body and into the bowl before her.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Maya huffed as she stood. She grabbed her phone from her bathroom counter and flushed.

“Good,” Denise said from the other end of the phone. “Cause I have a surprise for you!” Then she cleared her throat and launched into a chorus of Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday” so loud that Maya almost dropped her phone again. Squinting into the screen, Maya could see that Denise had corralled her coworkers to join, all of them singing along in their tragic business casual office looks.

“Denise!” Maya groaned; but she couldn’t keep a smile from spreading across her face. She knew she cared about her birthday way more than anyone else ever could, but it made her happy when the people around her tried to match her enthusiasm. Maya never understood people who made birthday plans on the fly; she began reminding her friends at least three weeks in advance of the day, and the week leading up to it was stuffed with meticulously planned events. She’d already had her messy girls’ weekend in Martha’s Vineyard, a private treatment day at Rescue Spa, and a joint rooftop party with one of the brothers from another Xavier frat. Tonight, she’d close with dinner at Via Carota, the restaurant she’d been dying to go to, and a night out at SNEAK, her favorite club, with her nearest and dearest. As the final line of Denise’s performance rang out, Maya laughed and climbed back into her bed.

“Congratulations on the big twenty-two!” Denise screamed. “I know you’ve been kind of sad about today but trust me—twenty-two is one of the best years! You are absolutely not past your prime!”

Maya’s mood plummeted for a second. There was a dull pounding in her head, a residual lurching in her stomach, and her legs were spotted with the distant ache of nascent bruises. Hangovers weren’t new to her, but delayed recoveries definitely were. In a desperate attempt to ward off the birthday blues, Maya had been, admittedly, more reckless than usual last night. She hadn’t been one of those people who whined about getting old at twenty, and twenty-one had been too exciting to complain about. But now, at twenty-two, she could no longer deny the truth: she was really, truly in her twenties. She was an adult. It wasn’t just the number that freaked her out—everything about postgrad life gave her the heebie-jeebies.

Maybe she was just reluctant to let go of the social capital that she’d earned so easily as an FKA at Xavier University. Sure, she lived with two of her sisters (Denise and Elise, who made the cross-country trek from NOLA to New York with her) and saw other FKAs at their monthly charity meetups. But it wasn’t the same as before, when they were attached at the hip from dining hall breakfast to the tops of tables at 2:00 a.m., when their social lives had neat boundaries and rules. Recently, even Maya could tell she sounded annoying when she tried to organize bonding time with her sisters. There was also the absurdity that was work—she’d gotten a screaming call from her manager that morning to inform her that, to Maya’s genuine surprise, birthdays weren’t automatic days off. She just couldn’t believe how quickly it had all happened—from impromptu midday gossip sessions on the lawn and everyone telling you how bright and young you were to touching butts with a stranger on the subway at 7:00 a.m. and eating a wilted salad in an ergonomic office chair.

Maya sighed. “I know, I’m excited,” she lied. “You just can’t hear it through the phone.”

“Period,” Denise said, her voice energized again. “Now brush your teeth and get your ass out of bed.”

“Ugh,” Maya responded. She threw off her weighty, cream-colored duvet and stretched, her shoulder creaking as if to taunt her.

Denise ignored her and continued. “Okay, I had some of the other girls over this morning before I left for the office. We put together a little surprise for you in the kitchen!”

Maya left her room and headed down the hall. “Oh my god,” she gasped. The kitchen table was covered with a breakfast spread almost too big to fit: chicken and waffles, sourdough toast from her favorite café, a Momofuku birthday cake, champagne, orange juice. A stack of handmade cards from all her local sorority sisters sat in the center of the table, a flurry of patterned cardstock and colored paper. Maya picked a pink heart from the pile and read it:

Oh my god MAYA ANNABELLE WEST where do I even start??!?!? Who could’ve guessed when we met as awkward freshmen at orientation that we would end up being the best of friends!! (I am still SHOOK that we BOTH wore suede sock boots that whole year—tf?!) From rushing together to late-night gossip sessions, to eating dry cheerios in bed while nursing our hangovers, to running from ghosts (lmaooo), we’ve had the best times together!!! There’s no one I’d rather take slightly over-the-top, full-body thirst trap selfies with! Hope you have the most amazing day full of love, laughter, and LOOKS!! Pour it up bitch!!!!!!!

“Maya . . . you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” Maya swallowed her brewing sentimentality. “I can’t believe your birthday present is to make me bloated before the club.”

“We’re just trying to give you the fat ass you’ve always wanted!” Maya heard Denise cover the microphone and speak to someone else in the room. “Okay, I have a contract to redline, but have the best day! We’ll see you tonight for the festivities.”

Maya mixed herself a mimosa, sat at the table, and opened her phone. There was nothing she loved more than the day’s first scroll, especially when she had birthday messages to look forward to. She took stock of her numbers, attempting to do that gratitude thing everyone was suddenly into. She had 103 notifications on Insta and it was only 2:00 p.m. Her phone boasted thirty-three new texts and three voicemails, and even though she felt like shit, at least she had friends who cared enough to butter her toast straight out of the toaster, the way she liked it. She caught her reflection in the wide mirror that hung on the kitchen wall and turned to examine her profile. Her face was puffy from the night before; there were dark rings under her eyes from a night of shallow sleep; and if there were a breeze, her lace would be flapping in it. But at least tonight would resemble the beloved college memories that she could already feel were beginning to fade. Plus, Maya decided, in her neon pink “birthday girl” T-shirt, she didn’t look a day over nineteen.

CHAPTER THREE

Standing on her tiptoes, Gabbie dragged the curtain of her east-facing window shut with a satisfied grunt. When she’d found the studio in the Heights a few weeks after graduation, she loved it for its relentless sunniness, but whenever she FaceTimed Dan, her boyfriend of four and a half years, Gabbie had to block out all natural light and turn on her desk lamp so that she could see Dan’s adorable face unobscured by pesky rays of sun. Sitting at her desk, Gabbie clicked the call button and waited as it rang. It always took Dan a little while to answer when she called. When he had first left for Nairobi in June, the delay had annoyed Gabbie, but as the weeks passed, she started to expect it, even enjoy it. She examined her reflection in the front-facing camera of her MacBook, fluffing her five-day-old wash-and-go in an attempt to resuscitate the flattening curls, then tapping to blend the Covergirl under-eye concealer she’d applied a few moments ago.

Most days, Gabbie just FaceTimed Dan as she was (he loved a natural look) but she figured her birthday called for at least a little primping. It was also the first time she and Dan would be seeing each other in days; they usually spoke six times a week, but between Gabbie’s last-minute Teach for America training sessions and the soccer tournament Dan was organizing for his students, they just hadn’t been able to get it together. The computer stopped ringing, and she heard Dan before she saw him.

“Jambo!” he said. A second later, his face filled the screen, and Gabbie smiled at the sight of him. His dark brown hair was longer and shaggier than it had been in college, and he was painfully red and flaking from the sun, but overall Dan was the same as ever—unblemished pale skin, strong dark brows Gabbie had always envied, and the slightly clefted chin she loved to tease him about. When he waved hello, she noticed, with satisfaction, a wood beaded bracelet on his left wrist. Gabbie wore an identical bracelet on hers; they’d bought them together in Thailand on their postgrad trip in May.

“Hey!” Gabbie said, hooking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Jambo,” she added, but Dan shook his head, laughing at her pronunciation.

“A for effort,” he said with a grin. “C plus for execution.”

Gabbie smiled. “Wow,” she said, mock offended. “Are you that harsh of a grader with your students?”

Dan laughed and looked down before his eyes flicked back up to Gabbie’s face. “Sorry. Teacher chat,” he explained, referencing the WhatsApp group that was forever interrupting them.

“No worries,” Gabbie said.

“So, how’s your birthday been?” Dan asked. He’d messaged her “happy birthday!” at midnight his time, but it had only been 5:00 p.m. in New York. For a brief, annoyed second, Gabbie thought he still didn’t know her birthday (there had been incidents in the past), and then immediately felt an apologetic rush when she remembered the time difference.

“It’s been a pretty perfect day.” Gabbie said. “I talked to my parents and brother on the phone, then I finished up my lesson plans through the end of the month. And now I get to talk to my favorite person.” Dan nodded as Gabbie spoke. Behind him, she could see the white walls of his one-bedroom apartment, bare except for a picture of the two of them at graduation, next to another of Dan with his parents and older sister, standing on a beach in matching khakis and dress shirts. “I might do something tonight,” she added, mostly to fill the silence. “Go to a bar or something.”

Dan’s eyes fell to his lap again before he looked up at her, dragging a hand through his hair. “I wish we could do something together,” he said, giving her a little smile. Gabbie closed her eyes, her chest tight with longing.

“Same,” she breathed.

Gabbie and Dan had been dating since their freshman year at Brown, when they just happened to run into each other at the African Students Association table at the orientation week club fair. She’d thought he was South African for months before finding out he was actually just from Colorado, but that didn’t deter her. In school, their lives had intertwined easily—there was nothing if not free time on a college campus, and they filled the gaps between class and extracurriculars with each other. In high school, the nice nerdy boys had always liked Gabbie, a fellow dork with a sweet face, but Dan was the first boy she’d met who was nice and cute at the same time. It seemed like a crazy bonus that they were both double majoring in Africana Studies and Education. They’d spend their days at school reading together in the shade on the Main Green, wasting their money on disappointing concerts at local bars, and having cozy couple’s brunches at the dining hall on the weekends.

But since he’d left for Nairobi, things had changed—and in the most annoyingly predictable way. Dan had gotten distant—literally, of course, but also figuratively. He was always missing their calls to make time for his students and cool new Fulbright friends, and sometimes he took so long to reply to Gabbie’s messages that she’d worry something happened to him. As a devoted teacher herself, Gabbie totally understood the importance of dedicating time to your kids, but sometimes she wondered if Dan was putting his students, or whatever else he had going on in Nairobi, before her. Then she’d brush the thought away—she knew Dan loved her, and that if she’d just taken the placement in Nairobi with him like they’d planned, she wouldn’t be having any of these concerns.

It didn’t take much for Dan to sell Gabbie on the idea of Fulbright, but then Gabbie’s parents had begged her to stay in the Northeast, or at the very least in the country. The pressure on both sides was a lot, but when Gabbie got an offer to work as a third-grade teacher at one of New York’s most deprived schools, she caved to her parents’ daily phone calls and increasingly elaborate bribes.

Gabbie submitted her Fulbright withdrawal a few days before graduation and somberly broke the news to Dan (in that order, just in case he was able to convince her again). She hated hurting anyone, especially Dan. But after she’d told him, Gabbie felt a tiny pull of excitement as she realized her parents’ pushiness meant she was getting to live out her lifelong dream of moving to New York City. She’d gone back to her empty dorm after graduation dinner and pricked pins into a paper map of Manhattan, marking Magnolia Bakery, ABC Home, Loeb Boathouse, and every other essential she could hit on her DIY Sex and the City tour.

Still, on lonely nights, Gabbie wondered if her kids (thirty-two of them, each gifted and brilliant in their own special way) were worth it. She loved her job, but she still felt her heart drop every time she rolled over in bed to find an empty space instead of the familiar warmth of Dan’s hairless chest.

“You should definitely go out tonight,” he said. “It’s your birthday, you should see your friends.”

“Yeah, but . . .” I don’t have any, Gabbie wanted to say, but it was too embarrassing.

One particularly boring Friday night in August after Dan had left, Gabbie had shot off a quick message to Kirsten, an acquaintance from college whom she’d always liked but for some reason had never been able to turn into a friend.

Gabbie

Hey girl! You down to get drinks tonight? 🍸 🍸 🍸

She and Kirsten hadn’t spoken since the beginning of summer, when Kirsten was home on the Upper East Side and kept asking Gabbie to get dinner. At the time, wrapped up in Dan, Gabbie had always summarily declined. After what felt like a lifetime, Kirsten’s reply popped up on her screen:

Kirsten

Hey lady!

Kirsten

Would love to but I actually moved to SF! I haven’t been in NY since June lol.

That night, Gabbie had ended up drinking three glasses of red wine before doing an ab workout video (on her laptop) while watching Love Actually (on her TV).

There was a moment of silence, and Gabbie looked into the FaceTime window, trying to make virtual eye contact with Dan, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was gazing at what Gabbie guessed was another tab on his computer.

“What’s so interesting?” Gabbie asked. She’d hoped her tone would be caustic, but instead it came out sounding genuinely curious. Ugh.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just looking at some reporting one of the other teachers did on women’s hygiene here for NPR—pretty cool stuff.”

“Oh,” Gabbie said. She couldn’t help but wonder if the teacher in question was Kim, the tall, athletic social studies teacher who coached the netball team at Dan’s school. Since moving to Nairobi, Dan had mentioned Kim more than Gabbie would’ve liked, if she was being honest. According to Facebook, she had run track at Stanford and it seemed like her hair could hold a braid-out for days. Maybe she was the reason Dan had been so distant last week. But Gabbie quickly chastised herself—it was just as likely that Dan was busy putting together a surprise care package for her birthday.

“Listen, I gotta go,” Dan said. “Teachers’ happy hour.”

“Right,” Gabbie said. She didn’t remember seeing that on his Google calendar.

“Happy birthday, babe. I know you’ll find a way to make it a good one,” Dan said. He gave another smile, but he was already looking at a corner of the screen, ready to X out of the call.

CHAPTER FOUR

Downtown, Delali Tamakloe, child star turned “ordinary student,” was sitting in a library study room so ugly she could not have imagined it before stepping out of Hollywood and into the civilian world. For three interminable hours, Delali had been huddled in the library going over line integrals with the TA-assigned study group from her vector analysis class. A collection of socially weird high-achievers and econ bros who needed the credit, they weren’t exactly the kind of people she’d ever choose to spend time with. She’d put painstaking care into cultivating her on-campus friend group, and it was safe to say these people were not included. So now that they’d reached the end of their session, Delali was peeling away from the group as quickly as she could manage without breaking into a run, slinging the straps of her black JanSport over her shoulders as she went.

Normally, Delali wouldn’t give up her off-campus evenings for anything (and it was her birthday, of all days), but Professor Portillo had just decided to move the first quiz of the year up to Monday evening. Considering she barely knew what it was on—it was only two weeks into the school year and she’d already skipped three classes—Delali knew she needed the study session if she wanted to maintain her GPA. Dr. Portillo, the department head, was also her advisor, and had been nagging her since summer to apply for a master’s in math, claiming she was the best student he’d taught in years. A master’s was a stretch, but Delali had had her eye set on winning the Pythagoras Award—an essentially useless plaque that was handed out to the highest-achieving senior in the department each spring, determined based on a mix of GPA and something they called “promise”—since the day she’d declared her major. She’d already spent an unhealthy amount of time fantasizing about it that year: her face on the university website, a formal acknowledgment of her academic excellence, and a resounding fuck you to the tabloids that had called her a vanity admit three and a half years ago. Her GPA was the highest in the department by a full .02, and everyone thought she was a shoe-in.

The study session helped Delali get up to speed, but only because she basically led it. After a quick look through the lecture notes on PupilPortal, Delali found herself grudgingly settling into her tutor mode, teaching the material point-for-point as the study group guys eagerly scribbled into their notebooks. It was a role that, annoyingly, came easily to her. Throughout her teen years, Delali had often helped the other kids on the set of Georgia on My Mind with their homework, a fun fact she’d ever-so-casually mentioned in nearly all of her Georgia-era interviews. The press totally ate up the story of the actress behind Georgia Simmons, girl genius and preteen inventor, spending her free time tutoring her costars.

It was just one part of the image Delali and her team spent years crafting to set her apart from the other tween starlets. Other stars tweeted snarky replies to @TMZ; Delali volunteered with Girls Who Code. Other stars got DUIs before they even had their licenses; Delali got photographed teaching her little cousin how to drive in the parking lot of her high school. And when other stars decided to make the precarious jump from teen star to serious acteur by starring in Harmony Korine films, Delali moved to New York to go to college and “live out of the spotlight and just be a normal girl for a while” (Elle, June 2014).

Like deciding to enroll in college after the show wrapped, it was all part PR move, part sincere. Delali hadn’t been entirely sure what she wanted from her career after Georgia, but she knew it wasn’t any of the overwrought projects people seemed to expect of her: a slew of gritty indie dramas about conventionally attractive drug addicts and whatever true crime podcast the country was morbidly invested in at the moment. God forbid she have to find a way to intellectualize her role in a Marvel movie. Delali thought college would be the perfect time off to figure out what—and who—she wanted to be. But packing her bags with her assistant at the end of the summer, Delali had a realization that she would never voice aloud for fear of proving her LA friends right: college was almost over and she was no closer to figuring out her future than before. All she’d learned in the last four years was that dumb, tasteless people could thrive basically anywhere.

“Hey!” someone from the study group called. It was Tanner, Delali’s least favorite person in the group. She rushed to reach the exit before he could catch up with her, but as she stepped toward the library doors, the light at the top of the doorframe turned suddenly from green to red. The doors clamped shut. What the hell? She moved to push the handle, but it was jammed. She looked around for help, but Tanner was already upon her. He tapped her on the shoulder. Delali feigned a smile as she turned to face him. Tanner was an obnoxious, ’roided up legacy who seemed to think his square jaw and position on the university’s lacrosse team meant he and Delali were on the same step of a school social ladder she was only vaguely aware of. She couldn’t fathom his decision to major in something he was so naturally bad at (“in addition to his econ major,” he’d tell anyone who would listen), but he’d been in the same courses as her since sophomore year. Delali was so not looking forward to seeing him on a presidential debate stage in twenty years.

“Hi,” Delali managed. A couple of members of the group followed behind him, trotting down the carpeted staircase.

“What’re you up to right now? We were gonna go get drinks.” He gestured to the other guys. “You should come with.”

“Um . . .” Delali silently cursed the library door—she couldn’t possibly think of a worse way to spend her birthday than going to some shitty college bar with her shitty study group. “I wish I could, but I have a friend visiting today. He’s flying in all the way from LA, so.” At least this was actually true: her on-screen best friend turned agent, Lionel, was flying in for her birthday that night, and she’d postponed birthday dinner with her school friends so they could catch up tonight. He’d be in the city for a few weeks, and their only plan was to get wine drunk, watch Insecure, and talk shit. One of Delali’s favorite things about being outside of Hollywood was that she didn’t have to make her birthday look cool anymore. Her phone rang.

“Oh, see, that’s him.” Delali held up her phone. “My friend who’s visiting. Hey Lionel, what’s up?”

“Hey baby girl,” Lionel said, and Delali pulled away from the phone: somehow it was on speakerphone, Lionel’s voice blaring through the quiet library. Delali pressed at her screen frantically to fix it, but not before Lionel practically yelled, “My flight’s fucking canceled. Can you believe that shit? The next one I can get is in the morning. I’m so so sorry. You know I so wanted to be with you on your actual birthday.”

“That’s fine,” Delali said quickly, trying to remain calm. As she spoke she made eye contact with Tanner, who raised his eyebrows excitedly. “Just send me your new ETA.”

“Of course baby girl. I think it’s two tomorrow, but let me text you. The airlines are a fucking mess these days.”

Delali hung up and faced the group.

“It’s your birthday?” Tanner asked. “Ah, come on! Let us buy you a drink. Come on, guys, tell Delali she should come out with us,” Tanner said to the final members of the group as they approached. “It’s her birthday,” he announced.

The others were immediately excited. Delali almost declined again, but then she thought of why she had come to college in the first place, after LA had started to alternately bore and disgust her. Wasn’t this the crux of it, drinking mediocre beer with some randoms in her major at a venue that didn’t have a list at the door? Wasn’t this the kind of authentically pedestrian experience she’d been searching for when she’d left it all behind? Maybe she could text her fuckbuddy Darren, the only normal person in the department, after drinks. Then the night wouldn’t be a total waste.

“Sure,” she found herself saying. “I’m down for one drink.” As soon as the sentence was out of her mouth, the library door blinked green and opened again, as if by magic.

CHAPTER FIVE

Back in the Heights, Gabbie resolved to console herself with the only thing she loved more than Dan: crafting. Since the call with Dan, she had faltered on her plan to go out. She hadn’t really meant it in the first place. Did she really want to get all dressed up and go outside just to get drunk and have to take the overcrowded (or worse, empty) subway home in the middle of the night? Did she really want to shower just to get dirty again, when she could instead spend the evening making acorn-shaped name tags for her third graders and trying out a new deep conditioner? Sure, Gabbie’s idea of a fun Saturday wasn’t the same as most twentysomethings’, but maybe that’s because she was fulfilled. She had her kids, all thirty-two of them, and her dream guy, and an apartment in New York that caught an enviable amount of sunlight at peak hours. So it wasn’t quite 66 Perry Street, but she was fine. Besides, twenty-two wasn’t exactly an important birthday.

Gabbie opened up her laptop and started her “***Ultimate Top Twenty Favorite Coldplay Songs For REAL This Time!!***” Spotify playlist, then she put her crafting towel down on her bed and plugged in her glue gun. She’d just started cutting into a piece of brown crafting paper when the lights above her flickered, then went out. She glanced at her laptop battery and groaned. Usually when the electricity went out in her building (which was pretty often), she just rode it out, listening to music in the candlelight. But she only had 3 percent battery left on her laptop, and 8 percent on her phone. She touched the back of her hand to her glue gun in the dark—it was already getting cold. Maybe she should go out. She shut her computer, determined, and strode over to her tiny closet to put together a “going out” look—something she did so rarely that the concept actually intimidated her. She clicked on the battery-operated lights she’d placed in the closet when she first moved in, then shuffled through her clothes before stepping back, discouraged. She had nothing appropriate for going out—just a bunch of classroom-ready outfits, running shorts, and striped T-shirts from Target. And Birkenstocks.

Resisting the urge to pull on a faded Anne Taylor Loft A-line dress—a work staple—Gabbie got down on her hands and knees and sorted through the shoe rack at the back of her closet, reaching through the curtain of skinny jeans and totes she had looped onto hangers. Finally, among her Sperry’s, Toms, and assorted Aldo booties, she found a pair of “nude” patent leather pumps, the brownest pair she had been able to find while shopping for college clothes with her mom all those years ago. She held them up in the light of her room. They looked brand new—she’d worn them only once in her entire college career, at convocation dinner with her parents.

Gabbie slid the heels on, batting away the thought that something she’d purchased almost five years ago might not be the most fashionable choice for the night. She stood back up and was suddenly face to face with an utterly perfect and totally out-of-character black bodycon skirt. “Oh,” she said to herself, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. She could’ve sworn that hanger had been empty just a second ago, and the skirt didn’t look remotely familiar. But there it was, out of thin air, practically begging her to put it on. Jeez, she thought to herself, I really need to get around to organizing this closet. Gabbie took the skirt off the hanger and wiggled it over her hips, watching herself in the mirror. Okay, we’re getting somewhere. After pulling off her T-shirt to reveal a black camisole with thin lacy straps, Gabbie brushed a layer of lip gloss over her matte lipstick. She smacked her lips a couple of times, looked herself in the eyes, and nodded. She grabbed her favorite shrug from the pile of dirty clothes on her desk chair. She was ready.

But halfway out the door, Gabbie realized she’d forgotten to choose a place to go. She dashed back into her apartment and opened her laptop again, quickly muting the lines of “Yellow” that rushed out and pulling up a Time Out article titled “Best Bars in New York.” With her last 2 percent of battery, Gabbie started the slideshow and read the description for the first place on the list, The Bar. It looked cute, but it was way too far downtown. She clicked the white arrow on the right side of the page to get to the next recommendation. When the page finished loading, it was again a picture of The Bar. Gabbie pressed next again: The Bar. And again: The Bar. Then back: The Bar. Refresh: The Bar. Gabbie relented. Either the website was broken or someone at Time Out really, really liked The Bar. She shut her laptop and typed the address into her phone. A bar was, after all, exactly where she’d said she wanted to go.

* * *

Maya had spent just fifty-five minutes getting ready, a personal best. She’d had her birthday outfit planned for months, every item picked out, purchased, and tailored as far back as February. The main piece, which she’d spent weeks hunting for, was a vintage purple mini dress made up of shimmering sequins. The tag had long faded, but Maya suspected it was an old Versace or Moschino. It stopped midthigh, giving Maya just enough mileage to show off her favorite asset: her Victoria’s Secret runway legs. She stepped into the silver strappy sandals she’d gotten from a Brandon Blackwood sample sale, admiring how perfectly her toes, painted glittery blue, complemented her dress. She’d carefully glued down her lace and curled her hair, and her legs were freshly waxed. After packing her metallic pink Jacquemus bag with the essentials, Maya glanced at the copper-rimmed analog clock that hung above the front door of the apartment: 6:56. She had at least thirty minutes to get to dinner, or forty-five if she wanted to arrive on BGT (Birthday Girl Time), which she definitely did. She had more than enough time for a quick drink.

Maya pulled Elise’s old ballerina corkscrew out of the kitchen drawer and inspected it with a raised lip—it was a keepsake of Elise’s, but it was approaching a level of grime that Maya wasn’t sure she could abide. She placed it on the countertop and made a mental note to buy a new one before their housewarming. Kneeling in front of the wine cabinet and pulling strands of her freshly styled hair out of her lip gloss, Maya browsed the labels. She grabbed the bottle of Whispering Angel by its neck. Standing, Maya reached for the corkscrew, jumping back when her hand landed flat on the cold, gray countertop. Maya looked down, confused. She’d just put the corkscrew down. She went over to the kitchen drawer and rifled through the cutlery, but it wasn’t there either. She patted the dress pockets she didn’t have, even searched through her bag. But the corkscrew had disappeared. What? Maya searched the dishwasher and a bunch of cabinets. There wasn’t a single screw top left in the cabinet, and the corkscrew was nowhere to be found. She let out a whine. She was not about to do the shoe trick on her twenty-second birthday.

Well, there would definitely be an array of corkscrews at The Bar, the popular spot that sat directly under her apartment. The Bar wasn’t exactly a destination, but since it was right downstairs, it was often either the first or last place Maya and her sisters stopped on their nights out. Over time, it had become one of Maya’s favorite places to hang out, even when she was sober. She’d planned to go at the end of the night anyway, but she wouldn’t mind seeing the bartenders (who she now considered friends) before she got sloppy drunk. Bottle in hand, Maya grabbed her bag off the kitchen counter and headed toward the door, then stopped. She picked a plastic, bedazzled tiara off the table and studied it. “Birthday Girl” was scrawled across a hot-pink cardboard background in bubbly yellow script. Maya stuffed the tiara in her bag—twenty-two wasn’t too old to be that girl at the club, was it?

CHAPTER SIX

The Bar was more than just a bar: it was also a café and restaurant, a quirk that charmed Maya more than it probably should have. All the tables were occupied tonight: couples, study groups, serious-looking people typing on their laptops, taking advantage of the last hour of relative quiet before the nighttime rush. There was one stool open at the end of the counter—Maya’s usual spot—but as she headed to take her throne, she felt a pair of warm hands slap over her eyes. Maya jumped. “Shelby?” she asked, laughing as she felt her friend’s familiar shape settle behind her.

“She’s early,” she heard someone—Joe?—attempt to whisper.

“Wrong,” Shelby said to Maya, throwing her voice into a fake, low pitch. “This is your abductor.” She started leading Maya around the bar, hands still firmly over Maya’s eyes.

“Weird,” Maya said as she walked along hesitantly. “My abductor smells like Glossier You.”

“Just be careful,” Shelby responded. “We’re taking the stairs.” She led Maya cautiously down the steps, stopping when they reached the level floor of the basement storage room. Maya could hear some shuffling and smell a familiar dankness—they’d spent a lot of time hiding from The Bar’s owner, Eli, in that room.

Maya shifted her weight on her heels. “Isn’t this the part where you take your hands off?”

“Just another second . . .” Shelby answered over the sounds of more shuffling. “Okay now. Surprise!”

Maya blinked as her eyes adjusted, and looked around to see Shelby, Faison, and Joe, her three favorite bartenders. There were grounded pink balloons littered around the room, Party City streamers hanging from the rafters, and a Morton Williams cake, balanced atop a pallet and punctured by twenty-two blazing candles. There was even a pitcher of something pink. Maya surprised herself with a delighted giggle.

“Happy birthday!” they called.

“Quick, blow out the candles before they melt all over the cake,” Joe ordered, barbecue lighter in hand.

“Oh, God forbid this masterpiece gets ruined,” Maya joked before she bent down to blow out the candles, holding her raw virgin bundles back from the tiny flames.

“Hope you wished for some gratitude,” Shelby said when Maya was finished, lowering herself onto one of the four crates they’d gathered around the makeshift pallet table.

“Yeah, you know, we almost splurged on a real bakery for you,” Joe scolded. Despite his boldly tattooed arms, Joe had a level-headed, dad-like quality, especially with a barbecue lighter in his hand.

“But?”

“But then we didn’t,” Shelby said blithely, sending everyone into snickers.

Maya turned to Faison, who was pouring some of the cocktail into a glass with quiet concentration, his mouth turned into a pronounced pout. She raised her eyebrows at Joe and Shelby: What’s wrong with him? But before they could answer, Faison handed her the glass.

“Happy birthday, Maya,” he said. “I did a pomegranate marg. Cause you like pink and stuff.”

“Thanks Faison. I do like pink.” Maya took a sip and winced. “Jesus, this is strong.”

“That,” Shelby said, digging a spoon into the cake, “is just the taste of Faison’s tears.”

Joe took a sip and nodded. “Oh yeah,” he croaked. “That’s the taste of heartbreak for sure.”

“Ooooh no,” Maya started. For someone who spent at least three nights a week at The Bar, it should not have taken her that long to catch on. Faison, The Bar’s resident flirt, had just embarked on a relationship with his Instagram baddie du jour, who he’d already insisted he could see himself “building” with. Whatever that meant. The conspicuous moping and triple-strength cocktail could only mean one thing—it was over. “Already?”

“What, did you guys take bets?” Faison replied bitterly, his face reflecting a sort of cartoon sadness.

Shelby stuffed a frosted rose into her mouth, hiding the grin that would betray the fact that, yes, they had in fact taken bets (and Maya now had an extra twenty dollars for tonight’s tab). She withheld a laugh. It wasn’t that they liked seeing Faison sad, it was just that heartbreak was the only thing that even dented Faison’s enormous ego. He was one of the first bartenders Maya had met when she first moved in, and he’d tried for weeks to get her number, apparently baffled that she wasn’t interested, and only relenting when he saw Maya making out with her current situationship, Francesca, in the corner of the bar one night. She couldn’t really blame Faison for being cocky: he had the kind of indisputable good looks that meant he never had a shortage of tips or regulars sidling up to the bar to see him. He was tall and gently muscled, with dark curly hair, thick princess lashes, and full lips that, when he wasn’t heartbroken, often sat in a suggestive smile.

As if his God-given jawline weren’t enough, he preened around The Bar in A$AP Rocky cosplay, showing up to weekday shifts in baby-blue cashmere waffle pants or Yeezys, and he always made sure conversations revolved around his favorite topic: himself. If he wasn’t flirting his way into a huge tip, he was probably pitching his T-shirt line, celebritees, to captive patrons. Maya had lost count of how many times she’d walked up to the bar only to find Faison in the midst of scrolling through the celebritees Instagram, explaining why the brand, which was just a bunch of Hanes undershirts with celebrities’ faces airbrushed onto them, was due to redefine personal style any minute now. Today he wore the Solange celebritee, which, Maya knew, meant he was really, truly in his feelings. The same empty-headed earnestness that made him pitch celebritees and fall in love weekly made it impossible to hate him.

“Tell us everything, Faison,” Maya sighed. The sooner they got through Faison’s newest tale of romantic woe, the sooner they could get to more interesting updates, like Shelby’s subletting drama. Just as Faison opened his mouth to speak, scratching at his stubble to indicate deep thought, a loud slam from upstairs shook the storage room.

“No,” Maya said immediately, her voice tense and loud. “No, no, no.”

“Shit,” Faison muttered.

Joe leapt off his crate and up the stairs.

“Don’t say it,” Shelby whined.

“We’re locked in,” Joe confirmed from the top of the stairs. He jiggled the door handle as evidence.

“Are you sure? Shelby definitely left it open!” Maya clopped up the stairs in her birthday heels, then reached around Joe to jiggle the door handle violently. It didn’t budge, and Maya groaned. The only person not trapped in the basement was Eli, and he’d probably welcome their absence. Of course she’d have to spend her birthday evening stuck in The Bar’s storage closet for God-knows-how-long with absolutely zero cell service. She loved the staff of The Bar, but she hadn’t exactly put on vintage Moschino and a pack of eyelashes to not be seen.

“Okay calm, everyone, calm,” Joe said. “Eli has to notice we’re gone at some point . . . right?”

* * *

It didn’t take long for Delali to regret her decision to get drinks with her study group. As soon as Tanner began recounting an apartment-hunting trip to Bed-Stuy, sounding not unlike a modern-day Charles Marlow, it became clear that she’d made a terrible mistake. She took a sip of her second whiskey sour—Tanner had ordered another round as soon as she’d put down her empty glass—and let her gaze drift away from the table as Scott-maybe-Steve launched into a lecture on how a deep dive into Young Thug’s discography revealed he was prophesying the end times.

Delali’s eyes landed on one of The Bar’s televisions. Most of the TVs were broadcasting various sports games, but this one was flipped to the E! red-carpet coverage of the Cha Cha Cha UK premiere. Delali had gotten pretty good at avoiding Hollywood news over the past three years, but the one thing she hadn’t been able to dodge was Cha Cha Cha, a movie that had gotten such effusive praise from its initial screenings that mentions of the film pierced even the most effective internet filters.

All across the city, the sides of buses announced that the movie was “expansive and ebullient.” Subway ads declared it “captivating” and “a brave exploration of what it means to live, love, and land on your feet.” When praise for Cha Cha Cha had first started rolling out, Delali had thought it was a fluke—how could the bland, uninspired script she’d read and dismissed her sophomore year really be “the must-see film of the year; an emotional feast that allows us all to savor and delight in the feeling of falling in love” (Rupert Harper, New York Times)? But as Cha Cha Cha broke box-office record after box-office record, Delali had to acknowledge an uncomfortable truth she’d often tried to ignore while she was living in LA: everyone there had the same awful taste, something she should’ve kept in mind when passing up the role of Ella, an aspiring Broadway actress who gets discovered while waitressing at a vegan restaurant in DTLA and falls in love with a scrappy college dropout who dazzles her with his passion for miming and silent improv. It was the only script she’d read since leaving Hollywood—at Lionel’s behest—and at the time, it was the confirmation she’d needed to stay away. Since then, she’d asked Lionel to stop sending her scripts, and he’d more or less respected it. Except for one script, which he’d mailed despite her protests. She’d taken some notes on it during class before tossing it in the garbage at the end of the semester. Delali signaled the waiter for another drink.

A bubbly redhead was interviewing Celeste Porter, the star of Daisy and the Dukes, the Thursday-night sitcom that had been Georgia’s biggest competition. She’d ended up playing Ella once Delali turned down the role. The press always tried to set Delali and Celeste up as competitors in a neck-and-neck race, but Delali had always suspected things might turn out this way. Celeste would do anything to be famous—an LA virtue Delali totally lacked—and it seemed to be working out for her. Delali watched the muted scene play out. Celeste flashed the interviewer a bright smile and twirled, sending her skirt swirling around her. Delali had to admit she looked good. In fact, she looked a lot like Delali used to, back when she was regularly attending red carpets. Who was styling her these days?

Delali shook her head, looked away from the TV, and started to plan her escape. She was so over this night. Even the prospect of seeing Darren seemed dull when she really thought about it. She was Delali Tamakloe for God’s sake, and if she hadn’t been so committed to keeping herself closed off from Hollywood these past few years, she could be late-night texting literally anyone she wanted right now: a model, a senator, a trust-fund movie producer with a thought-provoking Instagram layout—any of those options sounded better than her life right now.

Delali was trying to think of a way to slip out when Tanner nudged her with his shoulder, apparently a last resort after failing to get her attention with a series of aggressive waves.

“Hey, do you think it would work if I sent her a drink?” he asked, jerking his head toward The Bar’s entrance. Delali followed his gaze, her eyes landing on a girl standing by the door and sliding a crochet shrug off her shoulders to reveal a retro Abercrombie camisole with lace straps. The girl looked skittishly around the room before settling onto the empty stool closest to the door.

“Please,” Delali said. She took another sip of her drink before giving Tanner a dubious look. “That girl definitely has a boyfriend.”

“How do you know?” Tanner leaned so close to Delali that his chin was almost touching her shoulder, as though sitting in her seat would help him see what she did.

“I don’t know,” Delali said. “You just know. Date-night pumps? No earrings? Four-day-old twist-out she’s trying to stretch by putting her hair in a bun?” It was exactly how the costume designers on Georgia had styled her in episode 5x07, where Georgia, newly dating the boy next door, agrees to get dinner with her book report partner without realizing he thinks it’s a date. “She definitely has a boyfriend.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. Tanner frowned, squinting. “I’m gonna take my chances.”

Tanner waved over what appeared to be the only bartender in the whole establishment and asked him to send the girl an espresso martini. Delali watched as, minutes later, the bartender set the drink in front of the girl and nodded at their table. The girl shot Tanner an awkward smile.

“I’m going over there,” Tanner said to no one.

Delali opened her mouth to respond, but Scott-maybe-Steve cut her off. “do it!” he yelled. Their waiter came back to the table and slid a tray of tequila shots right in front of Delali.

She rolled her eyes and took her shot. She could stay just long enough to watch Tanner strike out, then sneak out and never see these people outside of class again.

As Tanner lumbered over to the girl, Scott/Steve slid into the now empty seat next to Delali. “A douche,” he said, looking over at Tanner. “But a loveable one.”

“Loveable?” Delali sputtered. She flipped a coin in her head. “Steve, you’ve clearly had enough.” She went to nudge his drink away, but accidentally knocked it over, spilling all over the front of her jeans.

“Shit,” Delali said, reaching for a napkin to blot. Steve did the same, and she shooed him away. “It’s fine. I’m gonna run to the bathroom.” As soon as she stood, her legs wobbled, and she realized she was drunk drunk. She grabbed her backpack and made her way to the bathroom.

* * *

Gabbie sat at a stool near the front door of The Bar, trying to look everywhere other than at the guy who was maybe, definitely approaching her. She surprised herself by wanting immediately to flee—that’s how long it had been since she’d flirted with a guy. But she stayed where she was. In line with her effort to get out of her comfort zone, she decided she would accept a couple of compliments, politely inform the guy that she had a boyfriend, and then let him excuse himself.

She averted her eyes as he neared, her chest thudding. In the five or so seconds it took him to walk to the bar, a million thoughts ran through Gabbie’s mind: first regret for even going out, then guilt. Dan was probably teaching some malnourished child how to read or write or pronounce American vowels right now, and here she was, letting herself be courted by a banker type in a noisy bar, wearing a trashy skirt she wasn’t even sure belonged to her.

“Hi,” the guy said. “I’m Tanner.” He smiled, and Gabbie immediately felt her entire body tighten.

“Um, hi,” Gabbie responded. She turned her face to her drink so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact.

“And?”

Gabbie looked at Tanner, confused.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Oh.” She laughed uneasily, feeling vaguely threatened by his one oblong dimple. “I’m, um, Gabbie,” she said, hesitating as though she’d forgotten her own name.

“Nice to meet you, Gabbie.” She could feel his hairy knee against her shaven, exfoliated one, and wanted to recoil, but she hated hurting people’s feelings, no matter the circumstances. So she sat still in her chair, trying not to make her distaste too obvious.

“I just wanted to come over and say hey. You looked pretty bored sitting here all alone.” Tanner flashed his malicious dimple again and leaned in close to her.

Gabbie couldn’t respond. Not that she really wanted to.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” Tanner continued.

Gabbie shrugged and let out another awkward laugh. “I’m sorry,” Gabbie said. Apology was a reflex of hers. “I have a boyfriend.” Tanner raised an eyebrow and Gabbie rushed to fill the silence. “This drink is really delicious, though!” She pulled a massive swig as proof.

“Oh, come on,” Tanner said, “I saw you looking at me.” He parted his little lips into something that may have looked seductive on a different kind of guy, with a different set of lips. “No girl dresses like that if she wants to go home alone.”

Gabbie froze, her mouth glued to the rim of the glass.

“Maybe you just need to warm up.” Tanner placed his hand on Gabbie’s knee and leaned in to force eye contact. Gabbie jumped, her entire body tingling, in flight mode.

“I—uhh—I have to go to the bathroom,” she lied. She grabbed her purse and shrug off the counter and hurried toward the back of the bar.

* * *

Eli did not, in fact, realize that Maya, Shelby, Joe, and Faison were absent. It wasn’t until 11:32, when a bartender named Marcus started his shift and headed downstairs to grab a case of Jack, that they were finally found and let out. Maya inhaled dramatically when they walked through the door, as if she’d been trapped in a cave for weeks. Joe gave one of his “bewildered dad” headshakes and laughed.

“What?” Maya said defensively. “That windowless air was starting to make me gag.” Just then, Maya’s service kicked in, and her phone lit up with missed calls and messages. She groaned.

“How bad is it?” Shelby asked.

“I completely missed dinner, and the girls are already on their way to SNEAK!” She started to head to the bathroom; she needed a quick touch-up before leaving. “And I’m already white-girl wasted off Faison’s margs—no offense, Shelb.”

“None taken,” Shelby confirmed.

Maya walked across the bar before she could hear Shelby’s response. She was surprised by how badly she wobbled in her sandals—this was usually how she felt at the end of the night, not the beginning. She looked at her phone again and opened her messages app. Too scared to call Denise and encounter her panic, Maya quickly shot her a text: 

Maya

Soooop sorry got locvjked in strage room art the bar!!!!!!!! Be tyjjhgere soon!

Maya pushed the door marked W. This would only take a second, and if she took a taxi, she’d be at the club in no time.

Inside, Maya leaned close to the mirror, grunting in disgust when her nose accidentally hit the cool glass. She was tempted to wipe off the oily brown foundation smear it left behind, but she figured that was someone else’s job. Maya looked at her reflection, watching with satisfaction as her swimming features snapped into focus, coming together in the perfect harmony that was her face. Maya sometimes surprised herself with how good she looked, even drunk in a bar bathroom with her lipstick melting. Her skin was still perfectly matte and pore-less, courtesy of her new setting spray, and the wings of her eyeliner were sharp and damn near identical.

“A vision,” she murmured to herself in the empty bathroom. She began to reapply her lip liner, pausing when a girl stumbled into the bathroom, glassy-eyed and murmuring to herself as she swept her box braids over one shoulder. She wore a blue, Nike-branded cardigan over a white tube top and black jeans, and her face was flawlessly—though subtly—made-up. Kind of a look, Maya thought to herself. She slid her eyes back to her own reflection as the girl ducked into a stall.

As Delali closed the bathroom door, she noted that she had accidentally planned herself the saddest birthday she’d ever had. She pulled down her pants with a sigh and hovered.

A cool sense of safety washed over Gabbie as she entered the bathroom and let out a big yoga breath. She was fanning herself furiously when she noticed a girl at the last sink in the row, packing up a glittery hot-pink makeup bag.

She’s super pretty, Gabbie thought as Maya zipped the bag closed and clacked into a stall. Gabbie crossed her legs tightly while she waited for the other stall to empty, realizing how badly she actually had to pee. When Delali finally walked out she almost bumped into Gabbie, who was practically pressed against the stall door.

“Hey.” Delali took a step back to assess Gabbie before letting out a surprised laugh. “I know you,” she blurted drunkenly. “You’re Tanner’s girl. The one at the bar.”

“What?” Gabbie responded, repulsed. “I have a boyfriend.” I’m Dan’s girl, she thought.

“Called it,” Delali said smugly, sidestepping Gabbie to get to the sink. She dried her hands on a paper towel and used it to wipe a big brown smudge off the mirror.

“What does—” that mean, Gabbie was going to say, but Maya, locked inside a stall, interrupted her.

“Does anyone have a tampon?” she called. It was just like her period to start on her birthday.

“I don’t!” Gabbie answered brightly, turning to enter the second stall.

“I’ve got one,” Delali said, digging into the front pocket of her backpack. She stepped toward the stall and crouched to hand it off beneath the reclaimed-wood door.

“Thanks so much.” Maya reached out, three silver chain bracelets sliding down her forearm before landing at her wrist. “Oh my god,” Maya said as her hand closed around the tampon. “Gorgeous nails. What color is that, Simply Mauvelous?”

“Grape Expectations,” Delali replied.

Nice, Maya thought to herself as she fumbled to open the wrapper. She flushed, pulled her dress back down, and stepped out into the bathroom. “Thanks again,” Maya said to Delali, heading over to the sink.

Gabbie flushed and exited the stall. “I just have to say,” she hiccuped in Maya’s direction, “you’re like, so pretty.” She started washing her hands at the third sink. “Isn’t she so pretty?” Gabbie turned to Delali for confirmation, swaying despite the sturdiness of her pumps.

“Mm-hmm,” Delali said distractedly, examining her eyebrows in the mirror. She was thinking about making an appointment with Louise for next Tuesday when her eyes belatedly caught the sparkle of Maya’s plastic rhinestone tiara in the mirror.

Delali gestured to the crown and smiled. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was, like, thirteen.” Back when she spent most of her birthdays on set filming for Georgia, she and her costars would always gift each other huge plastic tiaras from Claire’s before decorating each other’s trailer doors to make up for the fact that they didn’t have lockers like most kids her age. “Wait,” Delali said, her voice rising as she made the realization. “Is today your birthday?”

“Yeah,” Maya said, throwing some of her hair behind her shoulder. “It is.” She lifted her chin and readjusted her tiara, feeling somewhat slighted by the “thirteen” comment. She and her sorors had bought each other birthday tiaras all throughout college. They were cute.

“No way!” Gabbie exclaimed, letting her pot of homemade beeswax lip balm clatter into the sink. Maya and Delali both turned to look at her. “It’s my birthday, too!”

“Same . . .” Delali said. She took a step backward. “I’m turning twenty-two.”

“Me, too,” Maya and Gabbie said in unison.

“Whoa,” Delali said.

“Cray-cray,” said Gabbie.

“Oh my god,” Maya said. An amazing, drunk thought dashed through her head. “My friends and I have a table at SNEAK tonight, for my birthday, you guys should come with!”

“No way!” Gabbie said. “That is so cool!”

“It’s the best place on Fridays in the fall,” Maya said, pulling her phone out. “Have you been?”

Delali suppressed an eyeroll. Who hadn’t been to SNEAK? Of course, she hadn’t been in years. As far as she knew it was actually pretty dead these days, and she felt tempted to say so—Maya looked far too pleased with herself.

“I haven’t,” said Gabbie. “I’ve totally heard of it, though. $ummer $tacks always posts TikToks from the Jell-O shot jacuzzi,” she added, referring to her favorite influencer.

“I love the JSJ,” Maya said. “But I don’t think tonight’s that kind of night. This is a fresh install,” she added, patting her head.

Delali looked at Gabbie and Maya skeptically. Gabbie looked like she had more than one Team Edward hoodie in her closet, and Maya was kind of . . . extra, to say the absolute least. But then she thought of her other options: heading back to the table where Tanner (shudder) and the others waited for her, texting Darren, or going home to her empty (though newly renovated and perfectly appointed) apartment. She quickly decided that this, going out with two total strangers who happened to share her birthday, was the best option by a long shot. Besides, all the talk about SNEAK had made her nostalgic for her teen years.

“I’m game,” she said.

Gabbie nodded. “Are you sure you want to leave your friends?” she asked, turning to Delali. Delali blinked at her, confused. “Those guys you were sitting with,” Gabbie clarified.

“Oh my god,” Delali said with a laugh. “Yeah, absolutely.”

“Great,” Maya said. She turned her attention to her phone. “Lemme just . . . give my friends a heads-up . . .” Her pace slowed as she typed, her glittery gels tapping against her iPhone screen, the rhinestone on her pinky nail catching the weak bathroom light. With autocorrect attempting to rearrange her drunken misspellings, it took a while, but she finally got her message out:

Maya

Met somw grls in the bar at the bar n invented them to sneak!! Their cute so it’s all good!!!!

Gabbie felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine, and she let out a squeal without thinking, which sometimes happened when she’d had too many glasses of white wine. “OMG,” she said loudly. “I’m Gabbie! Can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself earlier.”

“Maya,” Maya replied, still typing.

“Dee.”

“I’m so excited!” Gabbie exclaimed.

“Ready?” Maya asked. She ran her fingers through her hair one last time.

Delali patted her pockets, making sure she had her phone and wallet. Gabbie played with her bracelet, committing every last detail to memory. Dan was not going to believe this story.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Delali said, and pushed the bathroom door open, holding it for the other girls. Maya rushed out, leaned over the bar to say bye to Shelby and the others, and headed to the door. Gabbie bypassed the bar completely, then, remembering Tanner, looked covertly over her shoulder to see if he was still waiting around. He looked up from his phone at Gabbie, ready to unleash his dimple again, and she whipped her head around and scuttled outside. Delali gave her study group a giddy half wave over her shoulder. As the girls headed outside, their overlapping voices rose to that special pitch only a group of drunk girls could reach.

The girls huddled around Maya as she pulled her phone out of her purse and opened the Uber app. With a few taps, a car was called and, within minutes, a message on the screen announced it had arrived. But when the girls looked around they saw only empty streets. Maya answered her phone with an irritated snap.

“Hello?”

“Hell . . . Maya? Victori . . . ?” The driver, who Uber informed them was named Jean, sounded as if he were underground or in the middle of a remote rainforest.

“Where are you?” The girls glanced around the four corners of the intersection—empty. “I don’t see you anywhere.” Maya walked in annoyed, disjointed circles, stepping out onto the street and then onto the sidewalk again.

Delali sucked her teeth. “He’s probably not even close.”

“Hello?” Maya asked again. “Jean?”

Finally, a black car slipped from Delancey onto Essex. Maya ended the call in a fit of annoyance and stepped one sparkly, sandaled foot into the street, shoving her phone toward her bag. But she missed the opening completely, and instead of landing safely in its designated pocket, the phone soared directly toward a rusted metal drain. The girls all stopped short and gasped, reaching their arms out in a useless reflex, the phone too far out of their reach to be caught. But just as it was about to crash onto the sidewalk, a noiseless spool of light—gold, brilliant, vibrating—appeared from the girls’ hands and surrounded the phone, suspending it in the air. It floated there for a moment, a moment during which the girls felt bound to the sidewalk, their bodies completely out of their control. But they were paralyzed for only a second. Then, suddenly, the phone was back in Maya’s hand. The light disappeared faster than it had appeared, the only evidence of its existence a quickly waning afterimage against the black of the city street. There was a beat of silence, filled only by the quiet whistle of autumn air. Then the girls walked silently, on stunned legs, to the car. In the driver’s seat, Jean sat with his face turned intently to his phone, swiping lazily through Tinder.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Violet was in her office, seated on the button-tufted chair that was the closest thing the Sphere had to a throne. Hands gripping her mug of breakfast tea, she tried to hold her mouth closed, but each time she did, it again fell open in shock. The banner had been sent to her by a staff member stationed in the hospital:

Eve Anemone Nox has given birth to a baby witch.

The birth took place yesterday, September 1, at 11 o’clock WST.

It bobbed in the air, only a foot away from her face, mocking her. She had hoped, even prayed, for the end of the Crisis, the ugly event that threatened every day to end her career as Regent. But now that it had arrived unannounced, and with the birth of a Nox, she didn’t know how to react. The WHO had been working for decades to find a cure for the Typic Crisis, and here, finally, was a breakthrough. Surely the appropriate reaction would be unmitigated joy. Instead, Violet was gripped by fear and anxiety. Fear that the Noxes and other political rivals were planning something; fear that instead of solidifying her precarious reign, the breakthrough would somehow further destabilize it.

She’d have to meet with Dr. Diop, the head of the WHO, immediately. Violet was drafting the summons for the doctor when she heard a knock at her door. She glanced at the gold-framed clock on her wall and closed her eyes to steady herself. She’d completely forgotten about her briefing with Iris. Violet willed the door open, revealing Iris standing on the other side, looking ludicrous as always in a pair of impractical wedge sandals, purple camouflage pants, and a lavender military jacket. It was so hard to take her seriously, with her odd turns of phrase, cheap typic jewelry, and witch’s take on military fatigues—but Iris was undeniably good at her job. Violet must have looked shocked, because after a beat, Iris waved to get the Regent’s attention, an armful of kitschy bangles clinking as she did.

“Regent,” she said, pushing strands of her permed, bleach-blond hair out of her eyes. Her commitment to the asymmetrical bob, which had lasted through all the years they’d known each other, mystified Violet. “Our three o’clock briefing?”

Iris was the head of the Shrouded Vow Taskforce, the team responsible for protecting the secrecy of the Witch Sphere. At the age of eleven, every witch took the Shrouded Vow, an oath to keep the Sphere secret from typics by employing only the most discreet practices of magic when in the typic world. The Sphere, despite its recent troubles, was a respite from all the suffering and ugliness of the typic world, and keeping their world hidden from typics kept it that way. Iris and her team monitored a real-time map for any changes to the Baseline, the concentration of magic in the typic world. That morning, a report had appeared on Violet’s desk, something about a disturbance that had taken place in New York City the day before. Besides earthquakes and hailstorms, which were biblical rarities, the only thing that could disturb the Baseline was a tremendous—or tremendously public—display of magic. When she’d received the report that morning, Violet immediately scheduled a briefing. But now, with the news that the Typic Crisis might be over, the idea that a couple of typics might have seen some behavior they couldn’t explain seemed trivial.

“Yes,” Violet said. “Come in.” She swiped away the banner of text—which only she could see—and clamped her hand around her mug. She spun her index finger in a slow circle above the drink, and the tea followed the movement, mixing in her packet of Sweetening Solution. “Go ahead, Iris.”

“Uh, we’ll need the Spherical map,” Iris said.

“Yes, of course,” Violet responded, shaking her head as she rose. She walked to the door on the back wall of her office, and Iris followed. She held her hand against the handle and, after a moment, heard the door’s lock release. This was her personal entrance to the Hollow, the room where, once a quarter, the Council met to manage the affairs of the Sphere. It was a large and sunken room, with deep purple carpets, cherry oak walls, and a narrow panel of windows near the ceiling allowing minimal light into the space. The walls were dotted with gilded portraits of former Regents and notable Councilmembers, and in the center, there sat a long table with sixteen seats.

Violet entered and sat at the head, watching as Iris walked to the opposite end of the room. What could it mean? she wondered absently. The new birth. In theory it was positive, but still, she could feel a familiar terror bubbling up in her body. Always a damn Nox, she thought, glancing at the spare chair positioned by the door. Certainly, she was paranoid. But it wasn’t just Violet’s imagination that kept her in a state of perpetual anxiety. Her fears were well founded. Her reign had been pocked with misfortune from the beginning, had attracted the ire of Sphere veterans for decades. It was common knowledge that witches all over the Sphere wanted her gone. So now any news, big or small, positive or negative, filled her with an immense and all-consuming dread, even if only for a moment.

When she reached the far wall, Iris raised her arm and lowered it slowly. As she did, a large scroll of fortified paper unfastened from the ceiling and rolled open, revealing a map of the Witch Sphere in pale, muted colors. Several wrinkles in the ancient map were lined with glittering purple ink, places it had been craftily repaired. The black lines demarcating the borders were glossy and bright, as though the enchanted ink had been freshly applied, but the map was nearly as old as the Sphere itself. With the stroke of a hand, Iris could switch the view from Sphere to typic world and back, underlining the link between the two dimensions. A link that typics did not—could not—know anything about. In the bottom right-hand corner of the map, a series of numbers in a looping, elegant gold script changed by the second, hovering around an average of 330.62: the Baseline, the combination of atmospheric magic and all magical ability held by witches in the typic world.

Iris placed her index finger and thumb over New York City, then slid them open, dragging until the map decreased in scope and increased in detail. Gold dots blinked in buildings, parks, and ferries, each representing the magic of a witch living among typics.

When Iris finally stopped, Violet trained her eyes on a small corner of the map, and had to work to withhold a snarl. “These are the disturbance sites?” she asked. A portion of lower Manhattan, a small section of Brooklyn, and tiny portion of Washington Heights were peppered with ugly clusters of thorny, copper spikes. She’d seen a number of disturbances in her time, and these were standard. She wasn’t interested in having her time wasted—on today of all days. “How could these have caused any sort of notable spikes in the Baseline? They haven’t even left the borders of the New York state, let alone the continent.”

“Right,” Iris agreed eagerly. She’d anticipated the question. “It’s a combination of frequency and intensity. We’ve been seeing the spikes in the Baseline for a few days now. Initially, we thought they were random, but they’ve since become more frequent. Yesterday there was one large occurrence of magic in the East Village, then again the smaller dots along Manhattan and part of Brooklyn. If you’ve had a look at⁠—”

“Iris, why are you here?” Violet asked, her voice cool and curt.

Iris flushed. “Sorry?”

“I’m meant to be concerned about a handful of ignorant, under-supervised, teenage witches sneaking out of the Sphere and into New York for a few weekends?” Violet dug her nails into the table to keep herself from shaking as she spoke. She needed to meet with Dr. Diop immediately—anything that stood between her and that meeting was nonsense. The banner had thrown her completely off balance, and she wouldn’t be able to control this new development until she understood it. She’d summon Dr. Miloy, too. And, only if absolutely necessary, they could include the Nox later on.

“Well, Regent, historically, you’ve been extremely interested in these kind of details,” Iris replied. Her voice was calm, but she was nervously clasping and unclasping a single bedazzled button on her blazer.

“Iris, you’ve been doing this job for longer than I’ve been alive,” Violet said, rising from her seat and gathering her robes around her. “I don’t have to tell you how to send a letter of sanction, do I?”

Iris closed her mouth into an impervious line. “No,” she said. “No, you don’t.” She tapped the map to send it back up, and by the time it fully disappeared, Violet had transported elsewhere.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nadia pushed her way through the crowd at Swallow, standing on her tiptoes to peer over and around the heads of reveling witches. But even with the extra inch her platform combat boots afforded her, she couldn’t see much. Little suspended flames darted in and out of her line of vision, and the bar’s décor—walls of glass and mirrors, purple mood lighting glinting off gold hardware—didn’t exactly help. Everywhere Nadia looked, there was a witch or MAM (magic-affiliated man) holding either a typic drink or a potion, shouting or breaking out into riotous laughter. Nadia felt a tap on her shoulder and turned.

“Nadia!” Aura leaned down to hug her, the jade beads at the ends of her braids clinking melodically as she did.

“Aura, I’m gonna kill you,” Nadia said.

“Why is that?” Aura asked, feigning innocence. She grabbed Nadia’s hand and led her through the crowd.

“You said this place was low-key!”

“It was low-key,” Aura said. “But people must have found out about it.” Typic alcohol was having a resurgence in the Sphere, and Aura had been adamant that Swallow was a hidden gem.

“Yeah, looks like it.” Centimeters away from Nadia, a witch materialized out of thin air, and Nadia ducked, resisting the urge to lecture her about transportation etiquette.

“Anyway, it’s not my fault it took a literal miracle to get you out of the house. If you didn’t practically live in that lab then maybe you’d have some recommendations of your own.”

Nadia’s heart jumped at the mention of her newborn niece, the baby they now called Nina. The baby everyone had come out to celebrate. News of her birth had made it around the Sphere in a matter of days, as gossip always did in their world, and for the past twenty-four hours, the Sphere had felt like a polaroid coming to life—moving from sludgy gray-green to sharp, joyous color. Nadia could only guess that this was what the elders meant when they described the Sphere before the Shatter.

Aura led Nadia up a secluded set of stairs.

“Where are we going?”

“Rooftop—it’s quieter there. Jack’s here already. He forgot to dress for the coordinates.”

Nadia snickered. Jack and Aura had been her closest friends since childhood, two people whose personalities were so different from hers, they probably wouldn’t have known each other if it weren’t for their parents. Aura’s mom, Thea, and Jack’s mom, Veronica, had been on the Council with Natasha for years, and their families had been celebrating everything (graduations, birthdays, Gathering pre-parties) together for as long as Nadia could remember. They’d all gone to the same training school, where Jack and Aura had coasted by, betting their familial connections would one day afford them appointments in the Regent’s orbit. Aura was biding her time and studying healing. Jack wasn’t doing much at all.

It was Nadia, whose eventual Council seat was predetermined, who had taken training seriously. Only two positions on the Council were explicitly inherited: the Regent and the Executioner. There was only one witch in each generation born with the ability to Execute, or completely strip a witch of her powers. It was understood as a dark but necessary ability, and unlike other named powers (like Seeing, Healing, and Shapeshifting), it didn’t distribute itself randomly throughout the population. From the beginning of time, the Executioner power had only ever been found in the Nox family—in one witch per generation—and there was no reason to believe it would ever be found elsewhere. When her mom died or retired, the role would be passed on to Nadia.

But Nadia had already made it to the Council in a different capacity. After starting at the WHO, she made an early discovery for the Atmospheric Magic Effort that caused Council-members to vote unanimously to add her to the Council as an adjunct. It was a motion the Council used to elect ad hoc Councilmembers in times of crisis, transition, or upheaval, so that the Council now had its customary sixteen members and Regent, plus Nadia, a junior member with reduced privileges. She was Dr. Diop’s right hand, aiding her in updating the Regent of Crisis developments every month. She’d worried that Violet would somehow block the appointment, but whatever Dr. Diop had said in her proposal worked. She knew it was weird to her friends—her dedication to the science of magic when her role in the Sphere was already so clear and determined. Nadia was surprised it didn’t occur to anyone that it was entirely because of her family’s legacy, because of her named power, that she chose to invest herself in a project that could someday give the gift of magic rather than take it. Aura’s sister Apple, who dabbled in typic social media, called it a “trauma response.” Nadia didn’t care to find out what that meant.

“Did you give your mom the note, by the way?” Aura asked, lowering her voice as they stepped out into the balmy air. “From Thea?”

Nadia nodded. “Yeah,” she lied. “I did.” A couple of weeks ago, Aura had given Nadia a letter to give to her mom. The letter was on Spherical paper, which meant it would be blank until it met the hands of its intended recipient, but Nadia had a working hypothesis of what the note said. And it was that hypothesis that had kept her from delivering the note. Aura hadn’t explained why Thea was choosing to contact Natasha through the most secretive form of communication available to witches, further obscuring her trail by having her daughter serve as a courier. But Nadia guessed that was the point—whatever the note held must be too sensitive to discuss openly or through more corruptible forms of contact. She wondered how much Aura knew about the probable contents of the letter, whether she was curious why Thea hadn’t just sent Natasha a text or a banner. If Aura cared though, she did a good job of not letting on.

The roof was quieter, and Nadia could feel her anxiety recede as she took her first breath of outside air. Jack sat at a sofa by the wall of the roof, wearing a wrinkly undershirt and jeans. His jacket and sweater sat in a pile next to him.

“She appears!” he said as Nadia approached. She leaned in for a hug.

“Love that shirt,” Nadia said as she settled into one of the seats. They were all emerald green and button-tufted, lazily conjured mocks of the Regent’s seat. “Where’s it from?”

“Funny. I ordered it for you guys,” Jack said. Nadia had already taken a sip of her drink.

She gagged. “Eugh. What is that?”

“It’s called an Aperol spritz,” Aura said, sipping hers.

“Why do they drink this stuff?” Nadia picked up a card that was on the table and inspected it. On one side there was a map of the Sphere, with only the coordinate of Swallow marked. On the other side was the map of the typic world, the same coordinate landing in the Sahara Desert. “What’s this?” Nadia asked.

“A coaster. You put the drinks on them in the typic world because the moisture leaves marks on tables and stuff.”

“It’s just decoration,” Jack added with a shrug. “You really should visit there more often.”

“Right,” Nadia said. She unfolded the menu. “I’m getting a potion.”

“Oh, can you get a Soothing Solution concentrate for Thea?” Aura asked facetiously, clearly ready to vent.

“Uh-oh,” Nadia said, scribbling her order on the tabletop with the pad of her finger. “What’s she upset about? I thought Amos got the job?” Aura’s younger brother had just been hired as Violet’s new assistant—it was known in the Sphere that she only trusted MAMs, since they didn’t have powers.

“It’s Apple. She keeps threatening to go to the typic world for university. California,” Aura explained. “She practically lives in the Archive now cause of all the typic stuff she has to study.”

“What, does Thea think she’s not gonna come back?” Jack asked, looking up from his phone.

“She says it’s a gateway drug.”

“I think that was the Netflix subscription, actually.”

“She’ll get bored,” Nadia said. While some witches rarely stepped foot out of the Sphere, there were others who, at the age of eighteen, agonized when deciding whether to attend university in the Sphere or in the typic world. Nadia hadn’t even considered it—she wasn’t interested in anything that wouldn’t get her closer to working for the WHO.

Jack nodded. “The return rate for witches who go to the typic world is like ninety percent or something, right? Not as high as before, but still pretty good.”

“Thea does not do numbers. Thea does Thea-trics,” Aura replied. “Oh that reminds me, Nadia. Amos says hi. You know how much Thea supports that union.”

Nadia winced. Amos had developed a mutually mortifying crush on her in the last couple of years. Whenever she ran into him at Aura’s family home, he’d freeze up, babble out some nonsense, and then disappear. She was not looking forward to seeing him at WHO briefings and quarterly Council meetings now that he was working for Violet, even if it was only on her way in.

“Hi?” Nadia joked. “I’d like to hear him say that to my face.”

They were still giggling when a witch brought Nadia’s Elation Elixir / Energy Ale cocktail. Nadia held the glass up. “Spheres,” she offered in toast.

Jack and Aura raised their eyebrows at her, Aura’s smile suggestive. “Spheres to . . . ?”

“Just . . . spheres to the Sphere.”

“Oh come on Nadia!” Aura exclaimed. “When’s the official announcement? That the Crisis is over?”

Nadia leveled Aura with a look—they weren’t the only people on the roof—then took a sip of her potion while she considered her words. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s promising, obviously, but, you know, scientific process and all that.”

Jack sat up straight and lifted his hand in a royal wave. “Oh, I could never, it’s just the state secre— I mean scientific process,” he said.

Nadia felt her skin prickle with annoyance. She hated the implication that she was some kind of social-climbing Council fangirl, the kind of person who cared about pomp and power and being where decisions were made. Jack and Aura, of all people, should know that she hated political maneuvering of any kind. In her time in the Council, she’d watched the highest members of their Sphere let their quests for meaningless amounts of power cloud their judgment—it was how the Sphere had found itself in a Crisis in the first place. Nadia had joined the Council only because she had known, for as long as she could remember, that she wanted to solve the Typic Crisis, to return the Sphere to its pre-Shatter glory. The Council appointment was an unwelcome byproduct.

“Leave it,” Aura scolded Jack.

“I have a WHO meeting on Monday,” Nadia offered. “I’ll probably know more then.” She allowed herself cautious excitement. Even post-Shatter, the Sphere was the most beautiful place, and witches the most generous people. She couldn’t imagine a world after the Crisis.

“Okay,” Aura said. “Then spheres to that.”

Nadia lifted her potion to toast, but before she could, a line of deep purple text unfurled in midair before her:

Disturbances in the Baseline. Report landing in five.

Send sanctions to offending witches. —Iris

“Be right back,” Nadia said, standing from the sofa. She slipped down the stairs and into the nearest bathroom, grateful to find that it was a single stall. She sat on the chair that was positioned by the mirrors and waited, already bracing herself for the ribbing she would get from Aura and Jack when she got back—even though they wouldn’t have been able to see the message, Nadia knew that she’d given the telltale jerk of a witch receiving an unexpected banner. Being an adjunct meant she was expected to be at the disposal of every senior Council-member whenever they needed her, even if it was for busywork that had nothing to do with the WHO.

Nadia checked the purple face of her Casio watch and, just on time, a slim report from Iris landed in her hands. She flipped through, landing on a page that held a re-creation of the Spherical map, the one that sat locked in the Hollow. Nadia watched as disturbances moved along the city of New York and rolled her eyes—how could some witches be so stupid? She turned the report over to a blank page and drafted the sanctions letter with her finger. Underneath the letter, she wrote the coordinates where acts of magic seemed to have occurred, then a selection of random coordinates in between. Sanctions were more an art than a science. There was no way to know a witch’s exact coordinates (and privacy activists Sphere had worked hard to keep it that way), so the SVT’s only recourse was to send a sanction to the approximate area where magic activity had occurred. If the offending witch were nearby, she’d receive the sanction. If not, the letter would never actually materialize. In the bottom right corner of the page Nadia wrote: Immediate, then watched the coordinates disappear from the page as the sanctions were sent. She folded up the report and placed it in the back pocket of her black cargo midi skirt.

Sent sanctions to approximate locations. —Nadia

Thx little nox. Ur a star 🌟 🤩 —Iris

When Nadia returned to the table, Aura was trying to hide a smile.

“Don’t,” Nadia said.

Aura held her hands up. “I didn’t say anything!”

Nadia dropped her shoulders and picked up her drink.

“Council duties on a Sunday?” Aura said, unable to resist.

CHAPTER NINE

Maya went out often enough that Sober Maya had learned how to take care of Drunk Maya. She kept a pack of makeup wipes in her purse so she could remove her makeup in the car home and left ibuprofen and coconut water on her bedside table before she left the house. Last night, she’d been particularly good to herself: she’d even remembered to wear her retainer and headscarf. Maya woke slowly, stretching and letting out a yawn before sliding her satin sleep mask off her eyes and onto her forehead, then was abruptly confronted by the realization that two other girls were asleep in her room—one next to her on her California king–sized bed, the other on the Hermès throw she’d spread over the floor.

Oh, yeah. In many ways, the night had been like any other, but when Maya closed her eyes to remember it, there were some bizarre memories that stood out from the haze. She had taken her usual pre-club selfies in the Uber on the way to SNEAK, but yes—and Maya checked her camera roll to make sure—there were two girls she’d never seen before in all the pictures, huddled beside her in the back seat. She didn’t remember how they’d ended up crashing on her floor, but it wasn’t the craziest thing in the world. She did live in an amazing apartment in an amazing neighborhood (thanks to her parents, not her barely paid fashion PR job).

She remembered the bathroom at The Bar and the car to SNEAK. She remembered taking her fourth shot of Patrón and being shocked, yet pleased, when Gabbie kicked off her ugly little pumps and climbed on the table as the opening notes of “Back That Azz Up” rang through the club. She even remembered that when she’d stumbled into a Duane Reade to get a Band-Aid for a growing blister on the way home, Dee made a beeline for the Cheetos and spent about ten minutes deciding whether she wanted crunchy or puffy. But there was another thing, a thing she could feel herself brushing over as she worked through the highlight reel of the night. It involved her phone, a flash of light, a weird feeling in her chest—she pushed it away and decided to think of something more pleasant: breakfast.

Maya was trying to decide whether she should force herself out of bed to get a bagel from the deli or just open up DoorDash when Gabbie jolted awake.

“Oh my god!” Gabbie gasped, sitting up straight. “Oh god,” she said again, this time slower. She closed her eyes and slapped a hand over her mouth. “I feel like I’m dying.” Gabbie blinked at the surroundings. “What the . . .” she began as her gaze landed on Maya. “Where am I?”

“Ugh,” Delali groaned from the floor, where her face was pressed against her backpack. She rolled into a sitting position, pulling her braids into a ponytail as she looked around the room. Sunlight poured into the bedroom from the east-facing windows, bathing Maya’s billowing white canopy, massive floor-length mirror, and lavender accent chair in a warm glow—and exacerbating Delali’s colossal hangover. “Shit,” Delali said, closing her eyes against the pounding of her temples. “I need a fucking bagel.”

Maya watched the girls thoughtfully. Gabbie was staring at herself in the mirror above Maya’s vanity, bemoaning the fact that she had spent the night sans bonnet. Delali was digging into her backpack, looking for the tube top she’d taken off on the way to the club last night to reveal a red bralette.

“I know a place,” Maya said finally. She rolled out of bed, stepped over Delali’s outstretched legs, and started changing.

It didn’t surprise Delali that Maya’s favorite “deli” was the kind of place written about in restaurant blogs and photographed for foodie Instagram accounts (complete with hideous rainbow cream cheese and branded T-shirts pinned to the walls). It was the kind of NYC-transplant watering hole that, for obvious reasons, Delali avoided like the plague. When they arrived, the line to get in was spilling out the door and onto the sun-dappled sidewalk. Delali had gotten her bagel (toasted cinnamon raisin, plain cream cheese) before Gabbie and Maya had even finished ordering. She stood by the door, biting into the bagel as it cooled and lamenting the fact that Maya had led them to a tourist trap in the midst of one of Delali’s most violent hangovers to date. She watched as Maya explained her complicated order to the employee behind the counter, enunciating as if she were speaking to a child. After Gabbie had changed her order four or five times, the girls finally joined Delali at the door. She tossed the polka dot–patterned wax paper into the trash and pushed the shop door open.

“OMG,” Gabbie burbled as they walked down the sidewalk. “This bagel is so effing good!”

“Right?” Maya replied.

Delali nodded listlessly, thinking about the three-dollar bodega bagel she had every other morning on her way to class, which was definitely better.

“Hey,” a voice called from behind them. Maya and Gabbie stopped to turn, but Delali didn’t have to look or even hear another word to know what was happening. The greeting had been delivered in a familiar pitch and tenor—it was the anxious, grating, faux-casual tone of a fan. “Are you—Delali Tuh-may-kloe?”

Delali cringed at the butchering of her name, though she was secretly relieved. Pronunciation of her name was the basis on which she decided whether to give “fans” the time of day, and this one was an easy no. Delali turned toward the voice, pursed her lips, and, knowing how shitty she probably looked, lied. “No,” she said. “My name’s Jenna. But I get that a lot.”

Delali turned back around and kept walking, Gabbie and Maya hurrying to catch up. Early in her career, Delali had been paranoid about upsetting fans in interactions like this. But over time she’d found that if she sent out enough social media–documented free swag, signed the personalized cards her assistant wrote in her signature boyish handwriting, and donated to random people’s GoFundMes, her Georgia cachet went a pretty long way on its own. It turned out the way her fans felt about her had literally nothing to do with her. They didn’t even know that donations were tax-deductible.

“Holy crap!” Gabbie said. All of a sudden, she could see what Delali’s box braids had disguised so well last night. “I knew I knew you from somewhere. You’re Georgia Simmons! From Georgia on My Mind!” Georgia Simmons famously wore a straight bob.

Maya was quiet. She thought she’d clocked it last night but had been reluctant to give Delali the attention she was probably used to.

“That’s me!” Delali said in the signature Georgia cadence.

“Ugh, I have so many questions!”

“Please, God, not right now,” Delali said.

“Oh.”

An awkward lull fell between the girls.

“Well, did y’all have fun last night?” Maya asked, trying to restore the mood.

“I had an uh-may-zing time,” Gabbie gushed. “I’ve never danced that much in my life!”

“It was cool,” Delali added. If she was being honest, it was pretty impressive that Maya had managed to get them direct, skip-the-line access to the door of SNEAK, free drinks, and a cozy spot by the hot tub without Delali having to step in. She was already starting to feel a reluctant sense of fondness toward the two girls, the kind that typically came after a night of dancing, drinking, and judging men. Sure, Gabbie reminded her of a Black Kimmy Schmidt and Maya was a sort of basic, zillennial Hillary Banks, but they’d had some good drunk laughs.

Maya rolled her eyes at Delali’s lukewarm assessment and took another bite of her scooped bagel. The girls walked the next several minutes without speaking, stopping awkwardly when they reached the intersection of East 9th and Avenue A. They didn’t actually know where they were going, and here was as good a place as any to split up. But no one made the move to part.

Delali spoke. “So are we not gonna talk about what happened last night?” Her heart jumped as she said it. The strange moment on the sidewalk was the first thing that had come to her mind that morning, even as she’d complained about her hangover and gotten dressed. The light, the breathless pause, the sudden pull toward the phone—it all rushed back to her as soon as she woke up. The other girls had to remember it, too, but as Delali said it, she felt her stomach pitch with nerves.

CHAPTER TEN

Maya and Gabbie were quiet for a moment.

“Did that really happen?” Gabbie asked. The night had been so crazy and out of the ordinary for her that she’d lumped the phone thing in with everything else.

“The, uh, the thing with the light?” Maya croaked. She’d been hoping all morning that no one would bring it up.

“So you both remember it?” Delali pushed. “It totally happened!”

“Remember what, though?” Maya’s voice had an anxious edge.

“What do you mean, ‘remember what’? You just said you remembered it.”

“Guys!” said Gabbie. Delali and Maya turned to her. “You’re yelling.” The streets around them were busy. She looked across the street at Tompkins Square Park, which was empty save for a couple walking their dog. “Maybe we should go somewhere private.”

The girls followed Gabbie into the park, to a bench surrounded by empty plots of grass, and sat.

Delali stood and paced in front of the others like a professor delivering a lecture. “Okay, let’s walk through what happened last night,” she said. “We were standing on the sidewalk getting ready to get into the car when Maya dropped her phone.” Delali paused, waiting for Gabbie and Maya to confirm. When they nodded, she continued. “We all saw the phone falling.” They nodded again. “Then we reached out for it . . . and then . . . and then I guess we stopped it somehow?”

“More than stopped it,” Gabbie said.

“Yeah,” said Maya. “It, like, jumped back into my hand.”

“Right! Like we made it happen.”

“Did we . . . do that together?” Gabbie asked.

Delali shrugged. “I guess so?”

“I don’t know,” Maya said hesitantly, crinkling her brow. “Do what exactly? I mean, I imagine stuff when I’m drunk all the time.”

Delali tilted her head and pursed her lips. “I don’t think we had a group hallucination.”

“How do you know?” Maya asked. “It totally happens. I saw a VICE special about it.”

“Okay,” Gabbie began. “Let’s say we really did stop the phone. What does that mean? Like, do we have . . . some kind of powers?” Gabbie’s voice had gotten quieter as she spoke, until it was hovering just above a whisper.

“Please,” Maya said. “Powers?”

“I don’t know about powers,” Delali said. She dropped back onto the bench beside Gabbie, pulling her legs up and crossing them under her. “But something weird definitely happened.” She leaned forward so she could look past Gabbie at Maya. “Let’s see if we can do it again.”

“What do you mean?” Maya asked.

Delali pointed to the phone in Maya’s lap. “Your phone,” she said. “Drop it.”

Maya raised her eyebrows. “Are you serious?”

Delali nodded. “Totally. It was your phone that made it happen the first time.”

Maya’s grip tightened around her phone as she looked to Gabbie, waiting for her input.

Gabbie looked from Maya to Delali, and then back again. “I think we should try,” she said finally. “We can just drop it over the grass. It’s not that high up.”

“Fine,” Maya said. She extended her arm straight in front of her, holding her phone parallel to the ground. “Ready?”

Gabbie and Delali nodded. The three girls stood and focused all their attention on the phone, blocking out the sights and sounds of the park around them. As soon as Maya released her grip, they reached their hands out, just as they had the night before. Time slowed, ticking away at half-pace . . . until the phone clattered to the grass in front of them, landing face down.

Delali exhaled. Gabbie resumed toying with her jewelry. Maya blinked at the ground where her phone had landed. She burst out laughing, then crouched to pick it up, inspecting it for cracks or scratches.

“Thank God for this case.” Still laughing, she slipped the phone into the pocket of her Aritzia joggers. Gabbie shrugged and joined in with a giggle of her own.

“Oh my god,” Maya said. She lifted her arms above her head in a stretch, her laughter trailing off. “Wouldn’t it have been crazy if we actually stopped it?”

“Yeah,” Delali muttered. “Anyway, I have to study.” She stood and turned hastily toward the exit, Gabbie following behind her.

“Sure,” Maya said, resisting the urge to make a snarky comment. Was it possible that Delali, who’d been responsible and pragmatic even while drunk at the club, really thought they had powers?

The three girls headed out of the park, getting caught at a “don’t walk” sign. “Wait,” Maya said seriously. Delali and Gabbie turned to her, watching as Maya thrust her hand theatrically in the air in front of her. “Damn,” she said, glancing at the glowing red letters. “The light didn’t change. I guess we really don’t have powers.”

Delali gave her a withering look. “I’m gonna go. Nice meeting you, though,” she said before looking both ways and jogging across the street.

Maya and Gabbie stood at the corner for a moment, watching the cars race by.

“Wow,” Maya said finally, planting her hands on her hips. “She looks nothing like she did on the show.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By the time Delali got to her apartment, her hangover had mutated into something truly vicious. It was always fifty-fifty—sometimes eating breakfast fixed everything, and other times it made her feel like her insides were melting. On the upside, getting home at midday on a Sunday meant she had bested the paps who were almost always stationed outside her door when she got back from class on weekdays. She breezed past the front desk, exchanging a quick hello with her old Greek doorman, Stavros. He was a generally pleasant and disoriented old man who adored Delali and trapped her in long conversations about the immigrant work ethic whenever he could. Delali was glad to find that the lobby was empty and she wouldn’t have to share the elevator with one of her annoying rich neighbors.

As she waited for the elevator, Delali ran through all the shit she’d have to get done before her birthday dinner tonight—grab groceries from Westside, get in at least forty-five minutes of review before her exam, schedule an eyebrow appointment. She’d also have to get her apartment ready for Lionel, who’d texted to say he landed an hour ago. As if that wasn’t enough, her head was flooded with the run-of-mill morning-after anxiety about, well, everything.

Delali was trying to remember how the night had gone—Had she embarrassed herself at SNEAK? Had anyone recognized her? Did she end up texting Darren? What the hell had she and the study group guys talked about for forty-five minutes?—when a faint buzzing penetrated her thoughts, filling every inch of her head with white noise. At first, she assumed it was just the sound of her building’s elevator coming down the shaft, weirdly magnified by her hangover, but then the buzz broke into an intelligible murmur, pocked with a heavy Mediterranean accent. Hmph. Nice of you to finally show up.

Delali snapped her head around to ask the doorman what he meant, but when she turned, he just looked over at her and smiled blankly. It was clear he hadn’t spoken. Delali nodded at him, her face hot with embarrassment, and turned to face the elevator again. It finally dinged and the doors slid open, but before Delali could step in, she heard that same crackling noise, like radio static, and another mumble: That’s three Saturdays in a row . . . probably safe to tip TMZ . . . four, five thousand . . . easy. Delali’s mouth dropped open. She rushed into the elevator and hit penthouse, poking her head out quickly before the doors began to close. Stavros flashed another doddering smile and friendly little wave.

Delali’s heart was thundering so hard she could barely hear herself think. What the fuck is going on? The voice she’d heard was certainly, without a doubt, her doorman’s. But she couldn’t place where, physically, it had come from. His mouth wasn’t moving, and the sound hadn’t echoed across the lobby’s marble walls the way it usually would. The voice had been . . . inside her head somehow. It had been so clear and crisp that if it hadn’t been a man’s (and heavily accented, and talking about tipping TMZ about her whereabouts), Delali would’ve confused the sound for her own internal monologue. It would be easier to dismiss altogether if the snippet didn’t make perfect fucking sense. Of course the rat was her doorman. Delali paced around the elevator, her breath growing quicker and shallower. When the door opened, Delali rushed into her apartment, running like there was a wannabe director from her school’s film department chasing her. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it. There was no way she would be able to focus on homework now.

Delali threw open her floor-to-ceiling living room windows and stuck her head out, taking in deep, replenishing breaths of the city air, the warbling East River and lamps on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade twinkling as they came into focus. When she’d calmed down slightly, she pulled a half-empty pack of Sour Patch Kids from the bottom of her backpack and started to stuff them into her mouth, her breath slowing as the sugar coated her tongue and cheeks. The last time she’d felt this emotional it was because she’d lost the role of Princess Tiana in Disney’s live-action remake of The Princess and the Frog to Celeste. The days between Lionel’s devastating call and the shoplifting scandal that had gotten Celeste kicked off the production were some of the darkest of Delali’s life. When she finished the gummies, Delali sat on her sofa and pulled a college-ruled notebook and dented Ticonderoga out of her backpack, deciding, in typical Delali fashion, that it might help if she took notes on the past twenty-four hours. Maybe writing everything out in a neat and orderly manner could help her figure out what exactly was going on. She wrote:

Went to a shitty bar with the VA guys

Saw C*l*st* on The Bar TV

Met two random girls—also turning 22

Left the bar/ditched VA guys

Saved the one girl’s phone from falling (?)

This she punctuated with a huge, dark question mark.

went to the club and everything was normal

Bad hangover, cinnamon raisin bagel

Annoying fan

Tried to do the phone thing again—didn’t work

Heard doorman talking about selling me out to TMZ??

but in his head???

in MY head?????

Delali laughed out loud at her attempt to make sense of the events. The list was ridiculous. Did she think she was a mind reader now? She struck through the page with a large X and ripped it from the notebook, and just as she did, her doorbell rang. Delali jumped. Who would Stavros have let up without calling her first? She crept to the door slowly and looked through the peephole, half worried she might find Harvey Levin standing on the other side. She let out a relieved sigh—duh. It was just Lionel.

Delali unlocked the door and Lionel breezed in, tossing his LV-monogrammed duffle bag onto the marble kitchen island and letting out the world’s most theatrical sigh. “I am so, so, sooo sorry!” Then he paused and examined Delali’s face. “What’s wrong with you?”

Delali closed her mouth and blinked. She turned to lock the door, brushed the lingering granules of sugar off her lips, and crumpled up the list, which was still in her left hand. “Your shoes,” she bluffed. “When have I ever allowed shoes in my home? Act like you’ve been here before.”

“Lord, you are still so anal,” Lionel said.

“This isn’t Los Angeles, Lionel. Those shoes have seen things.”

“And so have I! I was at LAX for sixteen hours. That’s sixteen hours longer than I would’ve been if you hadn’t convinced me flying private is unethical,” Lionel said as he slipped off his Chelsea boots. “Which I’m still not sure about . . . I’m gonna need a shower before your birthday dinner. Can’t have your school friends thinking I’m musty on our first meeting. Especially my nemesis, Safiya. Anyway, I come bearing gifts.” He brandished a bottle of wine and a small box of bakery cupcakes.

Suddenly beside herself, Delali smothered Lionel in a hug. She’d missed his monologuing and incorrigible LA-ness. Lionel pushed her off.

“Uh-uh! I don’t want you to think I’m musty either!”

“God, you’re stupid,” Delali said, which sent them both into peals of laughter.

Delali tossed her crumpled list into the recycling while Lionel took off his coat, then grabbed a cupcake out of the box. It dawned on her then that she was being ridiculous about everything that had happened over the weekend. She’d probably been hearing her own thoughts in the lobby earlier that day (after all, she’d always had her suspicions about Stavros’s whole senile-but-sweet act). It was so like her to get obsessive and weird about every little unplanned event in her life. The bottom line was that she had barely slept last night, had gotten twenty-first-birthday drunk, and was still entertaining the small existential crisis that had been plaguing her since the first day of senior year. She was simply not in good shape. All Delali needed to feel better were some electrolytes, at least two cupcakes, and a proper birthday dinner with her best friends.

* * *

The next morning, Lionel and Delali left her apartment together, him heading for his hotel and her making the tragic march to the exam room. By the time she finished the test, Delali finally felt like she was returning to normal. Having dinner with her friends had made her feel better, and she was pretty sure she’d aced her test. Delali dropped her backpack on the floor when she reentered her apartment, then collapsed on the sofa, feeling the special sense of relief that could only come from finishing a big test. She reached for the remote on her coffee table, but was distracted by something sitting atop her pile of books and magazines.

It was a thick stack of paper, held together by a rose gold butterfly clip—Lionel’s signature. The cover read: Sit Awhile: the Lorraine Hansberry Story. It was the script Lionel had mailed her all those months ago. Annoying, she thought. If Lionel wanted her to read the script, leaving copies in her house was not the way to do it. But Delali’s annoyance turned to confusion, then fear, as she started flipping through the pages. There, in the margins of the script she’d never read, were the problem sets and notes she’d scribbled on her copy months ago—but how? She’d watched the script enter her building’s garbage chute with her own eyes. But there it was, her handwriting, her sloppy equations. Delali was staring, hands shaking, at the script, when a card fell into her lap, a white three-by-five sheet of thick cardstock that whistled through the air and landed jauntily on her thighs. She stared at the blank card for what felt like a lifetime before mustering the courage to touch it. Though it looked like paper, the card felt impossibly soft and almost fluid, like cream. At first it was blank, then whirling purple script began to crawl across the front, forming words, which erased themselves as Delali read.

To the Recipient at Coordinate 40.6975,-73.9966

This is an initial letter of sanction regarding your recent magical behavior. We are instructing you to please cease your conspicuous acts of magic immediately.

Should you continue to practice magic in a manner that is inconsistent with the objectives of the Sphere, you will receive further sanctions.

In the instance that you receive five sanctions, you will be located and transported to 33,26 to discuss your behavior with the Council. You will be afforded the option of attending with your mentor, instructor, or closest elder if you so choose.

With the utmost love and affection,

The Council

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gabbie was on the phone with Dan as she walked into her favorite place on earth: the Michaels on 6th Avenue. She’d been checking her phone obsessively all day, hoping to hear from Delali and Maya, the girls from the weekend, but the group chat they had made to stay connected in the club had gone totally silent. Gabbie was disappointed, but there was nothing wrong with just going home, washing her face, and changing into her pajamas before some TV time. Maybe rewatching The Bold Type could give her the courage she needed to open up the chat and send the first missive to the girls.

Plus, she could spend the night finishing the care package she was putting together for Dan. He’d been complaining about sunburn since he first stepped off the plane in Nairobi, and Gabbie was working on a sun hat to go in the package (along with flaxseed crackers, Dan’s over-the-counter allergy meds, and his favorite mechanical pencils). When she got down to the fabrics section of Michaels, she switched the call to FaceTime.

“What do you think of this one?” she asked, flashing a spool of navy-blue crochet yarn in front of the camera for Dan.

“I like that,” Dan replied.

“Or,” Gabbie continued as she rummaged through the selection. “What about this?”

“That’s really nice,” Dan said.

“This?”

“That’s a great one.”

“Dan,” Gabbie said, half-scolding, half-giggling. “You hate orange. I just held that up to see if you were paying attention!”

“It’s just a hat, Gabs, it’s gonna block the sun no matter the color.”

Gabbie was about to get actually annoyed with Dan when she heard a voice behind her.

“Oh my gosh!” Gabbie turned to face a tall, round-cheeked girl clutching a garland of orange plastic leaves. “Are you Gabbie from Crafting and Coconut Oil?”

“Oh,” Gabbie said. She took a step back, surprised. Crafting and Coconut Oil was the DIY-crafting-and-natural-hair Instagram she’d started two summers ago. When Gabbie wasn’t working on lesson plans or talking to Dan, she was probably baking or knitting or flat-twisting something that she could post on C&C. After Dan left for Nairobi, and before she got her classroom assignment, Gabbie had posted way more than usual—even starting a TikTok—out of utter boredom. But it had never occurred to her to check whether people were actually following along.

“Yeah,” Gabbie said finally, realizing she hadn’t responded. “That’s me.”

“Ah, that’s so cool,” the girl said. She dropped the garland into her basket. “I loved your Elmer’s glue face mask! Totally unclogged my pores.”

“Thanks,” Gabbie said, beaming. Her smashed avocado, Aztec clay, and glue face mask was one of her first ventures into DIY beauty. “That’s one of my faves, too. Oh, wait—” Gabbie turned to her screen, remembering she was still on with Dan. “Hey,” she whispered, “could I call you back in a sec?” She hung up.

“I’m Eliza,” the girl said, extending one hand and reaching into her purse with the other.

“Nice to meet you.” Gabbie swept her hair off her forehead, feeling a little overwhelmed. She liked knowing that someone with powder blue faux locs and holographic creepers followed her little Instagram.

“I’ve been thinking about starting my own YouTube or TikTok thing for-ev-er,” Eliza said, pulling out an iPhone in a furry blue case. “Selfie?”

“Uh, sure,” Gabbie said, but Eliza had already tilted her chin down, turned her head to catch the light, and snapped a pic of the two of them.

Eliza slipped the phone back into her purse and continued as though she hadn’t stopped. “But I have no idea how to, like, get people interested in my stuff. How’d you build your following?”

“Oh.” Gabbie paused to think about it. She had a following? She didn’t even have friends. “Just posting stuff that I’m passionate about? And trying to take high-quality pictures.” She shrugged. “I don’t know really. I always have a ton of ideas, but I only ever post when I have the time.”

“No way,” Eliza said. “I would have thought you were a full-time content creator.”

Gabbie laughed.

“No, seriously. All my friends are totally obsessed with your videos.”

“Really?” Gabbie asked, laughing awkwardly. Compliments always made her uncomfortable.

“Totally,” Eliza confirmed.

Gabbie pulled her phone out of her bright red J. Crew chinos and handed it to Eliza. “Could I have your phone number or Insta or something? To keep in touch?”

“Sure.” Eliza tapped into Gabbie’s phone. “I gotta go,” she said, nodding to some friends who were waiting at the end of the aisle. “But, FYI, you owe the people a new post!”

“You too!” Gabbie said as Eliza walked away, face-palming internally as soon as she said it. When she’d gotten over her embarrassment, Gabbie decided to peruse the shelves a little longer without calling Dan—it would go faster this way, anyway, and she knew Dan would be cranky about her hanging up on him. When she was done, she took her haul up to the checkout. Looking at the dozens of craft supplies in her arms, she realized she had gone a little bit overboard, but everyone knew fall was peak crafting season. Plus, she had a coupon she’d been dying to use.

The line for checkout snaked past the barriers and into the portrait-and-framing aisle, which it always did on weeknights, and by the time Gabbie finally got to the front, her arms were sore. She dropped all her items on the counter, jerking to stop a tube of cerulean paint as it threatened to roll off the counter. Gabbie took in the cashier, a tall, skinny, high school kid with close-cropped hair and a zigzag through his left eyebrow. Gabbie was at Michaels often enough that she knew all of the cashiers by name, so she was always super excited to see a new face.

“Hey!” Gabbie said enthusiastically. She leaned in to read the cashier’s nametag. “OMG, your name is⁠—”

He cut her off. “Michael, yes.”

“Right.” Rebuffed, Gabbie stood in silence as Michael rang up her items.

“That’s one hundred eighty-six twenty-eight,” he said after what must have been five full minutes of concentrated scanning.

“Oh, I’ve got a coupon!” Gabbie placed her phone on the counter, barcode up.

Michael picked up his scanning gun and pointed it at the phone screen, but the machine responded with a red light and a disappointing beep. “Expired.” He slid the phone across the counter to Gabbie.

“Oh, no,” Gabbie said, sliding the phone back toward him. “It’s not.”

Michael scanned the coupon again. Red. “Expired.”

“I think maybe the angle isn’t right? If you could just maybe . . .” Gabbie mimicked how she would scan the coupon if she worked at Michaels—something that she had, in fact, fantasized about before.

Michael could barely contain his contempt. He angled his arm dramatically, his elbow pointing to the ceiling, and scanned the coupon, all while maintaining eye contact with Gabbie. Another red light and lackluster beep.

“That must be an error,” Gabbie said. “The coupon says it expires next week. The thirteenth. It’s Saturday the second. It says that pretty clearly on the top. It’s right there.”

“Miss, you watched me scan the coupon. Thrice. It’s no longer valid.” Michael’s volume had risen a notch, and the people who had been shuffling and sighing behind Gabbie now started to openly stare.

Gabbie could feel herself getting flustered, heat rising to her face and staying there. Usually she’d do anything to avoid confrontation, especially in public. But she couldn’t spend two hundred dollars on crafts just to avoid conflict. She had to draw the line somewhere.

“Do you think, maybe, you could consider calling your manager or something? Maybe Suzanna would be able to help.”

“Are you trying to get me in trouble with my boss? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than attack a retail worker on a Friday night?”

“No! I mean yes—” Gabbie stuttered. “I do have something better to . . . that’s not what I meant, I just thought . . . you’re new, and—” Gabbie could see it now, her face plastered over Twitter as “the Michaels Karen.” The first ever viral Black Karen. The hypothetical shame was overwhelming.

“If you want a discount,” Michael interrupted, “maybe you should put some of these items back.” He held up a packet of glass beads she’d planned to use for a counting exercise. “Would plastic not suffice?”

Gabbie took a step back. She hated that Michael thought she was the kind of person who would try to get a guy fired for not scanning a freaking coupon. “I’m sor—” she started, but then stopped midsentence feeling the involuntary sting of hot tears. She was definitely about to cry in public, which, admittedly, would not be a first for her. She steadied herself and looked up from the counter to try again, but as her eyes met Michael’s, his face changed. It softened, and he took a slow step back, blinking as if his eyes were adjusting to the light.

“You’re right,” Michael said, sounding slightly dazed. He lifted Gabbie’s phone from the counter, slowly. “It says right there, September thirteenth.” He laughed as if he couldn’t believe how foolish he’d been.

Gabbie scrunched up her face in confusion—what? “Yeah . . . it does,” she said.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, the coupon’s totally valid. I’m not sure how I missed that. Really—I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Gabbie said.

“No, really, it’s not. I’ve totally ruined your experience at Michaels today, and that’s just not fair.”

“I—”

“Let me enter this now.”

He typed in the code and the light blinked green. The machine beeped happily. Valid.

“Sixty-two thirty-three,” Michael announced, triumphant.

“Sorry to be annoying,” Gabbie said. “But did you make sure the googly eyes were two for one?” The googly eyes were not two for one, but she wanted to test Michael’s sudden attitude change.

“Shit,” Michael said. “Sorry, ma’am, I missed that.” He looked concerned for a moment, then perked up. “You know what, if Suzanna were here she’d give this to you on the house. Just for how much trouble I’ve caused you.”

Gabbie was bewildered. She knew Suzanna well enough to know that she would absolutely not authorize such a thing. She watched as Michael swept her items into a jumbo plastic bag, too stunned to ask him to put it all in her environmentally friendly, turtle-patterned canvas tote instead. Gabbie grabbed the bag and moved out of the way for the next customer, but then she stood by the checkout, utterly confused, watching as Michael shook his head like he’d just been dumped in a bucket of cold water. She had no idea know what had just happened—but she did know it was somehow connected to her and Michael’s weird moment of eye contact, the one that she had felt down to her toes.

“Excuse me,” she called to Michael, and he looked up from the customer who had just taken Gabbie’s place. She made eye contact again now, deeply and purposefully, just to see what would happen. Like before, Michael’s reaction was instantaneous: his shoulders relaxed and he stood straighter. In his eyes, eerily opaque and unfocused, Gabbie could see her reflection. She just stood, her eyes locked on his, kind of . . . holding him there. Then, suddenly, Michael reared back from the counter and threw up all over it.

“Oh!” Gabbie cried. “Oh my god!”

She hurried to the door. What in the world was that? she thought to herself, for the second time since her birthday. The memory of the phone and the flash of light outside The Bar popped into her head again. What were the chances that these two things had nothing to do with each other? She wasn’t a math teacher, but she would bet it was zero. It was obvious from the silence in the group chat that the other girls were having normal weekends. Was it just her? She sighed and allowed herself one more peek at her phone. And just as she did, it started to vibrate, “Delali” flashing up on the screen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Maya didn’t know people actually stayed at the office until it got dark. She’d assumed they were just kind of slow at packing their stuff up, or maybe they stayed ten minutes after to make her feel like an inferior employee—not that she cared. Maya was always out of the office at six o’clock exactly. She packed her belongings at lunch, had all her docs closed by 5:55, and started pushing away from her desk at 5:59:30. But today she’d been handed a particularly agonizing assignment from someone in the Clarke Stein LA office, someone who clearly didn’t care about the time difference between the coasts.

There was a huge art gallery opening downtown that night, and a deal to have all the gift bags stuffed with CS’s fall perfume had fallen through after Clarke’s connect at the gallery had quit her job. Now it was Maya’s responsibility to contact a list of people linked to the opening to see if they could work the perfume back into the bags. Maya tapped her acrylics, recently filed into a coffin shape and shellacked bold orange, impatiently against her desk. She decided to be ambitious and started by calling Edie Thatcher, the artist heading the opening. Though she was definitely having a moment, Edie was still in the early stages of her career, and Maya suspected the number listed on her site was probably just her personal one. In her most authoritative voice, Maya tried to convince Edie that hawking Clarke Stein perfume was totally in line with her goal of destigmatizing female bowel movements.

“I just feel like the work you’re doing is trying to elevate bowel movements to the same level of sacredness and femininity as any other female beauty or hygiene ritual, right?” Maya asked, straining to recall language from the freshman year art-theory class that had put her off art—visual or otherwise—for life.

“Mmm.”

“So, like, the juxtaposition of the perfume and your installation sort of highlights that, right?”

“Mmm.”

“And, on another level, the perfume sort of accuses the viewer, the same way your art does, of trying to mythicize or, uh, cover up something natural, you know, the way a perfume might cover up an unpleasant odor? The kind we believe women aren’t capable of producing . . . ?” Maya was glad no one was close enough to overhear this.

There was a long pause on the other end, and Maya imagined Edie scribbling furiously in her Moleskine with a purple Le Pen or something, stroking some kind of wiry hanging plant with her free hand.

Finally, Edie sighed. “Listen, honey, you seem great, and probably too smart for your industry,” she said, her voice thick with vocal fry. “But I’m not really in the mood to be your consumerist puppet today. Find some other opening.”

The next hour and a half proceeded similarly: ultra-busy, fake-aloof art people scoffing at Maya’s requests, then hanging up. Maya wondered whether the asshole who called her from the West Coast had confused her for some way-more-capable PR rep, oblivious to the fact that she had just started her job a month and a half ago. She sighed and looked at the clock, then shot a quick text to Francesca, the girl she’d been talking to. Maya had tentatively agreed to see her tonight, but it was 8:35 now, and Maya wasn’t confident that she would finish any time soon. A part of her was relieved though—things had been getting too consistent between them, and this canceled dinner was a perfect way to start her ghosting routine.

Maya chewed the inside of her lip as she dialed another number. She spun in her office chair as the phone rang, taking in the lofted SoHo space she’d always wished was her apartment. The bare concrete floors, sparsely adorned white walls, and naked pipes looked creepy at night, and by now, almost nine on a Friday, pretty much everyone was gone. Though, if she squinted, she could see a figure at the far end of the office, and she knew immediately it was one of the other PR assistants, a super anal girl named Tatiana. It was then Maya realized that she probably had been confused for someone else—hyper-capable, super-employee Tatiana DuBois. They were the only two Black girls in the office, and Maya had gotten bored of her coworkers’ post-mix-up apologies in week one.

“Hello?”

Maya snapped to attention. “Hello? Hi! Is this Esther Neptune? Of Neptune Experiences?”

“Yes,” a voice droned impatiently on the other end. “Who is this?”

“Maya West, from Clarke Stein?”

“I’m sorry—were we meant to be expecting a call from you?”

At this point, Maya figured lying would get her farther than telling the truth.

“Yes, actually. I’m calling about the—” Maya snatched a sheet up from her desk. “Edie Thatcher ‘A Woman’s Movement’ gallery opening tonight? I just wanted to confirm that you have enough perfume samples for your gift bags. An assistant called from your office earlier today and said you might need another delivery.”

“Uh—” She heard the sound of shuffling papers. “Hold on a second. Let me put you on with one of our interns.”

It took Maya all of five minutes to bully the high-strung NYU freshman into thinking she’d forgotten to put the perfumes in the gift bags for the opening. She hung up triumphantly, then looked at the clock, rolling her head back in annoyance when she saw the time. It was 9:30, and the first time her work life had adversely impacted her social life. When Maya turned her phone off airplane mode, a flurry of texts poped onto her screen. Ugh—they were from the girls from last week, in the group chat the annoying one, Gabbie, had forced them to set up.

Delali

Guys some weird shit has been happening to me

Delali

Did you guys get a letter like this?

Delali

It just appeared out of nowhere

Delali

I’m freaking the fuck out

Attached was a picture of a card that looked like a wedding invitation. Maya was too scared to enlarge the picture. She scrolled through the rest of the texts.

Gabbie

No letter, but definitely some weird stuff happening over here! I think I’ve been changing people’s emotions or something!

Delali

Wdym

Gabbie

Ugh idk—it’s hard to explain. It happened with the checkout guy at Michaels! It’s like I made him . . . happier?

Maya

Relax. Do u not know what flirting looks like??? Jeeeeesus

Gabbie

I don’t think that was it. Plus I was wearing my teaching clothes.

Gabbie

And not the day-to-night ones either.

Gabbie

It was so freaky! But kind of cool 😎.

Maya, suppressing a gag at the sight of the sunglasses emoji, locked her phone and turned to her desk. As far as she was concerned, whatever was going on in the group text was Delali and Gabbie’s problem, not hers. Nothing weird had happened to her since Saturday, and she was starting to wonder whether she’d even had anything to do with the phone thing or if the other two had just done it themselves. She slid out of her black Manolo sandals and into a pair of slightly decomposed Adidas, and stood. Her jean miniskirt and white faux-leather cami didn’t work as well without the shoes, but the idea of hobbling down the subway stairs in heels practically made her sweat. She was bending over her desk to log out of Windows when she heard someone approach.

“Every time I see you, you’re on your way out of the office!” Tatiana chirped.

Maya turned to face her, crossing her arms. Tatiana was, well, the worst. Maya hated the way she stayed late even on the slowest days, always somehow made progress on projects between Friday and Monday, and was constantly kissing their superiors’ asses. She couldn’t believe that she’d ever felt otherwise, but there had been a time when she thought she and Tatiana would actually be friends.

Back in the summer, their boss Lacey had sent all the junior PR girls to Eataly’s rooftop bar with her personal assistant, Moses, and her company card, clearly uninterested in the HR-required welcome event. Maya had scanned the room and beelined to Tatiana, and they spent the whole night together, sharing stories about their summers and roasting their coworkers’ Mary-Kate and Ashley cosplay outfits. The following Monday, Maya showed up to work excited, her boring job now gleaming with possibility, but Tatiana had been cold. Now, the only thing Maya felt when she saw Tatiana was annoyance that a girl so practical and competitive was also so pretty and glamorously dressed. Their failed friendship was one of many disappointments of the job, just under Maya’s realization that in New York, she wouldn’t be taken seriously in fashion until she started wearing those Margiela boots that segregated your toes. So never. Tatiana somehow managed to look hot and well-versed in fashion theory at the same time. Today she wore a silky, black wrap dress over a pair of straight-leg jeans and a pair of metallic pink sandals. Maya hadn’t seen dark wash look that cool since high school.

“Well, I’m not sure if you noticed,” Maya said, straining to keep her voice even, “but it’s almost nine thirty on a Friday.”

“Oh, I noticed.” Tatiana smiled. Her glossy brown eyes reflected a reading of Maya so thorough and sure, she felt like she was standing naked in the middle of the Clarke Stein offices. “I’m just waiting for Lacey—we’re grabbing dinner.” Maya did her best to hide her surprise. Lacey, CS’s head of marketing, was a bona fide industry celeb who rarely deigned to speak to the PR girls, let alone socialize with them. But if she were to dignify one of them, Maya wasn’t surprised it was Tatiana.

“Well, I’m gonna head out,” Maya said, reaching for her bag. Ugh, she thought. Why had she chosen her battered Goyard tote today of all days? She tried to hide it as she turned toward the door, but it was impossible to miss. “Have fun at dinner, or whatever.”

“Will do,” Tatiana said, breaking into a smile so big it could almost pass for genuine. “Oh, and cute sneakers!”

Maya huffed out of the office—she hated when she didn’t get the last word—and stormed toward the subway. Her phone vibrated and she glanced at it—it was the girls from the other night again. Now the annoying one was freaking out, too.

Gabbie

Wait, I just got one of those letters, too! It’s a little concerning. Who are the Council?

Gabbie

I guess I did neglect to mention that I think I also made the checkout guy throw up.

Delali

Maybe we should meet up again?

Delali

Tompkins at 10?

Maya clicked her phone off as she approached Prince and Crosby, then stopped in the middle of the block. There had been construction on the face of an apartment building right outside her office since she’d started, and the guys who worked there were the grossest construction worker caricatures Maya had ever encountered. At all hours of the day, no matter what shift—rain, shine, lunch, morning coffee—there were construction workers hanging from ladders and yelling obscenities at the girls who passed. Maya had never made the walk alone—the CS girls usually linked up in solidarity. She looked down at the minuscule skirt she was wearing. Fuck. She felt herself begin to sweat and shiver at the same time. She could hear the tinkering of the night-shift guys, and she was frozen, planted on the cement and unable to round the corner.

As the clink! clink! of their tools wormed its way into her brain, Maya started to feel a strange prickle on her skin—it was tight and dry, as if she’d taken a shower but neglected to lotion. The sensation built for what felt like an eternity, her skin growing tighter and tighter, as if shrinking over her body. Then Maya felt a pop and a sort of release. Almost like her skin had snapped open. Maya looked around as she regained her senses. She looked down to see that her body was no longer hers—the long slender legs, the Naomi Campbell complexion, the hard-won abs, all gone. Instead she had the legs of a man, short and thick, her skin off-white and covered in dark curly hairs. Her stomach felt loose. Her hands were the size of her original head. Maya screamed—a long, loud baritone sound that must have turned heads. By the time she’d finished, her own legs had reappeared. So had her hands and stomach and everything else. Maya looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but there was no one. She pulled out her phone, shaking, and ran to Tompkins Square Park as fast as her Pilates-toned legs could carry her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Delali, unsure what to do with the nervous energy coursing through her after receiving the letter, was halfway to Tompkins on foot when her phone started shaking life into her freezing hand.

Maya

Guys what the fuck

Maya

What the fuck

Maya

What the FUCK

Maya

Some weird shit just happened to me

Maya

Let’s meet now

Maya

Wherever

Maya

Tompkins?

Maya

I’m fucking scared!!!!!!!

Now she stood on the corner of two concrete paths inside the park, shivering against the wind. Gabbie came slowly into view, puttering along in light-wash jeans and a red peacoat, smiling absently and not at all matching Delali’s urgency.

“Hi!” Gabbie said.

“Hey.”

“Maya’s not here yet?”

“No.” Delali checked her phone. Nothing from Maya yet.

“She totally seems like the type to always be late,” Gabbie said with a laugh. Delali looked at her quizzically, then said nothing.

The temperature had plummeted since morning and she pulled her jean jacket, stiff with cold, closer to her. After she’d gotten over the shock of the letter, Delali had texted the girls frantically. When she asked if they wanted to meet up, it took everything in Delali to write it as a casual suggestion, instead of the frantic demand it really was.

Gabbie and Delali stood in a loaded silence, which grew heavier each minute Maya was late. Outside the park, they could hear the sounds of New York as usual, cars, kids, and the rest. But inside the park, surrounded by trees, they felt an odd sense of privacy, even seclusion. Finally, they heard a shallow panting, and Maya, running, appeared from the girls’ left, her face crumpled with stress and her makeup streaked with tears.

“Maya!” Delali asked.

“Are you okay?” Gabbie asked. She stretched her arms out toward Maya, and instinctively Delali did, too. Maya landed in them, and the girls fell together in a clumsy embrace. It was then, huddled in each other’s arms, that they felt the jolt of something powerful shake them. They released each other and stepped back, watching as beams of blue-white light appeared between them. The beams aimed out of their chests and toward each other, forming a perfect triangle. The light radiated upward, forming sheets of light that darted into the sky. Outside the park, unknowing onlookers ignored the display, taking the lights for just an ordinary part of the city’s skyline.

For a moment they were stuck in the formation. Then whatever had taken hold of their bodies released them.

“I turned into a man!” Maya said, as soon as the light let go of them.

“You what?” Delali asked.

“In the middle of the street. I just turned into a man. A white man,” Maya said, her voice bubbling over.

“Woah,” Gabbie said.

“Yeah, woah. And then it just—” She waved her hand. “Then I just became myself again.”

“That’s . . .”

“Can we go back to my apartment?” Maya asked hurriedly, shivering. “I’m freezing, and it’s getting dark and I just . . . Can we go?”

The girls walked the ten minutes to Maya’s. It was weird to see the city so normal, when they’d just experienced the kind of weirdness that should make the whole thing come to a halt.

Inside, Maya locked the door behind them.

“Where are your roommates?” Gabbie asked, looking around.

“I don’t know?” Maya said, shaking her head. “Probably downstairs.”

“Oh, right,” Gabbie said, remembering The Bar.

Maya walked to her overstuffed cloud sofa in a haze, too deep in her thoughts to answer. She curled her legs under her, and Delali and Gabbie followed.

“The phone thing was real,” Delali said emphatically.

“Maybe it was real, but what the fuck was it?” Maya asked. As her shock subsided, it was replaced by her trademark annoyance.

“Magic,” Delali and Gabbie said in unison.

Maya put her face in her hands. “What the fuck does that mean? And why did you guys both say it?”

As if on cue, a sanctions letter dropped through the air and fluttered into Maya’s lap, causing her breathing to stop again. She stared at it.

“Read it,” Delali urged. “I think it’s the same thing we got earlier.”

Maya looked at it for a moment, then touched it. She watched, her face fixed in tentative wonder, as words began to crawl across the page. Gabbie leaned over Maya’s shoulder to read it, while Delali watched from her spot on the sofa. Gabbie read aloud:

To the Recipient at Coordinate 40.61, -78.99

This is an initial letter of sanction regarding your recent magical behavior. We are instructing you to please cease your conspicuous acts of magic immediately.

Should you continue to practice magic in a manner that is inconsistent with the objectives of the Sphere, you will receive further sanctions.

In the instance that you receive five sanctions, you will be located and transported to 33,26 to discuss your behavior with the Council. You will be afforded the option of attending with your mentor, instructor, or closest elder if you so choose.

With the utmost love and affection,

The Council

“Acts of magic?” Maya whispered. When she said she wanted a more interesting life she meant more invite-only parties and a diversified hookup roster. Not whatever the hell this was.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

On Monday morning, Nadia woke before her alarm sounded. She’d be seeing Dr. Diop and Dr. Miloy today, for their first meeting since Nina’s birth, and her questions had kept her up for most of the night. She knew the Regent had called for Dr. Diop immediately after being notified, but she had no idea what had come of their conversation.

Nadia showered and dressed, pulling on a black A-line minidress and sheer black tights. She tried the outfit with her Dr. Martens oxfords, then her flatform Tevas, before finally setting on a pair of bulky black-and-beige designer sneakers she’d taken from an absurdly expensive typic shop last month. Then she padded through the quiet house and into the room where Eve slept with Nina and kissed the baby on the forehead.

By the time Nadia arrived at the imposing steps of the WHO headquarters (21,51), the sun had come out, and handfuls of slow-moving witches and MAMs were starting to mill about the winding streets of the Sphere. She jogged up the building’s stately concrete steps and, from the lobby, transported up to the floor that housed the lab. She was immediately put at ease by the room: the domed glass ceiling, the white, glass-paneled walls, the absolute quiet that accompanied the space when no one was there. Usually the lab was chaos—researchers spread out across the room mixing potions on the spotless white counters, testing charms, fiddling with intent and ritual as they created new spells—but now the benches were so spotless that Nadia could drag her palm across them as she walked without worry of destroying something delicate.

She stopped in front of the charmed wall at the back of the lab. From floor to ceiling, it was covered in blinking purple dots, each of which represented a witch who had undergone WHO treatments. It updated itself several times a day, as soon as there was a development in a witch’s treatment. Nadia was standing and taking it in when Dr. Diop arrived, not a second early or late. She could hear her walk over from the entrance in her soft-soled shoes, the footsteps stopping just behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know how the doctor looked: tall and serious, her straight eyebrows pulled into a furrow, her 4C hair gathered into a pristine, lush puff at the nape of her neck.

“Who would’ve thought?” Dr. Diop said, and Nadia turned to look at her. She was wearing her usual uniform, a white crewneck sweater with white slacks. Her smile was knowing. “Your sister.”

Her sister, the witch to break the pattern of the Crisis. It had been thirty-three years since the Betrayer upended the Witch Sphere. Nadia, of course, wasn’t there when it happened, but she’d heard from her mom and her teachers and the history books about the event, which had come to be known simply as the Shatter. After the Shatter, the whole Sphere had taken a southward turn, so much so that their world was split into two distinct eras: Before the Shatter and After. First it was just a mood, a bad feeling. Then visitors to 33,26 noted that the Cradle, the witch’s willow that sat in the Regent’s yard, had started a slow decay. Its leaves, normally green and limned with purple, were fading to ashen gray, then white, then falling off entirely. Branches grew limp, then dropped to the ground. The Cradle was understood to be a representation of the Sphere itself, but witches did their best to stay hopeful in the face of its foreboding decline. Then, three months after the Shatter, the true Crisis made itself clear: witches started giving birth to typics, daughters who had no trace of magical powers.

Before the Shatter, such an event was unheard of, and initially it was rare, an apparent fluke, occurring in perhaps one baby girl out of hundreds of thousands. But the frequency increased in the third, fourth, and fifth years after the Shatter, and soon, nearly every family in the Sphere knew a witch who’d given birth to a typic—a baby with no watermark on her foot, no electricity on her skin, no reason to choose living in the Sphere over the typic world. A baby like Nadia’s elder niece, Helia. It soon became clear once a witch gave birth to a typic, she could not go on to give birth to a witch—a typic baby was evidence that a witch could no longer contribute to the magic population of the Sphere, and now witches lived in terror of having children at all. Overall happiness rates, the very quality that separated the Sphere from the typic world, had steadily declined each year since the start of the Crisis.

Just last Monday, days before Nina’s birth, Nadia was sitting on the steps of the WHO headquarters eating her lunch when a woman bounded up the stairs and stood, trembling, in front of her. Though she tried to maintain her composure, the woman began to sob the moment she reached Nadia and revealed the days-old baby hidden under her jacket.

“Please,” she’d begged, thrusting the baby toward Nadia. “Please help my baby. She’s a typic.”

Nadia tried to explain the Magic Reinstatement Program’s registration process, explain that the waitlist was thousands of names long, but the woman was inconsolable. She sobbed as she appealed to Nadia, explaining that her entire family’s history would be lost, before WHO security eventually came outside, gently calmed the woman down, and transported her to her home. Nadia worried that the public had no idea how far the WHO really was from a cure.

For years, the WHO had attempted fruitlessly to imbue typic babies with magic via spells, charms, and potions. An entire generation of women born without magic had already grown up and lived in various stages of disengagement with the Witch Sphere, and the entire community became increasingly preoccupied with finding a solution. Every year, the Regent and the Council funneled more resources into the WHO’s research, desperate to increase the rate of magic births. Finally, Dr. Diop proposed the Atmospheric Magic Effort, a program that would attempt to transfer magic from the atmosphere and into the bodies of typic babies or pregnant witches. At the time, Nadia, still a student at Bekere, never thought the image-conscious Regent would approve it.

It was taboo in the Sphere to tamper with atmospheric magic, the free-floating magic that existed in the air rather than in the bodies of witches. Atmospheric magic was understood to contribute to coincidences, happy accidents, and euphoric moments in the lives of both typics and witches, and many worried that altering atmospheric magic would reduce the number of blissful instances in both worlds. With less atmospheric magic floating around, first kisses, dream job offers, orgasms, uncomplicated conversations with friends, and easy Sunday mornings were all at risk. Most witches believed that the Sphere had been perfectly and precisely constructed by the Mothers and, as such, shouldn’t be tampered with.

But hopelessness was stronger than the Sphere’s reverence for the Mothers, and when Violet approved the AME, it hadn’t been the career-ending break with tradition that it might have been in the early aftermath of the Shatter. It had been accepted, if not secretly celebrated by some of the more desperate families. That was when Nadia had breathlessly, hopefully applied, along with record numbers of young, hungry applicants who wanted to avenge this or that cousin or prevent having their own typic babies. But even with the new program and the overflow of resources and attention from the Council, they were still struggling to find anything resembling a cure. One potion worked for a day, giving a baby girl powers for a full twenty-four hours before they puttered out and disappeared. A charmed powder had given another girl powers for almost a week, then stopped working while Dr. Diop was halfway through drafting a triumphant missive to Violet. They’d even fiddled with spells, an esoteric form of magic most modern-day witches weren’t skilled in (unless they’d gone to some tradition-obsessed training school, as Nadia had), with no luck.

But then Nina was born.

“Who would’ve thought,” Nadia replied.

“I did a cursory review of MOTs who have given birth to witches in the week since Nina’s birth.” Dr. Diop began affixing the review to the wall, and Dr. Miloy, her second in command, appeared at the entrance of the lab. “So I could begin to narrow down which of our attempts to transfer magic might have worked. We’ll call these restorative births for now.”

Nadia and Dr. Miloy, who’d walked across the room to join them, read the list in silence.

Nadia’s excitement turned to confusion as she read the list.

“Ah,” Dr. Miloy said after a long moment.

“Who is Wysteria Pasque?” Nadia had a near encyclopedic knowledge of the AME witches and the treatments they’d received and some of these names were new to her.

“Exactly,” Dr. Diop replied. “She’s never been treated by the WHO, AME, or otherwise. Nor have Johnson, Avery, Gikandi. The list goes on.”

“Nothing?” Dr. Miloy asked. She was a woman who always looked perturbed, and now that expression deepened. “Not even the earlier MRP trials?”

“No,” Dr. Diop answered.

Dr. Diop affixed another list to the wall: first-time mothers and mothers of witches who had given birth in the last week. “First-time mothers and non-MoTs have also given birth to witches and typics at random this week—with no discernible pattern except for that downward curve toward day four.”

“So something has changed the Crisis,” Nadia concluded. “But it wasn’t us?”

Dr. Diop’s face grew sober, and she shook her head. “It’s not encouraging, is it?”

Nadia let out a mirthless laugh: nothing about the program had been encouraging. With Nina’s birth, it was clear they’d stumbled on a breakthrough. But it wasn’t clear exactly how.

“Well,” Dr. Miloy said, attempting to be optimistic. “The early days of science never are.”

“Certainly, we know that,” Dr. Diop responded. She rubbed a finger against her bottom lip. “But not everyone does.”

She might as well have mentioned the Regent by name. Violet had moved up their monthly meeting as soon as word of Nina’s birth reached her. It wouldn’t be long before they’d have to formally present her with their ignorance.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Alba had never heard of Miss Lily’s 7A, the restaurant her vision had led her to. But when she stepped inside, she noted that the raucousness of the restaurant (the loud decoration, the dancehall music flooding onto the street) was the perfect cover for what she planned to do that day: spy on the group of girls she suspected to be witches. Alba had been a Seer her whole life, but she’d never had visions as puzzling as the ones that had been darting into her head over the past few weeks. When she was younger and stronger, her visions had followed the pattern that was common for most Seers. First, days or weeks or months ahead of an event, a hazy sketch of a vision would appear in her mind’s view. Then that same vision would return, again and again at more frequent intervals, each time becoming clearer and more vivid as the future decided on itself.

But over the last few decades, her visions had become strange; they were rarer, and when they did arrive they seldom moved past that initial blurry stage, or they predicted pedestrian events moments before they happened (e.g., when she was about to trip over the curb). The visions had started to exhaust her, too. Magic could be tiring of course, but her named power shouldn’t be, especially to the degree it was exhausting her now. She often had to sit when one of her useless visions appeared, or stay in bed for a day after, feeling like she’d just run a marathon while battling the flu.

Every now and then, though, Alba had a vision like the old ones. When the image of The Bar first swam before her eyes four weeks ago, she’d ignored it, assuming it wouldn’t ever return. But the vision had come again a week later, and several times after that, slowly solidifying in her head. She was struck by its strangeness. Had the visions shown three preteen witches making a mess of their powers, the appropriate next steps would have been clear: send out mentorship banners, arrange for an initial meeting, begin training immediately. But with this vision, with these witches who appeared to be long past the age of training, she was baffled, and she needed to be sure before she approached.

On the night of September 1st, Alba followed her vision to a streetcorner in the East Village, where she watched the scene play out exactly as it had in her mind. After that, she took to researching and following the girls, sometimes staking out The Bar, other times following the girls to work or school and back, desperately searching for confirmation that something was out of the ordinary. But the girls appeared to live normal—if boring—twentysomething lives. From what she’d seen at The Bar that night, the girls’ act of magic wasn’t entirely intentional. They’d looked surprised by the light that lassoed the phone, reacting the way a typic or a young witch might. They looked like novices. So today she looked not for the poise or elegance of a seasoned witch, but for undeniable evidence. She needed to catch the girls discussing their magic or, better yet, practicing it. Alba chose a table by the bathroom and propped a drink menu against the table centerpiece to obscure her face. Then she shook off her taupe quilted coat and waited.

“Hi, welcome to Miss Lily’s 7A. What can I get you?”

Alba looked up at the towering waitress. “Ah.” She glanced over the menu. She’d been so focused on watching the restaurant’s entrance for the girls’ arrival that she’d forgotten where she was. “I’ll get . . . the jerk chicken roti.”

The waitress scribbled onto her notepad. “Anything to drink?” she asked. Her accent carried an enchanting St. Kittian lilt.

“No, thank you. I’ll keep this, for now,” Alba said, nodding toward the drink menu. She gave the waitress a gracious smile before she turned, leaving her to watch the doorway over the top of her tortoiseshell sunglasses. Groups streamed in, gathering at the hostess stand, and then breezing to their reserved tables or huddling by the entrance to wait, but the three girls Alba had been following didn’t appear. The waitress came with her sandwich. Several parties that had arrived after Alba finished their meals and left, and she began to feel foolish. Perhaps September 1 was an anomaly, and she really couldn’t trust her visions anymore. Perhaps her powers were finally petering out.

She was just about to call for the check when she saw one of the girls from The Bar appear at the hostess booth. It was the square girl with the lovely twist-out, who Alba knew worked at PS 391. Alba closed her mouth tentatively around her roti, now cold, and chewed. The other girls were right behind her: the brusque one—who Alba gathered was famous—and the prissy one, the one who had dropped the phone that night. They followed the waitress to a four-top and shook off their coats as she swept away the fourth place setting.

Today was the first time Alba had seen all the girls together since that first night, but as they sat, she could tell there was a familiarity between them. They were a safe distance away, sitting by one of the big windows that faced Avenue A. From what Alba could see, they weren’t discussing anything particularly serious; they simply seemed like a group of friends having brunch. She watched the girls closely for nearly an hour, eyes trained on their every movement, before she realized with a pang of embarrassment that she might be wasting her time. The girls were not witches—and if they were, they were certainly putting on a successful show of being three ordinary girlfriends.

Alba began to turn away from the girls, to go to the bathroom before she left, but as she moved, she saw something that made her pause. The prissy one’s glass was full, glittering with bright red liquid. When she’d looked away just now, it had been empty; she’d just tipped her head back to swallow the dregs of her drink. One of the girls had to have filled it with her powers. This was standard witch activity—Alba remembered doing the same with her girlfriends when she was younger. The prissy girl caught her eye, and when her face registered absolute panic, Alba knew she was the one who’d done it.

* * *

“You would think,” Gabbie clucked, “that if they wanted us to take these letters seriously, they would include a freakin’ return address.”

The girls were huddled in a teal leather booth, toying with their food as they spoke. After Maya got her sanction, she’d called a moratorium on discussing anything magic-related until morning, so they’d watched Save the Last Dance and fallen asleep together in her living room. As soon as they woke up, Maya suggested brunch. Delali suspected this was supposed to be a distraction, but now it only meant they were obsessing over their apparent powers in a newer, slightly louder location.

“Maybe if we keep doing ‘magic’ stuff we can get another letter,” Delali said through a mouthful of Jamaican festival. “Maybe then we can get to meet the Council or whatever, and they can explain what all of this means.”

“Why do we have to do anything? Why does this have to mean anything?” Maya asked. She pushed up the sleeve of her sheer white long sleeve. “Maybe we should just go on living our lives and it’ll probably just go away.” After the weirdness of last night, all Maya wanted to do was get drunk, flirt with their hot waitress, and finish off her plate of coconut waffles before going home to take a post-brunch nap. She would gladly trade all of this witch weirdness to go back to being her twenty-one-year-old self, whose only worry in the world was convincing her parents to up her allowance.

“Isn’t that what we tried to do last time?” Delali asked. “And then you turned into a construction worker in the middle of the street?”

Maya shuddered. “We need to get rid of them. It all seems like a weird accident.”

“Which part? All of us having the same birthday? Us being in the same place at the same time that night? The weird stuff that’s happened since?” Delali paused for a breath. “The letters that literally fell into our laps—there’s someone, somewhere, who knows about this. Who can explain all of it.”

Maya shrugged. She was feigning nonchalance, but she was terrified at the thought of there being more. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe those letters were meant to go somewhere else. I mean—we don’t have mentors or elders or all that other stuff the letter said.”

“Meant for someone else? Like some other girl with magical powers living in your apartment? In your room?”

Maya cringed. “We only moved in a few months ago,” she mumbled.

“Oh, did you think the magical sanctions letter was meant to be forwarded?” Delali turned to face Gabbie, who had been conspicuously quiet. She hadn’t even touched her virgin piña colada. “What do you think?”

Gabbie hadn’t been paying attention. She’d already learned to tune out when Delali and Maya bickered, which, so far, was all the time. More importantly, she and Dan hadn’t spoken since last night—no texts or anything—but in that time he’d posted two pictures on Instagram. The first was of a routine rooftop-bar cityscape with no caption, but the second, posted just twenty minutes ago, was a dark, low-exposure club pic. In it, Dan was sandwiched between two of the other English teachers at his school: a burly, dark-haired guy and a narrow-featured girl whose perfect blowout was draped over Dan’s shoulder—Kim. Her arm was slung around Dan’s neck and she was sticking her tongue so far out it was almost touching Dan’s cheek. Gross.

“Gabbie?” Delali said. Gabbie looked up.

“What?” she asked. “Sorry.”

“Our powers. What do you think they mean?”

“Oh.” Gabbie put her phone on the table, screen down, and sighed. “Honestly, I haven’t really thought about it.”

Delali sighed in frustration. “Of course,” she grumbled.

“Must’ve been too busy zooming in on your boyfriend’s Insta pics and close reading his tweets,” Maya sniped.

“Wait,” said Gabbie. “You can zoom?” She picked up her phone again.

“Oh my god!” Delali exclaimed. Maya and Gabbie turned to look at her. “Can you guys be serious for like ten seconds?”

“What’s the big deal?” Gabbie said, tapping away on her phone. “It’s not like we’re hurting anybody.”

“Exactly,” Maya said. “What’s the big deal?” She grabbed her glass to drink, emptying it with a huge gulp. She moved to flag the waitress—they’d gone for bottomless, obviously—but as she did, her glass, still in her hand, began to fill with sticky red liquid. It stopped only when it reached Maya’s index finger. She looked up from the glass to meet Delali’s gaze, but instead her eyes landed just behind Delali. Her heart stopped. “Fuck,” she muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What?” Gabbie asked, whipping around.

“Don’t look!” Maya said.

“What is it?” Delali urged.

“I think that woman just saw me do that. Fill up the glass or whatever.” Maya ducked.

“What?”

“She’s staring at us,” Maya said, throwing her sunglasses case into her Balenciaga hourglass bag. “We need to leave.” Her voice tilted anxiously upward, as though she were asking a question, but she was already waving down their waitress for the check and digging around for her wallet.

“Are you serious?” Delali asked. She finally turned, and was struck when she saw who Maya must’ve been talking about: a petite, sinewy woman with a short blond afro, whose dark eyes were trained piercingly in their direction. She could see why Maya was startled by the woman—there was something kind of arresting about her.

“Come on,” Maya whispered, pulling Delali’s arm. But Delali didn’t move. There was something knowing about the woman’s stare, something almost soothing. Perhaps it was her tiny frame, or the pastel brown shift dress and matching paisley scarf that reminded Delali of a particularly chic grandma, but more likely it was the tiny smile playing at her lips. I’ve found them, the look seemed to say—and then Delali realized. That wasn’t what the woman’s expression said. It was what the woman thought—and she had just read a stranger’s mind.

* * *

By the time the girls had left the restaurant, Gabbie was the only one who wasn’t having a full-blown freakout. Delali practically pushed her onto the sidewalk and Maya was fanning herself frantically, as if it weren’t sixty degrees out. Gabbie zipped up her crossbody bag with a loud sigh, frustrated that she’d gone this long without knowing you could zoom on Instagram. So much for being a full-time content creator.

“Get a freaking grip, you two,” Gabbie said. “If that lady did see you refill your glass, what’s she gonna do? Call the cops and tell them she just witnessed magic or something?”

Maya smiled reluctantly and then took a few deep, calming breaths. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said finally, crossing her arms. “She doesn’t even know what she just saw anyway.”

Delali didn’t respond. She was pacing silently up and down the sidewalk, hands gripping the straps of her backpack.

“Relax, Delali. I’m sure it’s fine,” Maya reasoned. “And if anyone has the right to freak out, it’s me. I’m the one who had to look into that woman’s creepy X-ray eyes.” She faked a chill.

“Guys,” Delali said, cutting off their laughter. “I think I just read that woman’s mind.”

“Seriously?” Gabbie asked.

“Oh, great,” Maya said.

“Maya,” Gabbie said sternly. She turned her attention to Delali. “What did she say?”

“I think she said, or she thought, ‘I found them.’”

Maya pretended not to feel her heart lurch. “Well, that’s convenient.”

“Why would I lie about that?” Delali asked.

“Because you wish you were on an episode of Charmed or That’s So Raven or something? I don’t know!”

“Guys!” Gabbie looked around, making awkward eye contact with a white guy with dreads, who she was pretty sure was eavesdropping on them. “Maybe we can discuss this somewhere that’s not the sidewalk outside a popular brunch establishment? Like Tompkins maybe?” She looked pointedly at the park.

Maya clenched her jaw. She had been looking forward to reuniting with her bed and bingeing Real Housewives of Potomac. But then she looked at Delali, whose perfectly shaped eyebrows (probably courtesy of some Hollywood guru whose name she’d never reveal) were wrinkled so deeply it made Maya want to straighten them out with her fingers. Kind of refreshing to know she didn’t have preventative Botox, though.

“Fine,” Maya said, turning toward the park. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t know,” Delali said as they crossed the street. “Obviously that woman’s not going to call the police or anything, but I also don’t think that’s an argument for being reckl—” She stopped midsentence. She barely even felt it when Gabbie, head bent toward her phone, walked into her back and let out a yelp.

“What—” Gabbie started, but then she saw what Delali was staring at. The woman from Miss Lily’s was sitting on a bench—their bench—in the park, watching as they entered. Not just looking generally in their direction, but focused on the park’s entrance as though she’d known to expect them. As though she had been waiting for them.

“Oh my god,” Maya whispered. The tips of her coffin nails dug into Delali’s forearm. “Let’s leave,” she hissed.

“I’m getting seriously freaked out,” Gabbie added. “How did she get there so fast?”

Delali pulled her arm from Maya’s grasp. “I’m gonna talk to her,” she said, and started toward the woman. She was vaguely aware of Maya and Gabbie’s protests, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t until she stood in front of the bench, looming over the tiny older woman, that Delali realized she didn’t know what to say. They looked at each other for a long time before the woman flashed her an encouraging smile. It was so quick that, a few weeks ago, Delali would’ve thought she’d imagined it. But she was beginning to realize her reality was far beyond anything she could’ve made up.

“I thought,” Delali said hoarsely. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I thought I heard you say something to me and my friends,” she finished. It was vague enough that the woman could easily dismiss Delali as crazy, but she didn’t do that. Instead, she broke into a smile.

“I didn’t,” said the woman. “But I suspect something else happened. I suspect you read my mind.”

Delali took a step back and let out a long breath. Of course, she’d known that’s what had happened, but she hadn’t anticipated how good it would feel to have someone else confirm it.

“I think I did, too,” Delali said.

The woman sat back and crossed her legs, pensive. “So, you can’t control what you hear?”

“Should I be able to?” Delali asked. She couldn’t believe she could finally voice the concerns that had been nibbling away at her since that night at The Bar.

“Well, it takes some witches longer than others,” the woman replied. “But with the proper training you should be able to effectively filter. And, most importantly,” she paused, giving Delali a knowing smile, “you’ll learn how to keep your head yours, and yours alone.”

“Heeey,” Gabbie said carefully, appearing at Delali’s side. In the next second, she felt Maya on her other side. “Let’s talk.” Gabbie took hold of Delali’s arm and gently led her away. “Just a moment,” she said to the woman politely. The woman gave Gabbie a placid smile and waved her away, as if to say take all the time you need.

Delali let herself be guided away from the bench, still lingering on the woman’s words. Some witches, she’d said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though Delali should’ve known all along.

“Um, what are you doing?” Maya hissed once they were out of earshot.

“You guys,” Delali said, ignoring Maya. “We’re witches.”

Maya let out an exasperated laugh.

“That woman pretty much just said it, and,” she said forcefully, continuing before Maya could interrupt her, “it wasn’t like she thought it was crazy or scary or anything. She said it like she was one, too. A witch,” she clarified.

Maya pressed her hand to her forehead as the park tilted around her, which could’ve been a reaction to Delali’s words or to her many glasses of rum punch—she wasn’t totally sure. A witch? Sure, she read her horoscope and sometimes captioned her Instagram posts with the crystal ball and magic wand emojis, but the idea of calling herself a witch was absolutely ridiculous. She drew the line at saging her apartment.

Gabbie looked from Delali to Maya and back again before pulling her phone out of her back pocket. She’d caved and commented on one of Dan’s pictures—just the heart-eyes emoji on the club pic, nothing too crazy—and he hadn’t commented back, DM’d her, or even liked the comment.

“That’s it from you?” Maya asked. “A blank stare and another scroll through your boyfriend’s Instagram? Don’t you ever get tired?”

Gabbie looked up from her phone, biting her tongue. If you don’t have anything nice to say . . . she thought to herself as she chose her words.

“I guess I’m just not that shocked,” Gabbie said finally. She pretended not to notice the look Delali and Maya exchanged and clicked her phone off, realizing her new notifications weren’t from Dan but from the C&C account. “This whole thing has been giving magic sisterhood vibes from day one. It makes sense.”

Maya had just opened her mouth to respond—something venomous on the tip of her tongue, Gabbie was sure—when she closed it again. The woman had stood from the bench and was walking toward them slowly, rummaging in the depths of her cognac leather bucket bag.

As she reached them, she pulled out a small white card. “I’m sure you all have a lot of questions,” she said, handing the square to Delali. “This can answer all of them.” When the paper made contact with Delali’s palm, she recognized it to be of the same ilk as the sanctions letter. Fine purple lines bloomed and swirled across its surface until they settled into letters and numbers: an address, a date (next Sunday), and a time. Delali traced the words with her finger before flipping the card over. The name “Alba” looped across the back of the card in the same broad cursive.

“I do hope to see you again,” Alba said, and then she drifted away and out of the park, the “don’t walk” light changing just as she arrived at the corner.

Maya

Ok fine

Maya

FINE

Maya

F I N E

Maya

I will go to the witch lady’s house if it means I dont have to get another novella from Delali

Delali

I think I just lit my stove on fire with my bare hands while trying to make a grilled cheese

Delali

Sorry if that’s something I want to investigate???

Gabbie

Yay!! 🎉 I knew you’d come around Maya!

Maya

but I’m LEAVING as soon as shit gets weird

Delali

Don’t worry, Gabbie will bring her pepper spray

Gabbie

Tru dat. 👊🏾

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Stop squirming!” Safiya barked in Delali’s ear, which only made everyone laugh harder. Delali gave up, lying still on the carpet as Safiya dragged a few more strokes of her tiny paint brush across Delali’s cheek. “There,” she said. “Finished.”

Delali got up to go to the mirror, stepping over Melina, who was painting her nails purple and green, the university’s colors. Melina held her hand over the polish bottle to make sure Delali didn’t knock it over.

“Didn’t you used to have a coffee table in here?” Melina yelled, barely audible over the sound of Drake blasting through the speakers. “What happened to your coffee table?”

Delali and her school friends were in her apartment living room, where they were having a “mature,” laid-back senior pregame before homecoming. For the past three years, Delali had joined her friends at sloppy morning events on-campus, then slipped away before the actual game, scared of being photographed while drunk. She’d vowed to go to the game this year, but the upcoming meeting with Alba made it impossible. After a full six days of begging, she and Gabbie had finally convinced Maya to go, and the meeting was basically all Delali had thought about that week. She’d completed every assignment and reading she could think of so that her afternoon was clear. She’d read and reread the sanction letter and looked up Alba’s address on maps. She stopped just short of setting out her clothes like it was the first day of school. Then she’d pulled out her acting chops to convince Safiya, Ruby, and Melina that she had an unmissable, career-defining meeting with Lionel that afternoon. Safiya, the only person who knew how ambivalent Delali was about acting, had seemed suspicious, but let it go.

“I’m getting a new one,” Delali lied absently, examining her cheek, where Safiya had painted the school letters in washable paint. In truth, while she was clearing off her coffee table that morning, it had disappeared in front of her eyes, her magazines and books reappearing neatly on her shelf. Including another copy of the trashed script. She’d noticed this weird pattern with her magic—she’d intend to do one thing, and her magic would go into overdrive, completely misinterpreting her and doing something else completely. Yet another reason she couldn’t miss today’s meeting with Alba.

“What do you think?” Safiya asked, paintbrush aloft. She smiled sweetly.

“It’s perfect,” Delali said, rolling her eyes.

“That’s what you get,” Ruby called from her position on Delali’s leather sofa. She took a sip of her Corona as she scrolled through her phone. “I can’t believe you’ve managed to squirm out of homecoming for a fourth time.”

“I’m sorry,” Delali said, making her way back to the couch. “I swear I really wanted to go. I even bought tickets!”

“That’s true,” Melina vouched, fanning her hands to dry them. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Safiya reassured Delali, plugging her blow dryer into the kitchen island. “I don’t think we’ve ever even won a game.”

“That’s true. I’ve always said, maybe the real homecoming game is the pregames we made along the way,” Ruby quipped.

“Could you forward me your ticket?” Safiya called to Delali from the kitchen, where she was bent over, diffusing a section of her hair. “I think I could convince Lionel to come.”

“Oh my god,” Delali said. “If you manage to pull that off, please send pictures.”

Safiya had been Delali’s best friend since freshman year, when they’d been partnered for an extra credit assignment for their required West Meets West: Western Civilizations on the History of Western Civilizations class. For years, Safiya and Lionel had had a fake beef that resulted in Delali having to use the terms “school best friend” and “childhood best friend” whenever she discussed them. Until last Saturday, that is, when they’d finally met and hit it off at her birthday dinner. Delali couldn’t imagine bougie Lionel at a college football game, but she’d love to see it. Delali leaned on the counter next to Safiya, opening the email app on her phone to find the ticket.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Safiya shrieked over Delali’s shoulder. She grabbed the phone before Delali could answer.

“Saf,” Delali warned, but it was too late, Safiya was already running drunkenly around the open-plan living room with her phone.

“An email from Adrien?” Melina gasped. Ruby looked up from her phone. “Can I read it? Please please please?”

Delali sighed. “Fine.” After all, Ruby, Melina, and Safiya had been eyewitnesses to her whirlwind freshman year, when her post-Adrien rebound game reached truly concerning heights.

Safiya stood on an ottoman and read aloud the email Delali had been ignoring for days.

Hey stranger.

It’s been a long time. I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but I’m in the city for a new play, produced by the brilliant John Manning and directed by yours truly. Our initial run is six months, so I’ll be in SoHo until the spring, holed up in my rental and trying to do my best to honor this character. It would be impossible to be in this city and not think of you, of us.

Anyway, it would mean more than I can even express if you came by and saw it, if you’re still around. It’s a big moment for my career. We open this weekend, and as I’m sure you know Lionel is in the city and will be coming to the show. I hope you’ll join him. There will always be a spot in my theatre for you.

—Adrian (but only to you)

“Awwwww,” Safiya and Melina crooned.

Delali buried her face in her hands in an attempt to absorb a full-body cringe. How had she ever loved someone so . . . simple?

“He’s so embarrassing,” she said.

“Embarrassing? But that was so cute,” Melina said. She would say that.

Delali looked to Ruby, a literature major and her most pretentious friend, for support. “A positive discourse on intellect-gap relationships is long overdue,” Ruby offered.

“So what if he’s kind of cringe?” Safiya asked. “You need to maintain important relationships from all stages of your life, especially when the stages are as disparate as yours.” Safiya was both a philosophy major and a crystal-wielding horoscope girl, a combination that sometimes produced truly staggering wisdom.

“Maybe,” Delali said. She poured herself a warm Bellini from the pitcher Melina had brought with her and drank.

“Wait, you already drafted something?” Safiya asked, still on her podium.

“No?” Delali said. She’d considered it, but didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t see the harm in catching up with someone who had once been such a huge part of her life—it was the play itself that she was avoiding. Plus she’d been so focused on her quantum metrology reading, pleading with Maya over text, and stalking Alba on Google street view.

“And you sent it?” Safiya continued.

“No?” Delali asked and stood, panicked.

“Oops,” Safiya said, impishly cocking her head to the side.

Delali rolled her eyes and grabbed the phone. She should’ve seen that coming. Safiya followed a strict “send the damn text” policy, and this wouldn’t be her first time hijacking Delali’s phone. She looked through her outbox.

Sure—I’ll be at the Monday showing.

Delali

“If you weren’t drunk, I’d murder you,” she said to Safiya. At least Lionel was in town—there was no way in hell she was going to Adrien’s play alone.

Safiya, Ruby, and Melina left at twelve to catch the shuttle, and as soon as they did, Delali realized that she’d left too much time between the pregame and Alba’s. They didn’t have to be there until three, and the next three hours yawned menacingly ahead of her. Delali tried to kill time by cleaning up after her friends (being careful not to seem too eager to clean, lest another piece of furniture disappeared). She showered then reorganized her closet. She looked up the names and bios of former Pythagoras winners. After impulse-buying several celebrity memoirs (her guilty pleasure), Delali checked the time again. Close enough.

Delali

Hey guys

Delali

Wanna meet somewhere on the uws before alba’s?? Coffee or something?

She perused her closet while she waited for the others to respond. After pulling on and taking off two sweatshirt and jean combos, she decided on a pair of tan cargo pants and a screen-printed TLC hoodie left over from the H&M capsule collection she’d “designed” a few years ago.

Gabbie

I’m down!! ☕ ☕ ☕

Delali felt a secret rush of affection for Gabbie—dependable Gabbie, who responded to every message as soon as she read it and spared no energy thinking about whether she should double-text. She was annoyed by Maya’s lack of response, although she’d anticipated it.

Maya’s surprise—disgust?—at Alba’s witch drop was as predictable as everything else about her, from her Brazilian body wave to her amethyst and aquamarine FKA pinky ring, but it was particularly irksome considering it was Maya’s carelessness with her phone that had dragged these powers out from wherever they’d lain dormant all these years. And Gabbie had made a good point: it was obvious that whatever happened next would have to happen to all three of them.

Another thought crossed Delali’s mind. What if Maya just decided not to show up? She’d been so reluctant all week, and around 4:00 a.m., she’d sent both Delali and Gabbie a drunk Snapchat from the bathroom of Paul’s Casablanca, one of those Chelsea clubs she loved so much, with the caption “remind you of anywhere?????” What if she wasn’t even awake? The mental image of Maya in a deep, drunken slumber, her stupid-ass Blair Waldorf sleep mask askew, spurred Delali to action.

Delali never called anyone other than her parents, but she found herself hitting Gabbie’s name in her contacts as she pulled on her blue and white Nike Dunks and closed her apartment door behind her.

“Hey,” Gabbie answered, sounding surprised. “Everything okay? Did you get another letter?”

“I have a feeling that Maya’s gonna flake,” Delali said. She held the elevator door open with her foot as she spoke, examining herself in the hall mirror.

“Oh,” Gabbie said. “I can see why you would think that.”

“Are you down to meet me at her apartment and make sure she’s up?” Delali bit her lip as she waited for Gabbie’s reply. She knew she sounded a little desperate, but she also knew, somehow, that she needed Alba more than the others. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Alba’s was the very first mind she’d read kind of on purpose, just like it couldn’t be a coincidence that she, Gabbie, and Maya all had the same birthday, or that they had all stumbled into the bathroom at The Bar at the same time that night.

“Um,” Gabbie said, and Delali cut her off.

“I’ll get your car,” she said. Gabbie loved to say she “supported the mission of public transportation,” but it was clear to Delali that she hated making the hour-plus subway ride required to get from Washington Heights to anywhere she wanted to go.

“Oh, that wouldn’t be too much, would it?” Gabbie asked, with all the sincerity of a girl offering to pay on a first date.

“It’s fine,” Delali said, and she hung up, pressing the L for lobby.

Gabbie hadn’t even gotten out of her car before Delali stood from the stoop of Maya’s building and pressed the buzzer. The long, low buzz filled the air as Gabbie approached.

“Hey, thanks,” Gabbie said as she joined Delali in front of the door. Delali didn’t respond, but Gabbie hadn’t really expected her to. Ever since her conversation with Alba at the park, Delali had become obsessed with the meeting—she basically spoke about nothing else. It reminded Gabbie of how she’d been when she first learned she could put her glue gun sticks in the freezer to keep them from getting stringy and weird. She wasn’t as excited as Delali, but she saw no harm in the meeting, and hoped that maybe, finally, it would get all three of them on the same page. And, Gabbie thought as her phone vibrated in the back pocket of her skinny jeans, maybe it would distract her from the fact that she’d accidentally missed Dan’s call while on the train home from school yesterday and he’d been impossible to get a hold of since. “That’s so cute by the way.”

“Hm?” Delali asked. She hit the buzzer again.

“Your hair, I like what you did to it.”

“Oh,” Delali responded. She’d pulled her box braids into one long braid. “Thanks, Gabbie.”

Inside, Maya burrowed further under her covers, closing her eyes against the bleating of the buzzer while she waited for one of her roommates to open the door. Elise was at a café studying for the GRE, but Denise had no excuse. “Denise?” Maya called from her bed. “Are you gonna get that?” she yelled. “Duh-neese?” When no response came, Maya threw off her covers with a grumble and dragged her slippered feet to the door, remembering the Great Value Odell Beckham Jr. Denise had left the club with last night.

“Who is it?” Maya demanded, getting ready to tear into the delivery guy.

“It’s Delali,” came a voice through the speaker.

A breezier, “and Gabbie!” followed.

Fuck. Maya looked down at her silk La Perla pajama pants, running her hand over the tangled ponytail she’d managed to loop her hair into before passing out last night. She’d totally forgotten about the meeting with that weird lady Delali was obsessed with. Forgetting the witch stuff wasn’t exactly her goal when she corralled a group to go out last night, but it was a nice benefit. Weekends were already too short—did she really want to waste her Sunday digging deeper into this weird witch situation? Maya toyed with the idea of ignoring them and going back to sleep, but then Delali, Maya was sure of it, hit the buzzer again. “Ugh, fine,” Maya murmured, pressing the button to let them in. She leaned her throbbing head against the doorframe as she waited for them to make their way up, and when they rang bell minutes later, it ricocheted violently against the inside of her skull.

“I cannot believe that y’all actually came to my apartment,” Maya said as she opened the door.

Delali eyed Maya’s bedraggled appearance. “And just in time. I knew you would try to flake on us.”

Maya was momentarily stunned into silence by Gabbie’s horrific outfit: another peacoat, this time plaid and cropped, a cheap fuzzy turtleneck sweater, and skintight gray skinny jeans, worn over a pair of ashy tan booties. But Delali’s attitude snapped her out of it.

“Flake?” Maya said, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t planning to flake.”

“Right,” Delali replied. She stepped into the apartment, and Gabbie followed behind her. “Looks like you were right on track to get to Alba’s by three.”

Maya sneered. “Well, would you blame me for not being sooo excited to hang out with⁠—”

“Oh my goodness you two, stop,” Gabbie said. She put a hand on each girl’s shoulder, and suddenly the world went mute. She felt a drop in her stomach, like she was descending from a rollercoaster’s peak or walking into a job interview. She could see Delali and Maya, but she couldn’t move or speak to them; despite being inches away, they were totally unreachable. The world went disjointed and gray, then black.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When the girls regained control of themselves, they were on a quiet sidewalk. Delali had her hands on her knees as she sought her balance. Gabbie was looking around in confusion, her ugly peacoat half on, half off. Maya, remembering that she’d just been wearing pajamas, inspected herself to find she was fully dressed. Fully well-dressed, in her opinion, in items that were definitely not hers: knee-high oxblood boots, a black leather mini skirt, and a white cropped Pyer Moss dress shirt she’d had in a checkout cart for months. She touched her head and felt that her hair was in the scraped-back bun she’d been planning to do when she got home that evening. Her annoyance from earlier started to melt away. This kind of witchcraft she could get behind.

“What the heck,” Gabbie said, shaking her head. “Where are we?”

Delali had already pulled out Alba’s calling card. She pointed at the address on the face of the greystone building. “Alba’s.”

“Oooh,” Gabbie said. “That does make sense.”

Even though her outfit had greatly improved her mood, Maya could only shake her head. This was ridiculous.

Delali started up the steps, and the others followed. She pressed the button for Alba’s apartment, and the response was immediate—too fast to not be magical. The girls looked at each other, then ventured into the building. It was a normal Upper West Side luxury building, old but tastefully refurbished, the small, unattended lobby lined with small black-and-white tiles. The girls piled into the cramped elevator. There were only three apartments and, naturally, Alba’s was the penthouse. When the girls stepped out of the elevator into the roomy, oak-floored hallway outside Alba’s door, Gabbie gaped.

“Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “This apartment is amazeballs.”

“It’s what?” asked Maya.

“Shh.” Delali gestured toward a black-lacquered door, the only door in the hallway. In its center was a gold knocker in the shape of a woman’s face—high cheekbones, broad nose, cat eyes, and lush lips—and a peephole through which Alba was surely watching them. Delali reached to touch the knocker, but before she made contact, the door swung open.

Alba stood on the other side, dressed in an oversized cream-colored turtleneck and floor-grazing palazzo pants. She had the sort of face that only implicitly reflected her age, bearing no wrinkles, creases, or discoloration, yet appearing refined and wise. “Ladies,” she smiled, her voice rich as buttercream. “I’m so glad you were able to make it. Please, come in.”

The apartment was vast and chicly decorated. Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room flooded the space with generous light, and the white walls were adorned at the baseboards with intricate moldings. A hearth fireplace sunk into the wall furthest from the door, hosting a fire that crackled like a soothing nighttime recording. The walls of the living room were dotted with photographs in heavy gold frames, and there was no way to tell whether the people in them were relatives, friends, or complete strangers. Lofty inset shelves ran the height of the wall, carrying hundreds of books alongside trinkets, statues, and plaques. The floors were pristine herringbone.

Gabbie wandered through, mouth slightly open, stopping when she saw a large glass orb on one of the shelves. Purple smoke swirled inside it, dotted with tiny, lifelike stars and constellations. She rushed over to touch it.

“Is this . . . a crystal ball?” she asked, peering at her reflection.

“Yes, it is,” Alba replied, laughing as she closed the door behind the girls. She strode over and took the ball into her hands. As she did, the smoke lightened to a pearlescent white. “This is the one my mother gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s incredible,” said Gabbie.

“Every Seer must have at least one, and this is my favorite.”

Delali took a step toward the bookshelf. “What’s a Seer?”

Alba turned toward her and smiled. “Please, ladies, have a seat.” She led them to a cream-colored couch, before which sat a glass coffee table on an ornate Sarouk rug. On the table, there was a charcuterie spread arranged on a wood cutting board, along with two bottles of bordeaux and four wine glasses.

The girls sank hesitantly into the couch, and Alba sat in a white upholstered chair across from them. “Feel free to eat,” she said. “Would anyone like a glass of wine? No pressure at all to drink.”

The girls nodded, as though the drink were being offered by someone they knew intimately. Maya was surprised by how at ease she felt in Alba’s presence. The idea of being a witch still freaked her out, and of course she’d rather be perusing Coveteur in bed than eating pepperoni in this random woman’s apartment, but she could feel herself beginning to relax in the grand, inviting living room. The anxieties that had plagued her all week started to fall away.

“Is this chocolate fair trade? So awesome,” Gabbie said, her mouth full. She was examining the red wrapper.

“It is.” Alba sat the wine bottle on the table once she’d finished pouring the fourth glass, her own. She sipped it, taking a moment to watch the girls.

Delali almost began to speak, ready to launch into her list of burning questions, but Alba gave her a quieting look.

“First, I want to thank you all for coming today,” Alba said. “I certainly understand how strange this must be for you.” The girls were quiet, listening attentively. “As I mentioned to Delali last week, I believe the three of you are witches.” Alba leaned forward and placed her glass on the coffee table. Delali didn’t remember telling Alba her name, but thought nothing of it. She was a witch, after all. “When I saw you at Miss Lily’s, I recognized it in you immediately. The three of you appeared so clearly to be . . . of our world, if you will.”

“Did you see me refill my drink?” Maya asked.

Alba laughed. “Of course. But I knew before then.”

“Just by looking at us?” Gabbie asked.

“Truthfully, I’d seen you even before that day,” said Alba. “I’d had visions of you, and they led me there. They also led me to you the night of September first, when Maya dropped her phone.”

The girls looked at each other. If Alba knew about that night at The Bar, what else did she know?

“That was a very flashy display of magic, ladies,” Alba said, a maternal smile curving her lips. Her voice was playful, and warm, not scolding. “As was your little light show that night in the park. But I understand, of course. When you’re a young witch, showy magic is certainly the most fun.”

“What do you mean when you say we’re ‘of your world’? Are there more of us? More witches?” Delali’s questions tumbled out.

“Well, of course there are more witches,” said Alba. “Did you think you were the only three in the world? Granted, most of us get our powers and training much earlier in life. I was surprised by your age when I had my first visions of you. Twenty-two is unusual, certainly, but it’s not impossible.” She motioned skyward. “The Mothers can work in mysterious ways.”

“How does someone become a witch?” Gabbie asked in her usual cheerful tone, like she was asking how someone becomes an MTA announcer. “Were we born this way?”

“You were. All witches are born witches. Though when you get to my age”—here, Alba tucked her fingers into her short, blond afro and fluffed it—“your powers can begin to dwindle, come and go as they please.”

“Right,” said Maya. “So, you’ve been using your dwindling powers to stalk us.”

“Maya,” Gabbie scolded.

“What?” she asked, turning to Gabbie. “Is that not what she said?”

“I suppose you could put it like that,” Alba replied. “But my magic led me to you. A witch has no choice in her mentees. I pursued you girls not out of any curiosity or independent interest, but because my visions made it clear that I am to mentor you.”

“How do we even know you’re a witch?” Maya said anxiously. “What authority do you have to decide that we’re witches? How do we know you’re not just a crazy woman? A criminal? A pervert?”

If Alba felt at all slighted by Maya’s accusations, she didn’t show it. “I understand how this could scare you. I want you all to feel free to remove yourselves from this situation if you feel at all uncomfort⁠—”

“No,” Delali interrupted. She wasn’t about to let Maya ruin this. “We’re not uncomfortable. We just want to know more. Like, what does mentorship entail? And how do we get to the witch world? What is the witch world?”

“The Witch Sphere,” Alba corrected, leaning her hands on her knees. “The Sphere is a universe inhabited entirely by witches. It’s a universe of . . . infinite and ineffable enjoyments. There’s no way, really, to communicate the experience of the Sphere other than to explain that ninety percent of witches live there, despite having the option to live wherever they’d like, including here. You’ll be able to transport to the Sphere when you complete your training—all fully-trained witches possess the power to move between worlds. But there are also witches all around you now. Come.” Alba stood and walked up the wide staircase in the foyer, and the girls followed her uncertainly. She led them to a door that opened onto a spacious roof overlooking the city. They shivered in the chilly air, crowding around Alba and following her gaze. Below, they could see a collection of rooftops, and beyond them, the Manhattan skyline outlined in gray. “Look, just there,” Alba said, pointing at an empty rooftop. “What do you see?”

The girls looked at each other.

“Um, nothing,” said Maya. “It’s a roof.”

“To the untrained eye,” Alba answered. “But I see a dinner party.” She laughed to herself. “And a raucous one at that. One long table, dressed in a fine white tablecloth, surrounded by a group of nine. A magnificent spread of food. A tiered chocolate cake. A small speaker—you couldn’t hear it, but they’re playing “Never Too Much” by Luther Vandross. One of the guests keeps getting up to fiddle with the volume. There’s enough wine for nine more attendees. Some of the guests are dancing.” She broke off and turned to face the girls. “It’s pedestrian, I know. But despite the near-perfection of the Sphere, many witches are tempted by the typic world and create communities right before our eyes. Oftentimes we charm ourselves to evade the typic eye. We call it a shroud. It should go without saying that witches are not to disclose the nature of their powers to typics under any circumstances.”

“Typics?” asked Gabbie.

“A typic is a person without powers. A nonwitch,” Alba clarified. “In the case of you girls, it’s just that you don’t quite yet know how to use your powers.”

“And why can’t typics know about witches?” Delali asked.

“Well, look around you, Delali. The typics haven’t done a particularly good job of nurturing their own world. Why would we let them into ours?”

Delali couldn’t argue with that.

“Why do you live here then?” Maya asked. “Instead of in the ‘magical,’ ‘ineffable’ Witch Sphere with the other ninety percent?”

“I do live with the ninety percent,” Alba said sharply.

Gabbie froze. “Sorry,” she said, putting a hand on the shoulder of Maya’s boxy blazer. “She can be sort of . . .” She didn’t know how to say rude without saying, well, rude.

Maya rolled her eyes and shook Gabbie’s arm off—she actually wasn’t trying to be bitchy that time.

Alba quickly regained her old composure and smiled. “Don’t worry, Gabbie. These kinds of questions are to be expected.” She turned back to the roof that hosted the party. “I split my time between the worlds, as many witches on this side do. As you girls could, if you wish.”

“I don’t understand,” Maya said. “What’s so amazing about the Sphere?”

“Well, that’s not something to be understood, Maya. It’s something to be experienced. Though if I am to mentor you, you will, of course, learn about the Sphere in detail before traveling there. If you do wish to travel there, that is. If you’re happy with your lives here, you’re welcome to stay.” This she said knowingly.

There was a long beat of silence, in which it occurred to the girls that the normal response would be to find Alba crazy, to flee her apartment and dismiss everything she’d told them, laughing as they returned to their regular lives. But instead, they felt the desire to climb off Alba’s building and onto the next rooftop, to swipe at the empty air and look for the table they couldn’t see, listen for the dinner party chatter they failed to hear. The girls looked from Alba to each other. Then, as though accepting a dispatch from an alien or a time-traveler, they overcame their feelings of skepticism and fear. They chose to believe her.

“How long will it take for us to learn to use our powers? How long will it take for us to go to the Sphere? Or to see the other witches around us?” Delali asked.

“This is where mentorship factors in.” Alba walked back into the apartment and the girls followed her inside, down the stairs, and into the living room. “All witches are allocated mentors over the course of their lives. Our role is to introduce you to things you hadn’t previously considered, like that dinner party, to teach you basic facts about the Sphere, and to serve as a resource in times of confusion or uncertainty. I don’t imagine your training would take more than fourteen months. But certainly no fewer than twelve. Some witches train for eighteen months. It’s not up to me to decide, however. Every witch is presented with an assessment at the end of her training. A test of sorts. As your mentor, I’m responsible for receiving the assessment instructions in the form of a vision.”

“What does an assessment entail?” Delali asked.

“It could be anything,” Alba answered. “Young witches raised in the Sphere are often made to come to the typic world to create atmospheric magic—to contrive a reunion between two typics who have lost touch, for example, or create rainfall in an area suffering from drought, things of that nature. Witches born to typics and raised in the typic world are usually made to do the inverse—an act of magic that strengthens their relationship with the Sphere. In both of these cases you’ll be able to transport solely for the purposes of the assignment. It can be absolutely anything, but it’s never a small thing. Once you’ve completed your assignment, you’ll have the ability to transport between worlds freely. You’d be able to meet more young witches like yourselves, go to events⁠—”

“Events?” Maya cut in. “Like witch parties?”

Alba smiled. “Yes, like witch parties,” she said. “Among other things.” This seemed to inspire her, and she turned to one of the many bookshelves and retrieved a tall, thin book with a shimmering silver spine. “Take a look for yourself,” she said, handing the book to Maya. Delali and Gabbie leaned in as she opened the cover. It was a photo album, and on the first page was a picture of a young Alba. The same unlined face, but chubby and hopeful. The same blond fro, but longer and livelier. At first, the picture was ordinary and still, and then suddenly Alba, her eyes mirthful and gleaming, turned away, her mouth open in a laugh. A slight breeze caught and dropped the skirt of her long yellow dress. Behind her, other witches mingled at what looked like a garden party, the background lush with greenery and studded with glittering light. Then Alba returned to her starting pose and the loop began again, like a GIF in print. Maya turned the page and Alba again laughed before them, her arm wrapped intimately around the shoulders of a girl who faced something out of frame, just a sliver of her face and an intricate tangle of tiny locs visible. The girls kept flipping, until they came across an image of the entire sprawling, magnificent party.

“I took that one,” Alba said, her tone bordering on wistful.

“Where was this?” Maya asked. In the picture, women she assumed were witches swirled around in bright, confectionery-colored gowns, picking up their drinks and putting them down again as the picture replayed the same few seconds over and over. White tents stood high in the background, and there was a sea of tables covered with decadent spreads of food. Votive candles floated in the air, their flames flickering against the black of the sky.

“That was at an event called the Gathering,” Alba said. “The single most important event in the Witch Sphere. It happens each May.”

“When is it?”

“Can we go?”

“What’s the dress code?”

The girls’ questions overlapped, and Alba held up a hand to stop them. She spared the picture one last look before taking the book from Maya’s hands and snapping it closed. The girls drew back.

“Before we get into any of that, there’s still the matter of mentorship to discuss. Events like the Gathering, or even simple travel to the Sphere, will be out of your reach until your training is complete.” Alba returned the album to its place on the shelf before facing the girls again. “While the Mothers may have chosen me to be your mentor, the relationship cannot be successful if you don’t also choose me. Mentorship is a mutual engagement,” she said. She looked at each of the girls before settling on Maya. “And it doesn’t look like the three of you are in agreement about how you’d like to proceed.”

With that, Alba walked to the front door and wordlessly pulled it open. The three girls looked at each other. It was the first time all night that Alba had spoken about mentorship as if it was anything other than a done deal. And though her voice maintained the syrupy tone that reminded Gabbie of her own teacher voice, the gesture still smarted, and heat rose up in the girls’ faces as though they’d been slapped. But, as they headed to the door, they all knew exactly what decision they wanted to make. They wanted to stay. If not to learn from Alba and be taken under her wing, then just to look at her longer, to spend more time in the unusual energy of her home and get lost in her photo albums, to peer out onto the foggy skyline and imagine dazzling parties on every rooftop. They wanted to know what it meant to be witches, and they knew that Alba was the only person who could tell them.

“I’ll be here,” Alba said, interrupting the girls’ silence. “Every Sunday at this same time. If you three can come to a decision, feel free to return. I’ll welcome you and do my best to teach you everything I know.”

The name of this conversation has been changed to ‘Bad Witches.’

Maya

Gabbie youre corny for that

Gabbie

😆

Delali

Lmao

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Gabbie jiggled her key in its lock three times before her apartment door finally swung open. After closing it behind her, she bypassed her sofa completely and flopped onto her bed, feet throbbing. Breaking out her trusty booties this morning was definitely a mistake. She and the other third-grade teachers had taken the kids on a field trip to a farm just outside the city, and somehow having powers made the experience harder, not easier. Sometimes they were helpful, like when she realized her worst-behaved student, Eddie, had left his lunch box in the classroom and was able to make it reappear just before everyone sat down at the picnic table to eat. But she was pretty sure her powers were also the reason every single egg she collected from the coup broke in her hands, and why, twice that day, she’d tapped a student on the shoulder and accidentally infused them with what seemed like the exact amount of rabid energy you’d get from eating ten packs of Fun Dip. The kids had run her totally ragged, but at least she’d have some stories for her call with Dan. She’d opened her camera roll to look at the picture of the fox that she swore looked like Dan, when a text from him came in.

Dan

Hey babe. Can’t make today’s call 😞 Can we raincheck?

Gabbie sighed. There went her social interaction for the day. She opened Instagram to check on Maya and Delali. It was Thursday, which meant they still had three sleeps until their second meeting with Alba. Gabbie wondered if they’d ever become friends—Maya and Delali seemed so busy. She tapped through the slides of Maya’s story: a video from an early morning boutique workout, a beautiful selfie from her office desk, and then several slides of her drinking at The Bar, with the girls Gabbie now recognized as her roommates. Delali didn’t have stories up, but her last post had a picture of her dressed up in her school’s colors; a selfie from the bathroom at Department of Culture; and her sitting next to a guy and a girl with the caption: It happened to me: my school best friend met my home best friend and now I’m the third wheel. She looked at the Instagram of Eliza, the girl she’d met at Michaels who, it turned out, lived in Nebraska.

Then, reflexively, she opened Dan’s Instagram. She understood why Maya and Delali were so busy, but what was keeping Dan so occupied? After all, she was a teacher too, and she managed to make time for their calls. As she scrolled, there was one person who showed up over and over: Kim. Kim and Dan making ugali in a volunteer kitchen. Kim and Dan feeding a giraffe. Kim and Dan kicking a dusty soccer ball with the kids. Even in group photos, they were always next to each other. Gabbie felt like crying. She didn’t actually think Dan was cheating on her—he wasn’t capable of that. There was a way worse thought that kept popping up . . . Did Dan just enjoy Kim’s company? Gabbie did the thing she’d been resisting for months: she visited Kim’s Instagram.

Her bio read:

Kim Mutuku

Explorer. Educator. Woman of the world. 🌍✈⛰

Take nothing but pictures 📸 Leave nothing but

footprints 👣 Kill nothing but time. ❤✌🏾

Stanford ’18

Fulbright ’19

Nairobi for the foreseeable 🇪🇹

Gabbie sat up in bed, dumbfounded. Kim had over 200,000 followers, and as Gabbie scrolled through her page, it was easy to see why. Every single picture Kim posted (and yes, some of them included Dan) was perfect: blue skies, glimmering streams, mossy green mountainsides. She posted herself sparingly but effectively—a bikini pic here or hiking snap there. There was a glowing picture of herself open-mouthed with a crowd of smiling schoolgirls, underneath which she included the link to her NPR hygiene piece. Spread out on her yellow bedspread, Gabbie scrolled and scrolled and scrolled. She got up to get an apple then returned to bed and scrolled more. Tagged photos, friends’ profiles, videos—Kim had hundreds of posts and Gabbie consumed them all. Every picture had tens, sometimes hundreds, of adoring comments. Gabbie would’ve commented herself—she was totally impressed by Kim’s homemade backpacking power bars—but she thought the Dan connection might make that weird.

By the time Gabbie reached the end of Kim’s Instagram feed, which was a Valencia-filtered picture of her high school graduation, she knew what she wanted to do. If she grew Crafting and Coconut Oil, she could kill like, ten birds with one stone: she’d have something to keep her busy, a reason to get better at her powers, a way to meet new people like Eliza, and maybe even a way to win Dan’s attention back while he was halfway across the world. She leaned over the side of the bed, pulled her journal out of her backpack, and started planning.

Maya

Just a PSA – I am AWAKE

Maya

so let’s not do the whole wake-up call thing

Gabbie

No worries! I’m the one running late today! 🤪

Gabbie

I’m editing a video and it’s driving me nuts.

Delali

Getting coffee at this Hungarian cafe on 111th & Amsterdam – text me when you’re close

Delali

Not going to Alba’s alone

CHAPTER TWENTY

When Maya arrived at Alba’s, she found Delali already on the stoop, scribbling in what looked like a notebook full of equations. Jesus. She’d always thought being famous must be cool, but Delali was quickly shattering that illusion. She basically was Georgia Simmons IRL. In the week since they met Alba, the only thing that had gotten Maya through dead Tinder dates and dreary hours in the CS office was the knowledge that she had secret magical powers that she’d soon be using to get the hell out of there. Well, that and post-work shots at The Bar. She didn’t know what exactly was on the other side, but it had to be better than her real life, and maybe when got there she could find some witch friends who weren’t such losers.

As she approached the stoop, Maya slipped her hand into the back pocket of her wide leg jeans, her fingertips plunging into the strange texture that was quickly becoming familiar, that liquid surface that somehow housed text. The sanction had come when she’d gotten back from the last session at Alba’s, scaring her shitless while she was removing her makeup in the bathroom. She’d planned to tell Delali and Gabbie about it, but as soon as she saw Delali on the stoop, she lost her nerve. It’s not that she was scared of Delali. Maya West wasn’t scared of anyone. She just knew Delali would have some over-the-top reaction about it—she was always taking shit way too seriously.

“Hey,” Maya said once she reached the steps.

“Hey.” Delali closed her notebook and put it in her backpack.

Maya checked her watch—it was 3:05, and Alba seemed like the kind of person who would be intense about lateness. But it wasn’t like they were going to go inside without all three of them there. After another minute of silence, Gabbie came trotting down the sidewalk in a teddy jacket, moccasins, and a flimsy denim skirt with buttons down the middle, an orange gift bag in each hand.

“Hey guys,” she called. “I made you both something,” she said when she reached them. “Just some themed baked goods and crafts. I know it’s a little early for Halloween, but isn’t it kinda fun that all of this witch stuff is happening in the fall?” Gabbie held the bags out, and Delali smiled despite herself.

“I guess fun is one way to describe it,” Maya said, taking her bag.

“You have a knitted headband, a homemade maple candle, and a mug-hugger marshmallow in the shape of a witch,” Gabbie said sheepishly. She also now had three videos for C&C.

“Thanks, Gabbie,” Delali said, before walking up the steps and hitting the buzzer. She loved a good candle, even if maple was a disgusting scent for a home.

“What the hell is a mug-hugger?” Maya muttered. “Sounds like a slur.”

* * *

“I’m glad you all decided to come,” Alba said, stepping aside to let the girls file into her apartment. She watched as they dutifully removed their shoes in the foyer. “I’d hoped you’d be here earlier than this,” she added, unable to resist.

“Oh, that was my fault,” Gabbie said. “I had to finish editing a video for TikTok. Some of those transitions are way harder than they look.”

“Right, yes,” Alba said as she led the girls into the living room. The girls made to sit on the couch, but Alba held out a hand to stop them. “Actually, girls, we’ll be working in the kitchen today.” The girls exchanged a look before following Alba. In the kitchen they found three shiny copper and stainless-steel cauldrons set up on the center island.

“Ooooh,” Gabbie said, and Alba triumphantly noted the wonder on Maya’s face.

“Brewing potions is one of the oldest forms of magic in our world,” Alba began, walking around the counter to face the girls. “They can be tough to master—making an effective potion requires extreme precision and diligence—but there are some essentials that every young witch should have in her arsenal, and I thought we’d spend our first lesson working on some of those.”

“What are they?” Delali asked.

“Simple things.” Alba wrapped herself in her longline cardigan as she spoke. “There’s a potion that cures aches and pains, which witches your age are apparently calling the hangover potion.” Alba paused to give the girls a wry smile. “One for clear mind and focus before a difficult task, one for courage, one to help you get to sleep, another for foolproof contraception. Hopefully, mastering these potions will help you better understand the role magic plays in the life of your average witch. And above all, making these potions will help you to start using your powers deliberately.”

Alba looked at each of the girls in turn, gauging their feelings. Delali had already folded up the sleeves of the corduroy work shirt she was wearing over a midriff-baring tee, and Gabbie was on tiptoe, peering into her empty cauldron. Maya’s look of wonder was still laced with skepticism.

“What’s the point of a pain potion or whatever if I can just take an Advil?” Maya asked. She’d been hanging back, a few paces behind the other girls, but now she stepped to the counter. She couldn’t deny the allure of a magical hangover cure.

“Immediacy,” said Alba. “No treatment from the typic world can be as effective as the Restoration Elixir in as short a span of time. Besides that, it’s a true panacea, assuming one doesn’t have a chronic issue. Headaches, nausea, dehydration, muscle soreness—a tablespoon of this and whatever’s ailing you is gone.”

“Even period cramps?” asked Gabbie.

“Of course,” Alba said.

“But how?” Maya asked, inspecting the shaker of garlic powder that had been placed at her station. “Are we just mixing things together?”

“Well, yes and no,” Alba said. “To make an effective potion, you must of course add the right amount of the right ingredients in the right order and at the right time, just like any other recipe. But a typic couldn’t just mix ground Cradle bark, a wisp of smoke from a crystal ball, and meringue powder and end up with a batch of Focus Draught. And truthfully, not every witch could.”

“What do you mean?” Delali asked. She cocked an eyebrow. “Our powers aren’t enough?” Alba hadn’t expected that Delali would be the one most drawn to magic. She didn’t know what to make of it yet, but she was intrigued by Delali’s warring curiosity and caution.

“In theory, yes, any witch can make an effective potion. But the real key to making magic work isn’t ability or training—” Alba broke off, leaning against the kitchen island. “It’s intent.”

“Meaning?”

Alba pushed off the marble countertop and clasped her hands, a new excitement rising in her. The science of intention was among her favorite things to discuss. Intention was one of the least understood parts of magic, and Alba had spent her youth studying it. It had always fascinated her, the way some of the most highly trained witches struggled to master elementary enchantments, while others merely needed to think of one to make it happen. “The science of intention is complicated, and it varies widely from witch to witch. But, simply put, you can do quite literally anything you put your mind to, so long as your intentions are sincere and you believe that you’re powerful enough.”

Maya snorted. Gabbie and Delali turned toward her sharply. “Sorry,” Maya said. “She basically just told us ‘if you can dream it, you can do it.’ What is this, a Disney Channel original?”

Alba gave Maya a measured smile. “I have to say, your disbelief is amusing to me.”

“Oh,” Maya said flippantly. “Is it?”

“Yes,” said Alba. “Because I’m not sure I’ve seen a witch with a more natural grasp of intention than you.”

Maya masked her surprise with a scoff.

“I’m serious. Think of the first time your powers manifested. What did you think?”

“I just wanted to stop my phone from falling down the drain,” Maya said. “We all did,” she added, looking to Gabbie and Delali. “Didn’t we?”

“Okay,” Alba said. “Let’s say that’s the case. But then the next time, when you used your Imitation ability, when you turned into that construction worker on the street. What were you thinking about then?”

“I don’t know,” Maya said. “I just thought that I wanted to be a man for a second . . . to not be noticed⁠—”

“Refilling the drinks at the restaurant?” Alba continued. “Of course, you didn’t know you could do those things—but on some level, you did. Maya, you’re a natural. With the proper training . . .” Alba paused, carefully choosing her words. “It’s impossible to tell how powerful the three of you could be.” Alba held Maya’s gaze for a long moment before Maya finally looked away, turning her eyes to the stack of tiny rings on her middle finger.

“Really?” Gabbie asked excitedly. “Do you think we could learn how to be Seers?” She was still fantasizing about having a crystal ball on her classroom desk.

“Oh, no, dear,” Alba responded, amused. “Seeing is a named power, like you Influencing, or Delali’s Mindreading or Maya’s Imitating. Those abilities are innate and cannot be learned.”

Delali was about to ask how Alba knew each of their powers, but then stopped herself. Probably the same way she knew their names and where they were having brunch last Sunday.

“Now,” Alba said. “Intention can’t be taught, per se, but part of my role is to help you access yours as best you can, and to get you acquainted with the reach of your powers. As I hope you all know from our previous meeting, I’m prepared to take my role in your development seriously.” She let the words sink in before clapping sharply, relishing the way the girls jumped at the noise. “Now that that’s been said, let’s begin. The first thing you need to know about potions is that each has a liquid base. That base is water, but not the sort you get from a tap or a grocery store. The water must come from hail.”

“Hail?” Maya asked.

“Yes,” Alba said. “Hail. Hail is the most sacred form of water in the Witch Sphere, and it’s been that way for as long as there has been magic. It’s unheard of to walk into a normal witch household and not find at least three bags of hail on hand. Without hail, brewing an effective potion is impossible. You can find it in any Sphere grocery store.” Alba walked over to a deep freezer that sat in the corner of the kitchen and pulled out three iridescent plastic bags. They glowed pinkish purple in the kitchen light, all filled to the brim with jagged, rocky balls, some the size of navel oranges. Gabbie touched one, wondering if she could keep the bag for her crafting projects. She’d never seen such a delicate shimmer.

“Do you need a special freezer for hail?” Gabbie asked.

Alba wrinkled her face in confusion. “No, dear. It freezes like any ice in the typic world. Of course, in the Sphere, items retain their desired temperature without the intervention of freezers, microwaves, central heating, et cetera. In the typic world it’s a different story.”

“Oh,” Gabbie said. “I only asked because you have two freezers.” She pointed the regular freezer that was built into Alba’s fridge.

“Ah,” Alba said. “No, I just like to have a lot of hail on hand. It helps reduce grocery trips in the Sphere.”

Alba placed the bags on the counter, one in front of each girl.

“When brewing a potion, it’s extremely important that the hail is melted using the heat of a fire. You cannot use an electric stove or defrost your hail to room temperature in preparation for brewing. Going from freezer to fire is essential.”

The girls nodded.

“The Restoration Elixir calls for medium heat and four lumps of hail as the base.”

The girls didn’t move.

“Go ahead,” Alba urged. They looked to each other before, finally, Delali turned the knob of the burner beneath her cauldron. Gabbie followed. When Maya remained still, Delali turned to her to give her a prodding look, but Maya didn’t meet it—she was staring intently at the bottom of her cauldron. A flame leapt up under the pot.

“Good,” Alba said, smiling at Maya. “Fantastic. When brewing potions, you must be extremely precise—relying on your personal interpretation of ‘medium heat’ won’t cut it. Measuring the flame through magic is the only way to go.”

Delali and Gabbie straightened. They each turned their stoves off manually, then willed a fire to life beneath their cauldrons. Maya didn’t wait for instruction on the hail, pulling her bag open and removing a ball with her hands When it touched the bottom of her cauldron, the hail began to hiss and crackle, releasing haunting wails that grew louder as the ice shrunk away and the water rose. “What the hell?” Maya stepped back from the counter.

“That’s normal,” Alba said, looking approvingly over Maya’s cauldron. “That’s exactly what you want to hear.”

At this, Maya placed three more lumps in her cauldron. She looked to Alba, who nodded, and Gabbie and Delali quickly followed, opening their bags and tentatively placing the hail in their cauldrons. The apartment filled with sickening sobs and moans, growing to a crescendo before quieting suddenly.

“Okay,” Maya said. “So I guess I can’t do this when my roommates are home.”

“If you wait just one moment . . .” Alba held her finger in the air, and soon the pots started humming, a jaunty, tinkling melody in a bright, feathery tone. Puffs of pastel-colored smoke rose from the liquid. “Now you’ve reached ideal potion-brewing temperature.”

The girls looked at each other, unable to keep the giddy smiles off their faces.

“What else do we need to put in?” Gabbie asked eagerly.

“The next most important ingredient in the Restoration Elixir is a level teaspoon of dried basil. Funny, I know, but not a step you can skip.” Alba unscrewed the cap on a jar of expensive-looking basil and placed it in front of the girls. Each one used magic to level her spoon, remembering Alba’s instructions on the fire.

“Good,” Alba said. They added the basil and the volume of the humming increased, now a calmer, more assured melody. Almost as if the earlier song had aged.

The girls then added xanthan gum, distilled Cradle sap, and crushed poppy seeds into the mixture, delighted by each change in the potion’s sound or the color of its smoke. When the final ingredient had been added, they looked to Alba expectantly.

“The cooking time for a potion is variable—once all the ingredients have been added, there’s nothing you can do to bring the brewing process to an end. Every potion has an estimated finishing time, but a potion is finished when it’s finished, and we have no real say in how long the brewing will take. Luckily, it’s exceedingly rare for a potion of any sort to take more than twenty-four hours to brew to completion.”

“A full day?” Maya said at the same time Delali asked, “How do you know when it’s finished?”

“Don’t worry,” Alba said, “Restoration Elixir is typically finished within ten minutes of the addition of the final ingredient. You will know when you know.”

They all waited anxiously for a few minutes, hardly taking their eyes off the simmering liquids. Then the smoke began to rise at disorienting speed, careening toward the ceiling, crashing into it, and spreading over the apartment. After several seconds of this, there was a loud bang, and a flash of light filled the kitchen. When it disappeared, the smoke and fire were gone, and the potions no longer bubbled. Instead, they were still, thick pools of cobalt liquid collected at the bottom of their pots. The room smelled like burnt sugar.

Alba looked into Gabbie’s cauldron. “Gorgeous,” she said simply. “It looks store-bought.”

“Can we try it?” Gabbie asked.

“Please,” Alba said.

One by one, the girls stained their fingers with the blue sludge. It tasted like nothing, but the effect was immediate. Maya felt the soreness from her last reformer class disappear. Delali’s internal monologue quieted. Gabbie’s cramps halted, and when she reached for her chin, the pimple that had been growing there since Friday had returned to a smooth patch of skin. There was a general buzz of good feeling too, something quiet and gentle, more like a runner’s high than, well, a high high.

The girls looked at each other and laughed, warmed by the Elixir. “Can we do more?” Maya asked Alba, eyeing the ingredients they hadn’t used yet.

Alba smiled. “That’s the plan.”

A few hours later, with Alba’s guidance, the girls had successfully brewed the six potions she’d mentioned as the must-haves for any witch: Focus Draught, Restoration Elixir, Soothing Solution, Daring Draught, Energy Ale, and Slumber Serum. As they poured their batches of Slumber Serum into small glass vials, careful not to spill any of the dark amber liquid onto the countertop, Alba crossed her arms, savoring the rising sense of accomplishment. She’d been right: Maya was a natural. No matter how coarsely she chopped her garlic or how imprecise she was with her timing, it seemed she could do no wrong. Delali had the precision of a surgeon, and, as a result, produced the potions of a professional, and Gabbie was, as Alba had expected, sure of herself in a quiet way, a fast learner who had neither Maya’s natural grasp of intent nor Delali’s exactitude, but still performed. She had been right that day in the restaurant. She had found them; she just wasn’t quite sure who they were yet.

Alba turned to the sink to wash her hands. “Oh my god,” she heard Gabbie whisper behind her. “That was amazing.” Alba smiled to herself, then suddenly felt her mouth slacken. For a split second, she was paralyzed as a string of disjointed images moved through her head. A flash of dark, lustrous silk; high staccato laughter; twinkling lights suspended in midair; a low hiss, unlike any sound that could come from a human being. Alba grasped the counter to steady herself—she often lost her balance when she had a vision, but in recent years the phenomenon had become particularly forceful. She closed her eyes against the vertigo, opening them again when she heard Gabbie speaking to her.

“Alba?” Gabbie said. It didn’t sound like the first time she’d said it.

“Sorry, dear.” Alba grabbed a kitchen towel to dry her hands, taking the moment to get her bearings before she turned to face the girls. “Come. Let’s go to the living room so you all can get your things.” She waved for them to follow her. The vision had sapped her of energy, and she needed to sit.

“I was just asking what kinds of things we’ll be doing in our other lessons,” Gabbie said. She took her jacket from a hook by the door. “Like, will we be learning more stuff about our specific powers⁠—”

“Named powers,” Delali said.

“Or will it be more spells and, like, jinxes, and stuff? I just wanted to ask, you know, one educator to another—lesson plan structure is so important.”

“A mixture of both,” Alba said, lowering herself slowly onto the arm of the couch. “The only goal is that when we reach the end of your training, you can complete your final task without issue. You’ll be learning about your powers—strengthening them, honing your abilities—certainly. Learning about the Sphere, too. But spells . . .” Alba’s vision had sent the gears in her head spinning, too quickly for her to maintain her train of thought. “They’re not as common as they used to be, but I’ll teach you some if you’d like. Here.”

Alba stood again, walked slowly to her bookshelf, and pulled out three baseball-sized spheres, which looked to be made of glass. She dropped one in each girl’s palm, and they felt that the balls were actually weightless.

“This is a metric,” Alba explained. “It’s used to measure your progress in your training. Each time you use your powers successfully, the metric will darken a shade. When the metric reaches its darkest shade, I’ll be made aware of your final assignment, the assignment you’ll need to pass in order to transport freely and become fully functioning members of the Witch Sphere.”

“And what if we don’t want to do the assignment?” Maya asked.

“If you fail to complete your assignment, the metric will return to its current color, your grasp on your powers will return to their original, uncontrolled state, and you’ll have to start again if you wish to master them.”

Alba pulled three slim pamphlets with maroon covers from her shelf. She handed one to each girl, and as they touched them, words bloomed across the covers in delicate gold script: “Lessons.” In the bottom right corner, the words “Archive of the Sphere” were written in a stout serif font.

“In this first book you’ll find six lessons. Please read Lesson One before our next meeting.” Alba led the girls to the door and opened it. “I’m sorry to have you leave so unceremoniously, but I’m afraid our lesson ends here. You’ve all performed tremendously well today. I’ll see you next week.”

In the elevator down from Alba’s apartment, Delali couldn’t stop looking at the little glass bottles in her bag. She watched the liquids swirl around inside them, some thick and opaque, others watery and transparent, others veined with threads of white. Meeting Alba at the park had clarified things for her, but she realized that she hadn’t totally come to terms with what it meant to be a witch until she’d brewed an actual potion in a literal cauldron.

“Okay,” Maya said as they exited the lobby of Alba’s building. “That was actually pretty cool.” While bottling her Soothing Solution, Maya had dipped her finger into the cauldron and tasted it. Now a bleary-eyed calm had settled over her, and she felt like she’d just taken a hit of the best indica she’d ever had.

“Yeah, totally,” Delali said, digging her phone out of her purse. Of course Maya was interested in their powers now that Alba had gassed her up beyond what Delali believed was ethical. “Well, I’m gonna be late,” she said, neglecting to specify what for. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to debrief; it was that the unopened lesson book was begging for her attention. She needed to sit and read without the interruption of Gabbie and Maya.

Gabbie glanced at her watch. “Same, actually. FaceTime with Dan.”

“Yeah, I’m busy too,” Maya said, feigning nonchalance. She fiddled with the zipper of her Moncler puffer. She’d been hoping for a more substantial debrief, maybe even a Tompkins sesh, and not just because it was close to her apartment. They all currently had six magic fucking potions in their possession. She thought that required some discussion, but she wasn’t going to push it. They’d see each other soon enough anyway. “Well,” she said, pulling out her phone to call a car. “See you next week.”

Delali waved over her shoulder, already turning to head toward the 116th stop. She jogged down the steps—she knew she should’ve waited for Gabbie, but they were going in opposite directions, and she didn’t have the patience for her Pollyanna-ing right now. Once she was safely on the 1, she pulled the handbook out of her bag and inspected it. The cover stayed blank now, despite her touch, and she flipped the book open to read. The pages were waxy and thin, smelling ambiently of cinnamon, and Delali skipped around to the parts that interested her, knowing full well she’d read every page and footnote as soon as she had the chance.

Contents:

Lesson 1

Introduction to the Sphere

The Council

Current Events & Political Composition

The Myth of the Mothers

Lesson 2

Customs of the Sphere

Holidays

Agreed-Upon Behaviors

Biographies of Notable Persons

Lesson 3

Principles of Magic

Understanding Atmospheric Magic

Understanding Bodily Magic

Lesson 4

Principles of Direct Magic

Principles of Spellcasting

Understanding Named Powers

Sample Spells for Annotation

Lesson 5

Essential Potions for Modern Witches

Essential Spells for Modern Witches

Essential Direct Magic Competencies for Modern Witches

Lesson 6

Principles of Transportation (General/Intraworld)

Principles of Transportation (Interworld)

Appendices:

Map of the Sphere

Images

Diagrams & Charts

Glossary

introduction to the sphere

The Witch Sphere has a population of nine hundred million witches, who live in a mixture of cities and suburban areas. The center of the Sphere is 33,26 (40.7263, -73.9817TW) where both the Cradle and the Regent’s home (often referred to simply as 33,26) are sited. The Witch Sphere came into existence at the hands of the Mothers and is governed by the Council.

the council

The Council is a body populated by sixteen of the most important members of the Witch Sphere. The Regent sits at the head.

The Council always holds positions for: two representatives of the WHO, who are considered guardians of the Sphere’s well-being; a minimum of three Seers, witches born with the relatively rare ability to see the future with up to 80 percent accuracy; two Healers, witches born with the relatively rare ability to heal wounds and illness through direct magic; two members of the Shrouded Vow Taskforce (SVT), the team that works to protect the secrecy of the Sphere; and the Executioner. At least one such SVT member, typically the Head, should be a Shapeshifter, a witch born with the relatively rare ability to mimic the form of any animal species. A handful of witches hold unspecified positions, taking on responsibilities that change according to the needs of the time.

Each Councilmember is appointed by her predecessor.

The positioe n of Regency is handed down to the firstborn daughter of the existing Regent.

Only two positions on the Council are explicitly inherited: the Regent and the Executioner.

The Council may, in times of great need, appoint adjunct or junior members.

As she switched trains at 96th, dodging a bunch of rowdy youths, Delali skipped to the appendix to look at the Council chart.

On the 3 train, she flipped back to Lesson 1.

current events & political composition

The Witch Sphere endured its first ever political event in the Shatter, which occurred in 1983, only six months after the ascendance of Regent Violet III at the age of twenty-two. Before this event, the Sphere had not encountered meaningful discontent, illness, or strife of any sort. Scholars attributed this to the Sphere’s unique access to infinite amounts of every resource required for living, and to the commitment amongst all witches to maintaining a balance of the three faculties (Love of Others, Love of Self, and Love of Knowledge). Before the Shatter, the Council was famously described as “a glorified party-planning committee” by historian Emerfa Dunn (Ungovernable People: A History of Political Bodies in the Sphere, 1922). The passing of Agreed-Upon Behaviors (AUB) in year 100 was a formality that enshrined already-standard behaviors. Disobeying the AUB carries no threat of punishment.

the shatter

On the night of the Shatter, Macy-Jo Watson, a witch now known as the Betrayer, attempted to foment political instability as a pretense for a coup, aiming to take the throne from newly ascendent Violet III. The Betrayer shattered the vessel that held the magic of the Mothers, causing the magic to escape into the atmosphere. The Betrayer was ordered to be Executed by Natasha Nox, the reigning Executioner, and exiled from the Sphere. The Execution was only the second in the history of the Sphere. Shortly following the episode, some witches began giving birth to babies who did not have magical powers. This phenomenon is now termed the Typic Crisis. The WHO is currently working to solve the Crisis.

The event of the Shatter pointed to what scholars now understand to be the two primary flaws in the design of the Sphere: the inborn difference in talent between witches and the necessity of a leader, however nominal her privilege, in administering an organized society.

Despite the Crisis, the Witch Sphere maintains a happiness rate of 81 percent, and 75 percent of witches choose to live in the Sphere over the typic world, citing the essential goodness of witches; general ease of Sphere life; sense of community; and captivating environs of the Sphere as their primary reasons. Scholars project that an end to the Crisis would return the Sphere to its pre-Crisis happiness rate of 99.99 percent.

Then Delali looked at the holidays.

Holidays

the gathering

The Gathering is the most significant holiday in the Sphere and is celebrated by all witches. Held on the last Saturday of May each year, the Gathering takes place on the grounds of 33,26.

Some have come to see the Gathering as a way of honoring the Mothers. However, formally, the Gathering is simply a celebration of celebration. The event includes food, drink, potions, dance, games, and live performances, and in the post-Shatter era, an Appeal to the Mothers led by the Council.

Auxiliary events have emerged around the Gathering, such as the Annual Accreditation Event for newly developed potions and Sphere Fashion Week. The significance of the event has grown over the centuries such that it now marks the start of the new Spherical Year.

Due to the constraints of the property, only a fraction of the witch population is invited to the Gathering proper each year, and selection is conducted by lottery. However, witches Gather all over the Sphere on the night of the Gathering. No witch may be formally excluded from the Gathering lottery.

winter holiday

Winter Holiday was established in 1943 at the urging of a coalition of witches who had recently married and assimilated typic partners.

And then, she read the Myth of the Mothers.

the myth of the mothers

Before there was magic, there were the Mothers. Three women, keepers of all the world’s potential. The Mothers did not create the world. They only gathered it together. For a time much longer than we can know, and with a diligence beyond our worldly grasp, the Mothers arranged the elements they believed would nourish our kind. As their compass, they used a singular intent, an intent as pure and crystalline as the sky’s first bud of hail. An intent to build the perfect world.

The Mothers assembled and deconstructed; composed and decomposed; created and dissolved. There was no matter beyond their use. Fragments of the cosmos, energy of the sky, tinder of the stars—they drew all together to set their beloved universe into motion. Yet when they finished their work, when they remarked upon their creation, they saw that something was missing. The Mothers considered, and each resolved to contribute all she had left to offer.

The first Mother reflected, and to our world she added Love of Self. The second Mother reflected, and to our world she added Love of Others. The third Mother reflected, and to our world she added Love of Knowledge. The Mothers knew then that they had no more to give. So they retreated from their work, and they held each other closely, and they watched what they had made. There was an infinite pause as they waited, and then their conception howled. It shook violently and before the Mothers, there hatched a new world.

In its center, the Cradle grew, and the Cradle was the anchor of the world. As the Cradle flourished, so did our kind. Witches bore witches, and loved witches, and depended upon witches, and dedicated themselves to a world that would nurture witches. The roots of the Cradle grew deeper and wider. And the branches of the Cradle grew taller and stronger still. Our evolution thrilled the Mothers, but it also foreshadowed what they had known all along. Soon the world would no longer need them. Their time was coming to an end.

So the Mothers began to search. They sought a witch, native to this new world, whom they could entrust with the power of absence. The power to take away the very gifts the Mothers had bestowed. The search transcended seasons, but the Mothers were steadfast. The witch who should bear this responsibility must be a rare witch. In time, and in their infinite wisdom, the Mothers found her. The witch who so loved her kind that she could never use this power to injure. She could only use it to heal. The Mothers gave the power of absence to this witch and to her lineage. And she was to be the Executioner.

The Executioner climbed to the highest point of our world. She lifted her face to the sky, and when she did, the dark ceiling above her shook and swayed. A wall of light closed in around her, and in an instant, this wall cleaved into three glowing pillars. Vibrating with all life, it was the Mothers before her.

The Executioner lifted her arm to them, and the first Mother came forth. She fell like hail into the Executioner’s open palm, then down her outstretched arm, and into the vessel. The second Mother came forth, and she too fell like hail into the Executioner’s hand, down her arm, and into the vessel. Finally, the third came forth, and like hail she fell into the Executioner’s hand, down her arm, and into the vessel.

Then the essences of the Mothers were altogether contained in this single vessel, absent from the world over.

From then, the vessel containing the magic of the Mothers was kept at 33,26, the headquarters of the Witch Sphere. This magic, believed to be the oldest and most powerful in the world, was considered sacred, holy, and never to be touched.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Nadia closed her family’s old, worn copy of the Myth—the same copy that had been read to Natasha as a child—and looked over the side of Nina’s crib. She’d fallen asleep within the first line of the story, and now her tiny nostrils quivered as she breathed, her soft mound of a stomach growing and shrinking almost imperceptibly. Nadia crept out of Nina’s room and down the stairs of her family home, out into the backyard where her mother and sister were sitting at the outdoor dining table eating a late breakfast. It had been a long time since they’d done something like this—in the years after Helia’s birth, Eve had turned from socialite to recluse, and on her worst days even the backyard was too far a destination for her to bother.

In the first months after Helia’s birth, Eve had played off her grief unconvincingly, always emphasizing how common typic births were now, how she herself had gone to a typic university, how Helia could maintain her ties to the community despite the fact that she couldn’t fully operate in it. But at some point in the first year, she’d given up the charade. The truth was that while a typic baby was a disappointment for any witch, a Nox without powers was an oxymoron; it was scandalous that a Council family had produced a typic.

Now Eve sat luminous and smiling, dressed as if for one of her pre-Helia dinner parties, in a long-sleeved satin dress with an open back, her hair set into a perfect fan of soft, tiny curls. There was a patch of post-pregnancy iridescence at her collarbone, only partially faded.

Eve raised her eyebrows hopefully when she saw Nadia. “Asleep?”

Nadia nodded, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Worked like a spell.”

“Never fails,” Natasha said, holding a mug of hot tea under her face. “Especially that copy; ten words or less, I’ve always said.”

Nadia picked up a plate and assessed the table. The family’s conjurer, Opal, had made a particularly impressive brunch spread: pastries with pastel oozing middles, bowls of freshly-conjured fruit, boiled eggs of various shapes and shades, traditional Sphere slaws and stews. Beyond the patio, at the side of the house, Helia played a game only she knew the rules for, running haphazardly around the grass and spinning in circles, basking in the warmth. Nadia piled her plate high with glassfruit and willow pears, a mix of typic and witch pastries, and two eggs, then drenched the entire plate in Cradle sap.

“Well,” Natasha said. She gave Nadia a hesitant smile. “That’s one way to feed yourself.”

Nadia rolled her eyes as she settled into one of the ivory-cushioned chairs, but she was secretly thrilled by her mom’s comment. She’d never had a particularly close relationship with her mom, and things had gotten even more tense after Nadia joined the Council. But maybe the miracle of Nina’s birth had smoothed over even those cracks. Nadia snuck a look at her mom, her round cartoon eyes and wide nose, the heart-shaped chin she’d passed on to her daughters. She sat with her usual rigid posture, clad in a starched navy shift dress and the single slim bismuth bracelet that all Nox women wore, her microlocs tucked smartly behind her ears. She stirred her drink with a motion of her finger, and Nadia was struck by the thing she had always loved about her mom, from the time she was little: her ability to communicate her importance in every last movement she made. Nadia had been struggling to reconcile this version of her mother—stately, poised, calm—with the injured woman who had cornered her in her office just a few months ago.

Three days after Nadia was appointed to the Council, her mother called her to her study, a vast room in the basement of the Nox estate, where she’d been working on potions since the Shatter to keep herself occupied. Nadia could count on one hand the number of times she’d been in the room, and she wasn’t sure her dad had ever been there at all. Natasha liked to work in total solitude, and she’d been fairly successful, having three potion accreditations in as many decades. She poured any failed potions—what she jokingly called drafts—into small glass bottles and placed them on shelves along the walls of the room.

Nadia had hoped to look through the new additions when she got there, but as soon as she entered the study, Natasha summoned the door to her office closed and asked Nadia to sit. With no preamble, Natasha made her plan clear: she had been cultivating numbers for a coup for several years now. There were some Councilmembers she knew were serious, but there were others she suspected she couldn’t depend on. Without them, she wouldn’t have the majority she needed. Could she count on Nadia’s vote in the case of a tie?

The information had come in an earnest, quiet voice that Nadia didn’t recognize, maybe didn’t even respect. She’d been shocked—not because her mother was planning a movement against Violet, but because her mother seemed undone by the plan, so eager that she’d taken the risk of speaking plainly about it, and even transferred that risk to Nadia. Even within the confines of Natasha’s study, it was bold. Nadia had known her mother to be anti-Violet for as long as she could remember. Lots of witches were—they blamed her for the Shatter, for the Betrayer’s very existence, for the Crisis altogether. Some rankled at any actions of hers that seemed like a bid for more power. Others just thought she was a graceless leader. What set Natasha apart from those masses was that her criticisms of Violet were laced with personal grievance, and that she sat on the Council with Violet four times a year, staring down the woman who had, three decades earlier, ordered her to do the unthinkable. Perhaps the potion-making hadn’t been as successful a distraction as everyone thought.

Under the gaze of her mother, the woman she admired the most, Nadia balked. She couldn’t respond. She didn’t want to involve herself in the Council—in its politics—any more than her role at the WHO required her to. She couldn’t understand her mother’s compulsion to move toward the thing that had wounded her, rather than away from it. But before she could say that much, her mother noted her hesitation and closed the conversation, her face locking shut like a safe. They hadn’t spoken about it since. Thea’s note sat, blank, in Nadia’s room, but Nadia guessed her mother’s oldest friend was a holdout finally joining the coup. Or not. It didn’t matter—she was never going to take the chance of handing it over.

“You know,” Nadia said, aiming an eye at her mom’s mug, “I’m not sure that five mugs of ResElix tea a day is much better.”

Natasha laughed. “Well, I’m a creature of habit.”

Helia approached the table and grabbed Eve’s leg, and Eve lifted the child onto her lap. She attempted to feed her a chunk of fruit, but Helia refused. Instead, she dunked her hand into a plate of sap and then slapped it against Eve’s chest.

“Helia,” Eve scolded. She held her hand flat against an unstained portion of the dress to remove the sap. “This is brand new.”

“Oh,” Nadia said, reminded of the text she’d received earlier that day. “Why did I get an invitation for an appointment at Derra’s this morning?”

“Were you planning on seeing someone else for your Gathering dress?” Eve asked, her face twisted in disapproval. “I know it’s months away, but the earlier we go the more choice we’ll have.”

“You’re going?” Nadia couldn’t contain her excitement. Eve hadn’t attended the Gathering since Helia’s birth.

Natasha nodded, just as giddy as Nadia, and placed her hand on Eve’s. They were listening to Eve outline her Gathering plans when a banner appeared. A general banner, so that everyone could read the text:

Despite rumors to the contrary, studies conducted by the WHO have concluded that the Typic Crisis has not yet entered reprieve. Witches, however, are encouraged to maintain the good spirits inspired by the recent anomalous births.

With love,

Your Regent

Nadia swiped it away, her good mood punctured. It was a cruel reminder of where things stood. By now, Eve and Natasha, who had consoled Nadia after her first disastrous meeting with Violet, knew the AME wasn’t responsible for the rash of miracle births that had taken place last in the last couple of weeks. It was the rest of the witches in the Sphere that might be disillusioned by this banner. Nadia shoved a glimmering, aquamarine ball of glassfruit into her mouth and chewed.

“Oh come on,” Eve said, reading her expression. “It’s not all bad. Something good must be happening, right?”

“Right,” Nadia acknowledged. It was true: the births were, overall, a positive development. Eve, with her newborn witch sleeping upstairs, was the happiest Nadia had seen her years, and so were the families of those other lucky witches. But Nadia couldn’t help thinking the whole Sphere deserved that same elation. “Restorative births were back up again today,” she offered. Restorative births had continued to rise and fall since Nina’s birth, seemingly at random. She’d taken to reading through Dr. Diop’s confidential reports first thing in the morning, like a newspaper or a Twitter feed, then noting them on a graph she’d put on the door of her closet.

“Well, then,” Natasha said. She placed a comforting hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Surely it won’t be long now.”

“Yeah,” Nadia said, but her mind was already elsewhere. “I think that’s my cue, anyway. We have one of the restorative birth mothers in the lab this afternoon for readings. I should look through her file.” She stood from her chair and headed inside.

Maya

I am like . . . dying to go to the sphere

Maya

general ease of life?? ~~~captivating envirions?? 80% percent happiness?? Gimmeeee

Gabbie

Tell me about it!!

Gabbie

It sounds so fun.

Delali

For real

Delali

The Mothers said good vibes only

Maya

lol

Maya

I can’t believe we’re gonna have to wait a whole fucking year to go

Gabbie

Well let’s just get going filling our metrics! We’ll be transporting in no time. 💃🏾🕺🏾

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Excuse me, can I have some water?”

Maya closed her lesson book. She looked up at the model who had approached her—towering, bright-eyed, ethnically ambiguous—and pursed her lips. “Oh no, that’s not my job.”

“Oh,” the model said, her English thickly accented. Her cheeks went red, and Maya could see her wondering whether something had gotten lost in translation. The model pointed at Tatiana, who was sitting on the opposite end of the massive white backdrop that had been installed in the Clarke Stein offices for the day’s shoot. In her gingham DvF pedal-pushers, monogrammed Omondi crewneck, and pointed-toe slingbacks, she looked annoyingly angelic, nothing like the try-hard Miranda Priestley wannabe she really was. “She told me to ask you.”

Tatiana looked up from the concept board in her lap and wiggled her fingers in a wave. Maya swallowed her pride and headed to the water cooler on the other side of the office, not wanting to give the model anything negative to report to Harry Nguyen, the notoriously cranky photographer. When Maya returned, water in hand, Harry was in the middle of a complete meltdown. Maya handed the plastic cup to the model on her way over to Tatiana and Harry, quietly hoping Tatiana had fucked something up. The two were staring at the pictures from the shoot on the camera’s display screen, Harry gradually turning the same color as the beetroot smoothie Maya had had for breakfast.

“Am I crazy?” Harry asked, his voice climbing to an unstable timbre. “I mean am I fu-cking crazy?”

Maya and Tatiana made brief, confused eye contact.

“We cannot print her in this color. It’s offensive, it’s disgusting, it’s . . . Midwestern.”

“Wait,” Maya said. She jabbed a lacquered nail at the dress they’d pulled. “You mean this green color? The Pantone 352 U you had us dig through the closet to find just this morning?” Maya softened her voice, as if talking to a sentient ticking time bomb. “Not to be, um, disrespectful, but I promise you thought that color was the future just ten minutes ago.”

Harry was too engrossed in his tantrum to care about Maya’s tone. He jerked back from the screen ecstatically, forcing Tatiana to duck away from his bald, oiled head. “I know what it is—it wasn’t green I saw in the future, it was pink. Piiiiink pink pink pink pink pink pink! Those two are so easy to mix up, don’t you find?”

“Mmmm,” Tatiana said. “I do.” Maya struggled to withhold a gag.

“Now, ladies of CS, Tati, Mimi, if you could, please bring a dress. Not pants, not a skirt, not a T-shirt, a dress of some sort, preferably something identical in shape and cut to this hideous green dress, but in a baby pink. You know, that nursery-room, gender reveal, not-quite-Pepto-Bismol, ironic-pink?”

Maya sighed. Somehow, it was the clearest direction the man had given all day. She and Tatiana, in silent agreement that they wouldn’t humiliate themselves by running, speed-walked to the storage closet. Tatiana stiff-armed Maya at the entrance, nearly knocking her over and immediately started digging through the CS clothing archives. Maya got to work on the opposite end of the closet, rummaging through dresses as quickly as she could without damaging anything. Finally, after several minutes of searching, Maya realized there was definitely nothing ironic-pink on her side of the closet. If there was anything pink, Tatiana was going to find it first, since she was already encroaching on the unclaimed middle territory. Maya was annoyed—until she realized she had something better.

She slipped out of the closet and back to the set. The model had already changed into a robe and was still sipping her water. The tiny green dress, made mostly of absurd, impractical straps, lay across her lap. Harry was off by the windows, chatting distractedly into his signature BlackBerry Bold. Maya grabbed the dress from the model’s lap and ran to the bathroom, scrunching the mass of fabric under her arm and shielding it with the boxy black blazer she’d layered over her orange LaQuan Smith bustier. In the stall, she balled the dress up in her hands and stared at it, recalling the words of the only page in the lesson booklet that she’d read more than once:

principles of spellcasting

Spells are the oldest form of magic in the world. Before the twentieth century, the Witch Sphere operated almost entirely on the casting of spells. In modern times, witches use direct magic because of its capacity to be easily and readily customized. Spells, however, continue to be an effective form of magic, especially where a witch feels her powers may benefit from the structure and history of an established spell.

There are over 300,000 spells known to witchkind. Each spell is accompanied by directions addressing the pacing, positioning, volume, and intent of the witch casting the spell. Spells may be cast only on subjects in view of, or in reasonable proximity to, the witch casting the spell. The impact of a spell (its intensity, duration, or time of commencement) is determined by a witch’s intent. Where a witch wishes to make a spell more powerful, she may cast the spell far in advance of the intended commencement date. This practice is called steeping.

sample spell for annotation

The Spell for Superficial Changes

(developed by Allison Hampton)

Here’s a thing I’d like to change

Not transform, just rearrange

Change what’s outside, not within

Keep the organs, swap the skin

Purpose: This spell may be used to make changes to superficial characteristics of the spell’s subject.

Intent: The witch must prove a strong desire to make exclusively superficial changes. Any strains of desire to change the essence of the subject will render the spell ineffective.

Pace: The witch must recite the spell at a slow pace and remain at this pace for the duration of the spellcast.

Repetitions: The spell must be repeated three times.

Positioning: The witch must be seated. The body of the witch must be facing West. The witch must have her eyes on the subject of the spell. The witch must have legs crossed at the ankle for the duration of the spell.

Other: The witch may touch the subject during spellcast to enhance the strength of the spell.

It was the spell she’d been using to do her makeup all week. She hadn’t done a total 180 on the whole witch thing, but she was close—Alba was right, she was good at it. And it made her life way easier. Maya sat breathlessly still as she recited three times, as the spell book instructed. After the third recitation, she felt her armpits begin tingling with sweat, then she watched as the dress morphed slowly, from mint to muddy gray to pink. Maya inspected it—too bright. She focused on it again, clamped her hands tighter around the slippery fabric, thinking about how soon, none of this shit would matter if she could just fill up her metric and get to the other side. The fabric changed again, dialing down the shade of pink until it was exactly as Harry had described.

Maya scurried out of the stall, almost screaming, startled, when her coworker Tina entered the bathroom. She threw Maya a confused look, then perched in front of the mirrors to shape her eyebrows. Outside, Tatiana was holding two clothing items: one a skirt in the perfect pink, the other a dress that was definitely the wrong pink. Maya approached the two, trying to seem normal and not as though she’d just sweated out her roots doing magic in the bathroom.

“I mean, dusty rose is definitely taking off right now, but if you don’t like it we could put Mathilde in a white top with the skirt.” Tatiana pulled a silky, off-white top out from under her arm. Harry looked like he might cry. “I’m sorry, this is just literally all we have,” Tatiana said.

“Does this work?” Maya brandished the dress, which was miraculously wrinkle-free, and wondered if her powers had taken care of that, too.

“Ewwwwwww my god! It’s perfect! Ugh, thank you, you’re such a dear.” Harry leaned in to air-kiss Maya. “Mwah! Mwah!” He turned to Tatiana, who looked angrier than Maya had ever seen her. “Could you get Mathilde dressed, hon?” He handed Tatiana the dress and walked off toward the set, fiddling with his camera.

Tatiana turned to Maya, surely about to say something devastating, when Lacey approached, wearing a pair of unreleased Nikes and the custom puff-sleeved Christopher John Rogers dress she had in several colors—today it was navy blue. Maya’s heart stopped. Lacey was the sort of larger-than-life boss whose very presence struck fear into the hearts of her employees. On top of being exacting and meticulous in the office, she was a social media goddess beloved by the internet. Thirty-six with two kids and a perfect body, an enviable kitchen, and endless tough-love advice at the tip of her tongue, she was perfect I-ascended-to-a-position-of-impossible-influence-and-here’s-my-daily-routine article fodder. Maya wanted to hate her for being so demanding, but instead, she kind of just wanted to be her.

“Incredible work, Maya.” Lacey placed her hand on Maya’s shoulder, pulled back, and allowed a tiny smile to flash across her face. The burnt ends of her braided bob darted as she spoke, and the right side of her head was freshly faded. “And that’s a gorgeous jacket,” she said, as if being alerted to Maya’s existence for the very first time.

Maya straightened. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Lacey looked over at Tatiana placidly, almost as if she didn’t exist, then walked off, leaving Maya to revel in the frightening warmth of Lacey’s new affection.

On the walk home, after pocketing a third sanction, she snapped a pic of her metric for the girls.

Maya

Call me metric boomin cause . . .

Gabbie

WOAH

Delali

Okay damn

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Delali had her hand on the faded wood door that led to the foyer of the math building, her eyes focused on the handle. She had gotten her metric to change color for the first time last night, when she managed to sharpen her pencil so she could annotate her lesson book. She’d checked the metric right there in the yellow chandelier light of the university library, amazed by how the once-clear orb now held the faintest degree of purple, a light shimmer overlaying it all. Now she was a woman possessed, looking for opportunities to fill her metric wherever she could. She was sure she could open the door with enough effort.

“Excuse me,” Delali heard from behind her.

Delali jumped and turned. Then she realized it was someone she knew.

“Oh, hey D,” Tanner said, pushing the door open. “What the fuck were you doing just standing there?”

A flood of students emerged from the halls, and Delali reluctantly followed Tanner out.

“I don’t know,” Delali said, feigning laughter. “Just, you know, zoning out, I guess.”

Tanner made a skeptical face, then shrugged. “Hey, I was thinking we should⁠—”

“Shit,” Delali said. She was looking at the big clock that stood at the center of campus. It was almost seven, and she was in danger of being late to Adrien’s play and spurring a thousand and one “Late Diva Delali” articles. “Sorry,” she said, already turning. “I’m so late for this stupid play.”

Delali made her way to the edge of campus. Knowing she’d probably be photographed, she’d put a leather jacket over her sweatshirt and replaced her usual sneakers with block-heeled boots, which made running over cobblestones and dodging students that much harder. For a second, as she squeezed between a fountain and a tour group, she wondered if there was something witchy she could do to get to the theater. But she didn’t need the lesson book to tell her that attempting to transport this early in her training would be a disaster. She took the subway, and when she emerged in Chinatown, her phone buzzed to life.

Lionel

Dela baby I am so so sorry but I forgot I’m at B’s launch dinner tonight!!

Delali

Lionel . . . .

Lionel

sorry bbgirl! Swear im not parent trapping you—a bitch is busy!!

Delali

You could’ve texted me earlier

Lionel

and I already saw it opening night

Lionel

I’ve done my time chile . . . .

Perfect, Delali thought, rolling her eyes as she approached the theater. There was still a line of people out the door, and a sign outside the tiny theater read, in neatly arranged marquee letters, “Friday Nights and Civil Rights.” Delali had tried to keep away from all the reviews, half because she was still doing her Hollywood detox and half because she wasn’t yet immune to seeing pictures of her ex splashed all over the internet. She’d started to lose faith when she saw the play was produced by Jonathan Manning, the edgelord hedge fund heir who entered the arts as an elaborate rebellion against his dad—a person Adrien apparently thought was “brilliant.” The marquee wasn’t exactly reassuring. She hurried to the entrance before anyone could notice her.

Delali settled in the front row and thumbed through the playbill. The inside cover listed “Adrien” in the starring role of Reggie Wallis, and Delali almost judged the theater for the mistake before remembering that Adrien had in fact dropped his last name, Carter, professionally, and changed the second a in his name to an e. The theater was exactly as cramped as it looked from the outside, and it was full of artsy-looking white people of every variety. Some were older, wearing floor-length patterned shawls, blown-glass jewelry, and colorful glasses hanging from beaded chains. Others, seated near Johnathan, were young, malnourished, and shabbily dressed. She would not forgive Lionel for this.

The lights dimmed, and when the curtains drew back, Adrien stood center stage under a single spotlight, dressed in a sixties football uniform. In the middle of his chest, against the kelly green fabric, was a white zero outlined in yellow. The uniform was dirtied with mud and grass.

Over the next hour or so, Reggie ran away from foster care, slept under the bleachers at a local high school, and was found and taken in by Scotty Wilkins, a white kid whose dad was the school’s football coach. He tasted pasta for the first time, learned of his supernatural football ability, and became the star player of the team (though Scotty, inexplicably, remained captain). Delali started to doze off at the beginning of Act III, when the Gators (known lovingly by the town as the Greenbacks) were practicing for the Big Game against the Evil Rival Team, which had eleven white players to the Gators’ progressive ten. She finally fell asleep after Reggie’s birth parents showed up at practice to ask if he knew the whole town had been looking for him ever since he failed to show up for pickup at Interlochen arts camp last summer, which caused a huge scene with Coach Wilkins on the sidelines.

But when the Gators won the Big Game by a single point, causing Mayor Gregory to repeal Jim Crow and snatch Reggie right from under the nose of Coach Wilkins and adopt him, the applause and loud weeping from the crowd jolted Delali awake. She sat up and looked around at the tear-stained faces of the audience, just in time to hear Mayor Gregory declare that Munrow, Texas, had gone “from sundown town to touchdown town.” Delali touched her hands together lightly—what the fuck? Had something seriously amazing happened in the half hour that she was knocked out, or had people actually enjoyed the play?

Backstage, Delali waited in Adrien’s dressing room while he did press in the hallway, answering every banal question with a diligence Delali had never been able to muster. She took full advantage of the retro vanity mirror, reapplying her Fenty lip stain and dabbing foundation on the spot where she’d rested her hand while napping. Out in the hallway, she could hear Adrien laughing in the fake-charming, totally self-obsessed way he always did when he received praise.

“So, Adrien, it’s obvious that this play is really, really impactful. I was in the audience today and, as they say, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.”

Delali guessed hers didn’t count.

“Can you tell me why it was so important for you to make this play? Not only to act in it, but to direct?”

“Well, for me I just think it’s paramount to be tackling subjects of this nature in this moment. Race in America, it’s complicated, and it’s still here. And I feel like these days people really let race tear us apart, you know, sunder us. This play is about lifting up. It’s about bringing together. It’s about unity. We wanted to highlight the fact that there are ways to overcome race. And so when Johnathan Manning approached me with this concept—with the incredible story of Reggie Wallis—I was blown away. I thought to myself, ‘This is the role of a lifetime.’ I’d never seen a work that so boldly explored the transformative power of sports and adoption in regard to the subject of Caucasian and African American relations within this country. Parts like this don’t show up on my doorstep every day. So I had to take it.” Delali started looking for an exit, but Adrien was standing in front of the only one, and to her dismay, he continued.

“Certainly, I’m aware of all the pushback, you know, people who have these preconceived notions of how certain characters of certain demographics should be portrayed. But something Manning and I have really bonded over, is our view that when these voices that have become so . . . prescriptive about art, so ideologically hegemonized, when voices of that nature are rankled by what you’re doing, you know you’re doing something right. Good art should make you really mad. In the end, the road to equality is long and labyrinthine, but this play is certainly going to move things along. And you know, that’s the whole point of this pursuit for me—the pursuit of acting and, ultimately, of art.”

Delali snapped her head around and stared at Adrien through the doorway, again wondering how the fuck she’d ever dated him. He hadn’t always been this way. When he was introduced in the third season of Georgia on My Mind as Tony, the cute next-door neighbor, fourteen-year-old Delali had taken great pains to make it clear she was just acting in all their romantic scenes. When Georgia had to kiss Tony in episode 3x04, after she pushes him out of a tree and he lands so hard they think he’s going to die before she can profess her love, Delali counted to three Mississippi in her head, then spit in the plastic-y turf where they’d filmed once she’d pulled away. She’d worried that if she kissed him longer than that she might fall in love with him for real.

But Adrien turned out to be a cute and funny person, and he was soon one of Delali’s only real friends. They dated for two years and made hundreds of paparazzi-documented memories together as DelAdrian, the most talked-about couple in young Hollywood. They were pretty much each other’s first everything. But when Georgia wrapped and it was time to transition into their adult careers, Adrien abruptly changed everything that had once been cool about him. Almost overnight, he began turning regular dinner conversations into rambling dissections of man’s relationship to nature, generously interpreting Tarantino movies, and not listening to contemporary rap (save for Kendrick and Cole). He let his contact prescription expire and started taking his coffee black. He no longer made jokes about his parents dragging him straight from his hospital crib to a Gerber audition. Instead, he started describing acting as his “calling,” the only thing that helped him make sense of the world and “. . . quell [his] insatiable hunger to understand” (Variety, Actors on Actors, 2017). Alongside this, he developed a totally incoherent slate of philosophical and religious beliefs. The only good thing that had come out of his transformation was the arsenal of long-sleeved black shirts he’d started collecting—mock necks, henleys, waffle crewnecks—all of which, inexplicably, made Delali weak. But the sex couldn’t keep them together, and they broke up just one month after Delali decided to go to college, a decision Adrien called pretentious.

“All right, that’s the last question I’ll be able to take today. Thank you all so much.” Adrien clasped his hands together and bowed. Delali was momentarily surprised by this announcement; she’d forgotten he’d fired all his handlers so he could be “closer to the people.”

When they were a block away from Polo Bar, Delali hopped out of Adrien’s black SUV, opting to walk through the secret entrance. She’d expected Adrien to fight her on her restaurant choice and recommend some other, more “authentic” place, but then again, if there was one thing Adrien loved, it was a restaurant where paps guarded the door. During their whirlwind It Couple days, he was the one who kept all the paparazzi calling cards. Delali chose a secluded table in the back of the restaurant and watched as Adrien entered through the front, tailed by a cloud of camera flashes. She waited while he chatted to the doorwoman, whose fro bounced as she threw her head back, laughing at one of Adrien’s jokes.

“Nelly’s just the best,” he said as he finally approached the table. Then he flashed his million-dollar industry smile at Delali. They hadn’t spoken much in the car since Adrien had used the ride to take more press calls: he was trying to “vary” his media, doing interviews with small online publications and podcasts with indie cache and Delali had sat up front so she could quietly catch up with Isaac, Adrien’s longtime driver. But every now and then she caught his eye in the rearview mirror and felt . . . something.

Delali rolled her eyes. “Split the oysters? Then the dover sole, fries, Caesar salad, and strip steak cooked medium?”

“Always,” Adrien said with a grin. “And champagne to celebrate?”

“Your own performance?”

“No,” he said. “Two old friends getting together.”

Delali let the wording slide and ordered a bottle when the waitress came around.

“So, how’d you like the experience?” Adrien asked, folding up the sleeves of his black corduroy button-down. “Isn’t that theater incredible? Such an intimate space.”

“In a sense.” Delali was more interested in giving feedback on the insane play he’d just starred in, but he looked so sweetly proud of himself that she decided to drop it. “Let’s talk about something else. I’m sure you’re so tired of talking about . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the title out loud. “The play all the time.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

The waitress came with their food, and Adrien leaned in and plucked the oyster Delali was reaching for right from between her fingers.

“Hey!” She laughed, then caught herself and rolled her eyes again. She threw back an oyster before flipping a mass of braids over her left shoulder. “You’re paying,” she said gruffly, as punishment.

Adrien pulled one corner of his mouth into a sly smile then took a sip of water. “Have you seen Cha Cha Cha? Incredible film. Really, really, powerful stuff. Definitely didn’t see that in Celeste’s future.”

Delali tensed. She sat back, grabbed her champagne flute by the stem, and took an unrefined swig. She hadn’t told anyone except her parents, Safiya, and Lionel about turning down the role. The fact that Adrien had brought the film up without this knowledge made it even more upsetting. “Cha-cha slide? Is that the name of a movie? Haven’t heard of it.”

Adrien raised his eyebrows. “Wow, I guess you’re taking your industry detox pretty seriously.”

“Did you think I wasn’t?” Delali tried to keep the edge out of her voice.

“No, no—I did. I guess part of me just thought you were plotting to come back, you know, take the crown. At least, that’s the Dela I know.”

Delali took a bite of sole. “I told you I was actually interested in going to school—I don’t know why it’s so hard for everyone to understand that I have a range of talents and interests. Anyway, if I did want to take my crown back, it wouldn’t be with some flaccid, corny ‘auditory adventure’—a.k.a. a musical.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t heard of it?”

“I said I hadn’t seen it.”

Adrien laughed again. “Okay. Well, tell me what you’ve been up to. I know I gave you a lot of shit about going to school, but how’s it been? I haven’t seen you since . . .”

Delali swatted away the memory of the relationship-ending fight they’d had inside the photo booth at the Vanity Fair Oscar party four years ago now. She still shuddered to think of the pictures posted up on gossipy blogs all over the internet, since none of the real magazines had dared to buy them.

“It’s been good. I’ve just been . . . working really hard, you know. Studying. I have the best friends. I’m working on this thesis about the Heisenberg uncertainty principle and I’m up for a big award in the spring.”

“Cool, cool,” Adrien responded, but it wasn’t totally convincing, and Delali couldn’t blame him for being uninterested. She couldn’t believe how lame her life had sounded just now, and it made her question whether she’d really enjoyed the past three years or had just done a really good job convincing herself. Maybe he’d sit up straight if she added, “Oh yeah, and I might be a witch. And I’m spending every Sunday of the foreseeable future in the luxury prewar apartment of a refined witch with a blond Afro. And actually, I should be looking for opportunities to practice my powers right now but between the pasta scene and the sexually charged car ride over here I got distracted.” Delali must’ve frowned, because Adrien leaned over and touched her hand.

“Hey, hey,” he said, closing his fingers around hers. “I mean, listen, do I loathe institutions like the one you’re attending and the kind of pseudo-intellectual cookie-cutter, neoliberal rhetoric they use to indoctrinate their students instead of letting them develop into truly original freethinkers? Of course. But, honestly, Dela, you’re one of the smartest, most talented, most beautiful people I know, so you leaving Hollywood felt like the sky having one less star, you know? I mean it. And you’re also destined for greatness no matter what you do, even if that means becoming a superstar professor.”

Truthfully, Delali found this annoying and deeply condescending. But looking into Adrien’s lucid brown eyes while he delivered his meaningless speech had distracted Delali to a point she didn’t know she could return from. Despite his post-Georgia Man of the Theatre transformation, Adrien’s physical allure was undeniable. The way his eyes glinted in the mood lighting of Polo Bar, the way his hair was neatly edged up from the scene where his adoptive mom learns about Black culture, the way his collarbone peeked out from the unbuttoned top of his shirt—ugh. Delali faced the real reason she’d come here tonight: she wanted to sleep with Adrien. But she refused to make the first move. Nothing—nothing—could be more demeaning than being rejected by someone who had just unironically sung a song titled “Steal Away (To the Endzone)” in front of hundreds of real, live, listening-and-learning people, and she wasn’t sure she could take that chance. But there was a way to know exactly how Adrien was feeling.

Delali grasped Adrien’s hand just a bit tighter, then lifted her eyes to meet his. Remembering Alba’s instructions, she tried to clarify her intentions, which were simple: to have satisfying ex sex but maintain some semblance of the upper hand. As she did this, her mind went blank, then suddenly flooded with static. When the static broke, she saw an utterly random procession of images, bathed in a red and blue that reminded her of 3D glasses from her childhood. The strange pictures—a scene from Toy Story, then the lens of a camera, then an unopened bag of pretzels, then a microphone, and on and on—jaunted through her head for a moment before their color cleared to normal. These were not her own thoughts, Delali realized, they were Adrien’s. For the first time, Delali’s mind was filling with images instead of words, all of them from Adrien’s mind.

The images became less random, slowly developing coherence until Delali could finally decipher them. She saw snapshots of herself and Adrien over the past seven years, from the first time they’d slept together to the last—high-definition reels of their bodies interlocking, sometimes urgently and other times luxuriantly, their foreheads beaded with sweat. She had to admit, she was surprised by some of the hookups he chose to return to. Helpful insight. She was also surprised by the extremely graceful, otherworldly version of herself that Adrien saw in his head—seemingly 4-D, prettier than seemed possible, and totally captivating. Woah. Delali, suddenly flustered, ejected herself from Adrien’s brain and looked around the restaurant.

“Dela?” Adrien asked. “You okay?”

Delali nodded minutely, indulging Adrien with a long, searching look. Armed with her new knowledge, she thought fuck it, lifted her lavender-manicured hand, and called for the check.

* * *

The next morning Delali woke up to the feeling of white sunlight against her eyelids, jolting awake when she realized she wasn’t in her own home. She sat up in the empty bed, wrapping herself in its crisp beige sheets and looking around the bedroom. It took her a second, but between the stark monochromatic décor and shearling meditation cushion sitting in the corner of the room, she remembered she was in Adrien’s rental. She wasn’t sure how a loft on Broome got him closer to Reggie, but she wasn’t about to suggest an alternative. Delali was feeling around for her phone when she heard a quiet whistling noise. A card appeared on the bedside table.

Her heart thudding, Delali reached over to touch the card, revealing its text.

To the Recipient at Coordinate 40.7616, -73.9744

This is a second letter of sanction regarding your recent magical behavior. We are instructing you to please cease your conspicuous acts of magic immediately.

Should you continue to practice magic in a manner that is inconsistent with the objectives of the Sphere, you will receive further sanctions.

In the instance that you receive five sanctions, you will be located and transported to 33,26 to discuss your behavior with the Council. You will be afforded the option of attending with your mentor, instructor, or closest elder if you so choose.

With the utmost love and affection,

The Council

Sanction number two. Shit. On one hand, reading someone’s mind in full view of the paparazzi seemed like the dictionary definition of conspicuous, but on the other, it wasn’t like anyone could see what she was doing. Her leather backpack was resting against the bedside table, and she stuffed the card inside, then fished around to pull out her metric. It had changed overnight—confirmation that she’d used her powers as intended—still lilac, but deeper, richer. She could actually feel the metric when she held it now, though it couldn’t be any heavier than a couple of grains of rice. Adrien appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe in a pair of black Clarke Stein boxer briefs.

“What’s that?” Adrien asked, his mouth full. He was spooning a green smoothie out of a scooped-out cantaloupe and into his mouth.

Delali dropped the metric into her bag. “A meditation . . . orb,” she flubbed. “I was just sending a picture to my reiki master.”

“Nice,” Adrien said. “I really need to buy a new one of those.”

Delali

I got another one of those sanction letters

Delali

Like the one from Sept.

Maya

Same

Maya

Ive gotten 3

Gabbie

I haven’t gotten any. Not to rub it in!

Gabbie

Maybe we should tell Alba about these?

Maya

ehhhhh

Maya

I don’t want to get set back in our training . . .

Maya

a year is already long as hell

Delali

Why would it set us back?

Maya

Idk

Maya

It’s just a vibe I get from Alba like she would not be happy about it

Delali

Yeah I know what you mean. Maybe we just need to be more discreet??

Maya

that part

Gabbie

IDK . . .

Delali

Reassess if Maya gets a fourth?

Maya

Fine

Gabbie

Deal!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Why couldn’t my power be teleportation?” Gabbie complained as she opened the door to The Bar. It was pretty quiet inside: they hadn’t yet shut off the Wi-Fi for the night, so groups of students still held court at the tables, mostly nursing cups of coffee instead of beers. Gabbie was grateful because it meant she didn’t have to wade through a crowd of drunk people to find what she was looking for.

Gabbie had spent over an hour digging through her collection of cardigans that morning, trying to see if her favorite shrug had accidentally fallen to the floor of her closet. The shrug was like a security blanket for her, and she’d leaned on it a lot more than usual after Dan left. Now, with all the witch stuff happening, she could barely sleep without it. She kept reaching for it throughout the week as she read Lesson 1 (or as she lied her way through conversations with Dan so she didn’t accidentally reveal she was a witch) and finding that it wasn’t there. For a moment, she thought maybe it was some kind of magical test from the Sphere. But when she sat cross-legged on her bed and closed her eyes to concentrate, her powers didn’t make the shrug fly out of thin air and into her hands. She’d even tried doing the reappear spell she found from leafing through the lesson book—nothing.

Her powers had been popping up in random ways even more frequently since their lesson with Alba: she’d ironed a work dress with the touch of a finger, then somehow sliced an apple just by looking at it. Both times, she’d checked her metric immediately afterward—but the change in color was so subtle she wasn’t even sure it was real. She wasn’t anywhere near as desperate as Maya and and Delali to go to the Sphere, but it would be nice if her powers could step in and help her with her TikTok engagement.

It wasn’t until she was halfway through her Thursday afternoon papier-mâché class that she remembered she’d last worn the shrug on her birthday. She had such a clear memory of taking it home that night—she even remembered using it as a pillow at Maya’s. But everything from that night had been so strange, she decided to retrace her steps anyway. The thought of the subway ride from the Bronx to the East Village almost made Gabbie forfeit the shrug. But the memories the sweater held—her college move-in day, graduation brunch with her family, her first kiss with Dan—gave her the strength she needed to brave the trip. To be without both Dan and her shrug during this tumultuous time was too much. Plus, taking a cross-city trip was one more way to fill the time while they waited for their next meeting with Alba.

The bartender was facing away from her, chatting with a beautiful girl on the other side of the bar. Gabbie waited, looking around the cozy, dimly-lit space and intermittently fluffing her twist-out while she waited for the bartender to see her. She looked at her phone screen. Five minutes passed. Finally she cleared her throat—she hated to interrupt—and spoke. “Hi there!” she said. The bartender didn’t budge. She’d have to use her outside voice. “Hey,” she said again, this time a little louder. Nothing. “Excuse me!” she almost yelled, waving her arms to get his attention.

The bartender turned to Gabbie, a small, amused grin on his face. “Yeah?” he asked. Gabbie, momentarily stunned by the gravelly depth of his voice, opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She could only look at him, taking in the clean lines of his beard, the slim silver hoop in his left ear, and the way his white T-shirt, which had a picture of Susan Sarandon on it, clung to the contours of his shoulders.

“Hello?” the bartender asked. “Just a second ago you were flagging me down like you needed the Heimlich.”

“My shrug,” Gabbie spluttered, like an alien. “I left it here a couple of weeks ago.”

“Your what?” he asked. The girl he’d been talking to tucked a twenty-dollar tip beneath her empty glass and he flashed her a brilliant, cocky smile.

“My shrug,” Gabbie repeated. She shook her head to clear it. “It’s a little black sweater made of yarn, with lots of little holes in it. I knitted it.”

“Ah,” the bartender said, raising his eyebrows. He crouched out of view, rooting around under the counter. “This is the lost and found,” he explained as he stood. He placed a cardboard box in front of her. go fish was scrawled on its side in Wite-Out. “If someone found your hole-y sweater, it’s in here.” He winked at her teasingly.

“Thanks,” Gabbie said, suddenly annoyed. Guys like this were exactly why she loved Dan. The bartender was so pleased with himself he couldn’t even wipe that little smirk off his face for five seconds. What was so funny anyway? Gabbie started poking around the box of random clothing, vapes, and occasional IDs. She had just started to give up hope when she spotted a shiny white tag with the letters GCN written on it in thick Sharpie letters. When her mom had told her to write her initials on the tags of all her clothing while packing for college, Gabbie had brushed her off before changing her mind and staying up all night unpacking, labeling, and repacking. Now, she’d never been more grateful for her mom’s advice.

She pulled the shrug from the tangle of items in the box and pressed the polyester-wool blend to her cheek, and felt herself almost tear up. She couldn’t believe she’d almost left the sweater to die here, mixed in with musty pairs of socks with marijuana leaves printed on them.

“Wow,” said the bartender. Gabbie opened her eyes, remembering she was in public. He was staring at her, the lean muscles of his arms tensing as he rested on the bar. “You made that yourself?”

“Yeah.” Gabbie looked at the mass of yarn in her hands, embarrassed. “I know it’s so dorky but sometimes I like to make things myself, you know, like arts and crafts and stuff and sometimes home improvement projects and when I was in seventh grade my mom wouldn’t buy me this shrug from Limited Too, so I copied it at home and now I have this TikTok account where I do a bunch of crafting but yeah, this one’s extra special I guess.” She could not believe she’d just revealed to a devastatingly handsome bartender that she had an emotional connection to a frizzy Limited Too dupe she’d made when she was thirteen.

The bartender laughed, but he wasn’t making fun of her. The laugh was . . . appreciative. “Well, that’s a waaay better founder story than mine.”

“Founder story?” Gabbie asked.

“Yeah,” he responded. “I’m a creator myself. I made this.” He stood upright and pulled at the fabric of his T-shirt.

“You made that shirt?” Gabbie asked. She still hadn’t sat down, and now she was leaning eagerly against her side of the bar. “That is so cool.” What were the chances she would meet another creator the same week she started taking Crafting seriously?

“It’s one of many. The idea is that it’ll become a sort of ubiquitous form of self-expression, like what color Converse you wear or the kind of phone case you have or the color you paint your nails, you know? Everyone has a favorite celeb. The line’s called celebritees.” He emphasized the “tees.”

“Wow,” Gabbie said. “That’s such a good idea.” She would love a Lizzo celebritee.

The bartender did another of his self-satisfied smiles. “I design and sew other stuff, but yeah, this is my bread and butter.” He extended his hand. “I’m Faison.”

“Gabbie.”

He had a sudden moment of realization. “Oh, I remember where I’ve seen you. You were here with Maya on her birthday, right?”

“Yeah,” Gabbie replied. “Yeah, just really quickly on the way out.”

Faison nodded. “Yeah, I remember. I never forget a beautiful face. It’s a strength and a weakness I guess.” His eyes locked into hers as he said this, and Gabbie didn’t know how to respond. She never got hit on. Maybe it was the eyeliner trick she’d learned from her new “mutual,” Yasmine. Or maybe it was just being outside of her apartment for once.

“Are you one of Maya’s sisters?” Faison said when he realized Gabbie wasn’t going to reply.

“I—no,” Gabbie replied. “Just a friend.” Or like, a sister in witchcraft.

“Cool. Well, can I buy you a drink, Gabbie? You can tell me more about this business you’re starting.”

Gabbie stole a glance at her phone screen. It was almost time for her evening call with Dan, and even though she was dying to talk to someone—anyone—about Crafting and Coconut Oil, she needed to head out soon if she wanted to make it.

“I’m so sorry,” Gabbie said, really meaning it. “But I have an appointment that I can’t miss. Raincheck?”

Faison nodded like it was no big deal, and Gabbie fought a little wave of sadness at how unbothered he seemed. “Sure.”

Gabbie turned—in the ten minutes that she’d been looking for her shrug and talking to Faison, the entire bar had basically emptied out. How long had they been alone in there? She headed to the doors, reaching them just as the sky opened up and it started to pour. With her hand on the doorknob, she watched through the door’s windows as people scattered, escaping the sudden, torrential rain. What? Just ten minutes ago, it had been sixty degrees and sunny.

She turned around to see Faison laughing, his eyes trained on her. She walked slowly, sheepishly back to the counter.

“Okay, that is not the kind of raincheck I meant,” she said.

“I promise, I did not make that happen,” Faison replied.

Gabbie slid onto a barstool and crossed her legs. “Can you do a dirty Shirly?”

Gabbie

Hi babe! So sorry I missed your call. I got stuck downtown after work!!

Dan

👍

Dan

Don’t you work in the Bronx?

Gabbie

Yeah! I went downtown afterward to meet a friend.

Dan

Woah there social butterfly

Dan

Text me when you’re home

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Oh my gosh, I am so jealous,” Gabbie said. She turned Delali’s metric over in her hand, assessing the purple from different angles as they walked up to Alba’s from the 96th Street stop. “How did you do it?”

“Honestly,” Delali said, hands on the straps of her backpack, “I don’t really know. Most of it, I didn’t even do on purpose.”

“Lemme see.” Maya held out her hand.

“Ugh, I feel like I can’t do anything on purpose,” Gabbie said as she dropped the metric into Maya’s palm.

“Well we’ve only had one session. It’s not like we’re supposed to be pros or anything yet,” Maya said.

“True,” Gabbie replied.

“Agreed. I think using my named power was the most effective thing though,” Delali offered. “So maybe try that? We can ask Alba.”

“Let’s see yours Maya,” Gabbie said.

Maya handed Delali’s metric back to her, then fetched hers out of her Bianca Saunders tote. Her hand emerged with a metric that was decidedly purple, Maya’s pearlescent white manicure making a stark contrast against the color.

Delali’s mouth dropped open. “How did you do that?” In the days since Maya sent her last picture, her metric had darkened even more. She thought hers looked pretty good, but Maya was way ahead of her.

“Changed the thermostat while in bed over the weekend, curled my hair, revived a plant that was dying⁠—”

“That’s smart,” Delali murmured.

“—changed the color of a dress at work, transformed into another girl at work so I could leave early . . .” She counted off the examples on her fingers, her high ponytail swinging as she spoke.

“Jeez,” Gabbie said as they walked up 115th. “I need to catch up.” If things continued at this pace, Delali and Maya would be traveling to the Sphere without her. She shuddered to think of falling out of step with the only people who knew what was actually going on in her life. “Hey, should we try and transport to Alba’s? Like we did by accident the first time? It would be good for our metrics.”

“We’re in the middle of the street,” Maya said. “It would be bad for our sanctions.”

“Oh,” Gabbie said, disappointed. “True.”

But the girls slowed their walking—the allure of additional color on their metrics was strong. How strange that just a week ago, they hadn’t even known what a metric was.

“What about,” Delali said, pointing across the street, “there?” The girls followed Delali’s finger, catching sight of a church’s red doors through breaks in the weekend crowds. Delali had noticed the cathedral on her walk from the station last week.

“You want to do witchcraft in a church?” Gabbie squawked. She tugged anxiously at her infinity scarf.

Maya tilted her head and considered it. “That’s kind of a slay.”

Delali shrugged. “It’s the good kind of witchcraft,” she said, already grabbing Gabbie’s arm and pulling her across the street.

The day’s services were long over, and the cathedral was empty and echoing inside. The girls walked through the tiled entryway, and on their right side, just before the space opened up to the rows of pews, there was a small wooden vestibule with purple stained glass windows. Delali pointed to the room and together, the girls quietly entered, then faced each other.

“Do we even know how to transport?” Gabbie asked, hiking her tote bag up on her shoulder.

“I mean, how different can it be from every other kind of direct magic?” Maya asked. “‘Center yourself,’ ‘highlight your intention,’ blah blah blah. Plus we’ve already done it once before. Even if it was by accident.”

Gabbie looked to Delali, who shrugged. “I haven’t read the transportation section yet but she’s probably right. Let’s just try it.”

Gabbie exhaled. “Okay,” she said.

Delali grabbed Gabbie’s hand, holding her other out to Maya, who stared at it, lip upturned. Delali sighed. “The shared intent and physical proximity of two witches aggregates toward their common end, rendering acts of magic more attainable for all involved,” she recited from Lesson 3. “Just hold my fucking hand.”

Maya relented.

“Ready?” Delali asked once they’d all locked hands. Gabbie and Maya both nodded, then the girls all closed their eyes, willing their magic to appear. It was awkward and quiet in the vestibule for a few minutes, and Maya was just about to open her eyes and give up when the air around them changed texture completely, as if thinning out, and the sounds of the world quieted. She felt weightless, like she’d been lifted off her feet, and found that when she tried to open her eyes to confirm, she couldn’t. She, Gabbie, and Delali were under the complete control of their magic. When finally they felt solid earth beneath them again, they opened their eyes to find they were on the steps of Alba’s building.

When Alba opened the door, she was in another of her cream-based ensembles, her neck cradled by a slouchy turtleneck sweater.

“Ladies,” she said. “Come in.” She offered the girls her usual, unreadable smile, and opened the door wider. “Take your seats on the sofa.”

Gabbie sat between Maya and Delali, the way she did when there were two students fighting on the bus. It wasn’t until they were staring at the empty tabletop that they realized they had come to expect food of some sort to welcome them—even on the day of the potions lesson, Alba had set out a charcuterie board on the coffee table for them to sneak bites during breaks.

“Hungry?” Alba asked playfully, watching the confusion on the girls’ faces. She paced before continuing. “Well, today it’s up to you to put together a meal.”

Maya scowled, her mind immediately going to the protein bar she’d left at home in anticipation of one of Alba’s luxurious spreads.

“Any good witch knows how to make the things she wants the most appear out of thin air. This is an extension of the direct magic you’ve already engaged with—catching the phone, filling your drink, whatever else you’ve been doing in your free time. These acts made use of, or replenished, existing matter. But this next lesson will require you to make something out of nothing. Conjuring. Conjuring is a real test of magic by intention. The key for this first attempt is that you don’t push the boat out too far—try something familiar to you, something you like and eat often. Ah, and it’s very important to pay attention to the temperature of the food you’re conjuring. Conjured food will keep its intended temperature—heating or cooling requires a separate act of magic. Go ahead, ladies.”

The girls looked at each other for a second, then back at the empty glass tabletop before them.

“Don’t be shy,” Alba said. She settled into her chair. “It may take some time, but we do have all day.”

Maya wasn’t sure where to put her hands. Delali had to resist the urge to murmur to herself. Gabbie was afraid her magic face might be the same as her grading face. But after a few moments of concentration, the room fell silent as the girls shed their self-awareness, leaning determinedly into their magic. Alba flipped through a book. After nearly thirty minutes, the first thing that sprung up on the table was a superfood salad—Maya’s, of course. Close behind came Delali’s chocolate-covered pretzels and bagel. Then, sputtering to life after Maya had already eaten half her lunch, was Gabbie’s bowl of whole-grain Chex.

“Good,” Alba said. “Very good.” She could see now that the girls’ performance in their last lesson had not been a fluke. They were skilled, even without training. Her vision at the end of the last session hadn’t returned to her yet, but she was certain these girls, their incredible strength, had something to do with whatever it was.

“Question,” Maya said, swallowing her last mouthful of quinoa.

Alba stiffened—What now? From her initial tracking of the girls, she’d assumed Delali would be the most difficult to work with. But in only three meetings she’d realized that each girl was challenging in her own way. Delali read too much and was insatiable in her search for information; Gabbie’s naivety allowed her to ask questions most would find useless or embarrassing; and Maya’s entitlement meant she made everyone in her vicinity justify their very existence.

“Yes, Maya?” Alba replied, careful to keep her voice neutral. If they wanted to know why she hadn’t conjured lunch with them, that was easy enough to answer—she’d already eaten.

“Can we conjure some clothes next?” Maya asked. She was already imagining herself at the Gathering, standing under the Cradle in something riddled with cutouts.

Alba relaxed. “Well, you can certainly do that on your own time,” she said as the other two girls finished their lunches.

She stood and paced. She had never mentored before, so, when she prepared for lessons, she’d taken considerably from the work of her own mentor. Despite her weakness, she still had a witch’s memory, easily able to reenter those days as an adolescent witch receiving her first visions, feeling the first streams of uncontrollable magic in her body. She took those lessons but, of course, made changes she’d need in order for this mentorship to work. Now, Alba launched into the introduction she remembered from her own mentor.

“But I’m here to provide you with information you wouldn’t have on your own. I’m afraid not every session will be a blockbuster like the last. From this session on, you’ll be learning the absolute basics. We’ll start each session with an exercise like the one you just completed, then I’ll give you a lesson that covers fundamentals of magic, fundamentals of the Sphere, or both. A corresponding section in your lesson book will cover everything learned in the session so that you can continue studying in your own time. Reading ahead will not make these lessons go faster.” She glanced at Delali when she said this. “By the end of your training, you should know as much as any witch born and raised in the Sphere. And if I’m any good, you’ll know more.”

Maya deflated, but Delali, just moments ago working out whether she’d have time to see Lionel before he left for LA, snapped to attention. Basics, to her, were always the most interesting part of learning anything. They unlocked the kind of secrets that complicated knowledge obscured.

“Before we start,” Alba said. “Let’s see your metrics.”

Each girl pulled out her metric and placed it on the table. They were all darker than when they’d checked them before transporting. Gabbie, Maya, and Delali watched Alba’s face turn serious, almost unsettled.

“Is that a good face?” Maya asked after a beat of silence.

Alba nodded. “These are . . . these don’t look like the metrics of new witches.” Her brow furrowed, as she picked up Maya’s metric, turning it over. “It should have taken you two or three weeks to reach this color.”

“What does that mean?” Maya asked.

“I’m not sure,” Alba said frankly. She paused and fluffed her hair as she thought. “It’s possible it doesn’t mean anything at all. It may just be a genetic oddity, or perhaps a factor of your age. It’s certainly not a bad thing.”

“Does this mean we’ll finish faster? Like in time for . . . the Gathering?” Maya fished.

Alba, pulled out of her thoughts, laughed. “You’re very persistent, Maya. But the Gathering is held in May, which you’ll learn more about in this lesson. It’s September. I’m afraid that’s not very likely.” But as she said it, she thought again to the cloudy vision from last Sunday. Silk, laughter, lights. She thought of the prematurely colored metrics. The next part she said almost as if reasoning with herself. “Even if you had completed your assignment and were transporting by then, Gathering invitations are by lottery. New witches are favored in the lottery, yes, but there’s really no guarantee that you’ll be among the selected.”

“Well, is there someone who does know what it means?” Delali asked. “The shade of our metrics, I mean.”

“Perhaps,” Alba said. “Perhaps someone at the WHO would be interested in speaking to you, but it will be some time before you can transport there. I can attempt to contact them on your behalf, but they haven’t been seeing special cases for years now.” Delali watched, frustrated, as Alba lifted a hand and waved it to communicate that the whole endeavor would be a waste of time.

“Why not?” Gabbie asked.

Delali bit her glossed lip and closed her eyes to keep herself from answering—the answer was literally in Lesson 1.

Alba stood. “Well, that’s what we’ll cover in today’s lesson.” As she thought through the tenets of her lecture, she couldn’t help but be struck by the paradox of the girls—the unusual strength paired with the total ignorance. “You still have so much to learn,” Alba said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Nadia was standing in the back garden of 33,26, under the gently swaying arms of the Cradle. She’d heard elders lament the condition of the Cradle for as long as she could remember, but this was the only version she’d ever known, and to her it was still something to behold. Its arms were a brilliant ebony, crooked and majestic. The canopy stretched for several yards in each direction, and when the tree leaned in the wind, sunlight glinted off the remaining leaves, which had stunning veins of metallic purple. Some sections were still so full they blocked out the sunlight completely. Nadia hadn’t gotten used to it all yet—the enormity of 33,26, the (literal) charmed air that surrounded it, the permission to be on the grounds of the Regent’s home outside of public visiting hours. Taking in a breath of crisp autumn air, she tried to convince herself that today’s meeting would be a good one.

As she waited for Dr. Diop’s arrival, she received another banner from Iris:

Disturbances in the Baseline. Report landing in five.

Send sanction. —Iris

Nadia swiped it away as Dr. Diop appeared on the far edges of the lawn, resisting the urge to scream. She did not have time for whatever performance was taking place in the typic world right now. This was her third meeting with Violet in three weeks, and she’d come to dread them. The Regent didn’t seem to believe that WHO scientists were genuinely telling her everything they knew about the new births—which was essentially nothing. She’d bulldozed through all their meetings in a manner that ignored the basic realities of science.

Sure, Violet’s banner—the one announcing that the Crisis wasn’t over—had slightly dampened the mood in the Sphere. But each time there was a restorative birth, the word spread and the Sphere celebrated. It seemed that the witches of the Sphere had decided they were no longer interested in bad news. It wasn’t the pre-Shatter Sphere, but Nadia wondered why Violet couldn’t just consider this a success for now and let the WHO work in peace.

“Ready?” Dr. Diop, now at Nadia’s side, asked.

Nadia nodded, pulling herself out of her thoughts. They approached the massive trunk of the Cradle. Around one side was a large, curved table. Violet was known to prefer outdoor meetings when she could manage them, and Amos had notified them last minute that the meeting had been moved from the Hollow to the Cradle. Nadia and Dr. Diop were standing for only a moment before the Regent appeared in front of them—she must have been watching from her office window. The witches all touched hands briefly, offering each other a short, formal exchange of bodily magic to foster goodwill.

Nadia took a deep breath as she sat, unable to keep her eyes off the Regent’s face. Like many witches in the Sphere, Nadia found Violet’s performance as Regent uninspiring at best. So it was frustrating to her that she found the Regent so arresting. Today she’d worn her traditional Regent’s robes, purple and tightly pleated from top to bottom, alongside heaps of gleaming gemstone jewelry which, at the end of her tenure, would be returned to the coffers of 33,26 for her successor. Her hair—which had spawned thousands of copycat looks across the Sphere—was so black it appeared dyed, and she wore it in a low, waist-length ponytail, blow-dried and adorned all over with emeralds, opal, and scapolite, which caught the sun as she sat. Her full lips were always neatly painted a shade of deep claret.

Nadia fiddled with a loop of black thread on her robes—she wasn’t looking forward to encountering Violet’s rage, which intensified a shade with every inconclusive meeting. It was the only predictable thing about her.

Dr. Diop spoke first, her hands folded on the table. “Thank you for your audience, Violet.”

“Regent,” Violet corrected. She swung a finger to stir her tea.

A look of distaste flashed across Dr. Diop’s face. Nadia had witnessed Violet using that tone on others, but never on Dr. Diop, who was clearly one of the only Councilmembers Violet truly respected.

“Well, Regent, as you know, it has only been thirty-seven days since your initial information request. Just over five weeks since the birth of Nina Nox broke with the patterns we attributed to the Crisis; our very first evidence that the Crisis might be changing. As such, our studies remain inconclusive at this stage. We could provide you with early results from the tests we’ve conducted on a handful of witches and their babies, but it would simply be irresponsible. The initial report we provided you remains up to date.”

Violet opened her mouth to speak, but Dr. Diop continued.

“Now, after your initial request I did warn you that this was possible. The scientific process is long, and we will likely need at least a few more months before we can give you a well-generated, reliable hypothesis regarding the Crisis.”

Violet was quiet for a moment, tapping her nails on the tabletop. “I understand the constraints of the situation, Verbena, but do you know where I just came from?”

Dr. Diop narrowed her eyes. “No, Regent, where did you come from?”

“I came from my office. In 33,26.” Violet pointed up to her window. “Where I was approving the guest list for the Gathering. A Gathering that some say will be the first true Gathering since the Shatter. And when I think of just how many witches will be assembling here to celebrate a year that has meant the end of the Crisis for some, I also think about how shameful it is that, on that same day, many witches will still be confronting the reality of the Crisis in the form of their own typic babies. That witches throughout the Sphere will still be hesitant to procreate, still scared for their loved ones, still wondering whether their entire family lines could be cut short tomorrow. Now, I know your investigation alone cannot start or end the Crisis. That much is very, very clear. But you’ve stumbled on an incredible gift in the birth of Nina Nox, and it is your job to make sense of it. I hope you understand how critical it is that the public hear something substantial from what is considered the premier health organization in the Sphere.”

The word ‘gift’ was a jab, underscored by the sneer that shaped Violet’s lips as she said it. So too was the reminder of the WHO’s reputation, the implication that it might be unfounded, but Dr. Diop took it in stride. “I understand, Regent. We want this Crisis solved as much as you do—you know personally how hard I’ve worked on the AME, even if it hasn’t provided the results we wanted.”

Nadia, praying she wouldn’t be pulled into the impending conflict, looked out at the lawn, taking in the manicured grass and evergreen hedges. Her gaze stopped on something strange, something she hadn’t noticed in all the times she’d looked out at this property from the halls of 33,26, or even from this very seat. Just beyond the shade of the Cradle, there was a sprout in the middle of the otherwise-razed lawn, its brown stem poking over the top of the grass. It was small enough that she’d missed it the first few times she’d glanced behind Violet, but tall enough, conspicuous enough, that she couldn’t look away from it.

Nadia stood and walked toward it, completely forgetting where she was. The conversation stopped short, and the women watched as Nadia made her way across the lawn. Nadia bent over the little sprout, hoping to find something revealing on it, but the plant was utterly pedestrian: a feeble stem and three innocuous leaves. Something about the plant bothered her—it was familiar somehow. She felt that she had seen it before. “What do you think?” she asked Violet. Perhaps the Regent would know.

Violet gave Nadia a long look, unsure how to confront such bold misbehavior. “Well, I think it’s fairly obvious, Nadia. The landscaper missed a spot.”

Nadia opened her mouth to present another question about the burgeoning plant, but then she caught Dr. Diop’s expression and thought better of it.

“May we resume our meeting, your highness? Or would you like to touch every blade of grass on the lawn first?”

“Sorry,” said Nadia.

Violet waved her away, apparently exhausted by the sight of her, then turned to Dr. Diop. “I’m sure that by next week you’ll have a more substantial understanding of this new wave of magic births, correct?” There was nothing particularly threatening in Violet’s gaze, but then again, there needn’t be: she was the Regent.

Violet gathered her mug of tea and disappeared, leaving Nadia at the table with Dr. Diop.

“Is this a joke to you, Nadia?” Dr. Diop started.

Nadia jerked her head back, offended. She’d never heard Dr. Diop use this tone, and she hadn’t expected her to mirror Violet’s ridiculous outrage. “Of course not⁠—”

“Do you know how hard I worked to get you into this position? Everything you do reflects on me, including whatever that just was. Don’t let your new position get to your head. Don’t let your name get to your head. You’re a junior here, understand? Learn your place, or this may be your last time on these grounds.”

Safiya

Omg Lionel!! Have you left NYC already?

Lionel

now u know I wouldn’t leave without saying bye to my nemesis

Safiya

Phew

Safiya

Dinner before you leave?

Safiya

I’ve been dying to go to chef kwame’s new pop up . . .

Lionel

YES

Delali

I can’t 😕 Same old story but I have an exam tomorrow. 50% of grade. Sr. award is in my sights.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Delali shifted in her seat and smiled, her heart curiously full, as she watched Lionel and Safiya gossip spiritedly about an influencer scandal she was struggling to understand. They were sitting in the campus library café, all sipping the thick hot chocolates the school put out seasonally. Delali had only a half hour to spare if she wanted to cram for her exam, and Safiya and Lionel had reluctantly agreed to meet her in the library. What they didn’t know was that the only reason her schedule was so tight was that she’d be spending the rest of the night doing witch reading.

“What about you babe?” Lionel asked, turning his attention to Delali. “How’s the whole school thing going? You found yourself a new piece yet? A little Donald Glover type?”

Lionel had trouble taking school seriously. Much like all her other industry friends, he thought her time at college was some kind of cute vacation and couldn’t wait for her to be back in LA, gossiping at exclusive house parties, going to star-studded workout classes, and getting photographed at whatever red carpets they deemed worthy of their presence.

“Actually,” Delali started. “I do have a confession to make.” She turned the mug around in her hands. A girl could only keep so many secrets at once.

Safiya and Lionel looked to her, their leather chairs squeaking comically as they turned.

“So as you both know, I went to Adrien’s play,” Delali explained. “Alone.” At this, she threw a look at Lionel.

“I had an event!”

“ . . . And I may or may not have stayed over at his apartment afterward.”

Safiya covered her mouth.

“Oh, we are so fucking back,” Lionel said, sitting up in his chair.

“No we’re not! We are not back. It was a one-time thing. It was just, you know nostalgia and whatever.” Nostalgia and mindreading and whatever. “I haven’t even seen him since, and I do not plan to.”

“Oh lord, I knew I shouldn’t have left you two alone,” Lionel said. He reached through the arm of his gray cashmere poncho to pick up his hot chocolate. “He’s still so sexy,”

“So sexy,” Delali confirmed wistfully.

“Wait, nostalgia for what?” Safiya asked. “For Adrien? Or . . . for the industry?”

“Not the psychoanalysis,” Lionel said.

“For neither!” Delali protested. “Maybe for that time I guess. I don’t know.” It was basically impossible to explain what reading Adrien’s mind had done to her.

“Well while we’re on the topic,” Lionel ventured. “I didn’t want to push but . . . What did you think? Of the script?”

“I haven’t read it,” Delali answered, which was true, despite that fact that a new copy materialized in her apartment weekly now. Not that she hadn’t considered it in her weaker moments.

“Still? Not even the first act?”

Delali shook her head.

“The first act of what?” Safiya interrupted. “What am I missing?”

“Lionel sent me a script over the summer,” Delali explained. “Against my wishes.” Delali looked over her shoulder, hoping the group of students at the next table over wasn’t listening.

“Rude,” Safiya chastised Lionel.

“But like I’ve said a trillion times, I’m focused on school right now.”

“I’m not trying to disrespect the school thing,” Lionel said. “I swear. I only sent it because if you do ever, for any reason at all, want to come back to Hollywood, you’re going to have to do it with that script. There’s no other option. It’s the one.”

“Ooh,” Safiya said. “Tell me more. Is it like Oscar bait-y? Or like artsy? Or what?”

“O-s-c-a-r,” Lionel spelled out, suddenly excited. “Ugh, it’s just the best thing I’ve read in years. It’s about Lorraine Hansberry⁠—”

“The lady who wrote A Raisin in the Sun?”

“Oh and so, so, sooo much more. It’s by Mazy Kutekwa, she’s writing and directing.”

“Mazy Kutekwa? I can’t go five minutes without running into a new profile on her,” Safiya said. “That is kind of a huge deal, Dela.”

“And it’s just one of those scripts that captivates you, you know? The writing is stunning, the story’s unreal. And it’s just—I wish I’d had this project three years ago. It’s so the grown-up story Delali would need to move forward in the business.”

Delali pursed her lips. “I still would’ve come to college.”

Lionel was fully ignoring her at this point. “And don’t make me spell out who gets this role if Dela passes. It’ll be the same story as Ch⁠—”

“That script sucked,” Delali interjected. It came out way bitchier than she wanted it to.

Lionel put his hands in the air. “I never said the script was good, just that it was going to blow up. Which it did.” Lionel did have a great eye, which was why he worked for Delali in the first place. After Georgia wrapped, Lionel had decided to be an agent instead of braving the child-to-adult-star leap, and had very quickly become one of the most powerful people in Hollywood.

“Ahh, Dela,” Safiya said. “Why don’t you just read it? School’s almost over anyway. I know you could go and do other stuff after graduating but I don’t know, this sounds like your kind of thing.”

“Maybe,” Delali said. “Maybe I’ll read it over break. Please just drop it.”

Safiya and Lionel had only been quiet for a moment before he muttered, “Do you know this man?”

Delali looked up. Dr. Portillo, clad in his usual khakis and sweater vest, had approached their cluster of sofas, and was awkwardly waiting for Delali’s attention.

“Delali! Good to see you getting some study time in,” he boomed, nodding at her open notebook. “Though I doubt you need it.”

“Oh, hi, Dr. Portillo.” Delali, surprisingly, actually liked Dr. Portillo, maybe even respected him. He seemed like a well-meaning nerd who was just surprised to find himself in an adult’s body. “These are my friends Safiya and Lionel. Guys, this is Dr. Portillo.”

They waved excitedly. Lionel had been treating the whole library experience like a field trip.

“Hi, sir,” Lionel said. “Are you the person that determines who gets this little Python prize? How much do I have to pay you to make sure Dela wins and I never have to hear about her studying ever again?”

Dr. Portillo laughed and held up his hand. “I’m sorry, the only currency I accept is GPA points. But Miss Tamakloe is doing just fine there.” He smiled as she spoke, but Delali caught something strange in the smile—a stiffness? It didn’t quite reach his eyes. What was that? He averted his gaze quickly, then looked at his watch.

“Well, listen, I’ll leave you guys to get to it. Have a good night.” He turned toward the hallway that led to the staircase.

“Gimme a second,” Delali said to Lionel and Safiya, placing her hot chocolate on the table. She got up and followed Dr. Portillo, catching up with him in the empty hallway in front of the staircase. She tapped his arm and he turned, surprised.

“Miss Tamakloe! What can I help you with?”

“Oh, nothing, I just—” She locked him into eye contact, then burrowed into his brain, fueled only by suspicion and a strong gust of intent. She focused in on him, breaking his mind open. Inside, there were lots of numbers, which was to be expected. In the background, other things: his wife, his kid, some receipts he needed to get reimbursed. But in the foreground, Delali saw things she could decipher. The plaque outside his office, which announced his name and position. Herself, for a moment, looking studious in the math students’ lounge, years ago. The prize ceremony, hazy, taking place in a sunny room in the future, days away from graduation. The recipient: Tanner, foggily sketched. Then back to Portillo’s office, and a face Delali recognized from a deep Google dive at the beginning of the year: Tanner’s father, trustee of the university. Then the sound of his voice started revolving around the inside of Dr. Portillo’s head, playing on an interminable loop: “I’m sure you understand how Tanner shows promise.” Dr. Portillo with the dean, that slimy fucker Dean Toggsworth, arguing about the optics of rewarding an actress. “It’s something to take into consideration,” Toggsworth kept saying. It took less than a second to see and understand it all.

Delali exited his mind. “Nothing,” she said. “I just wanted to tell you you had something in your teeth.”

She walked back to the lounge, feeling like she was underwater. Her performance on the exam didn’t matter. The GPA she’d obsessed over these past four years didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to win the award. She had never been in the running in the first place.

Delali

Hey—you guys free to meet up soon? There’s something I want to talk to you about

Gabbie

Always!

Maya

we could meet before alba’s?

Delali

No. Sooner

Maya

Im having a housewarming tomorrow—come thru?

Delali

Hey—text me when you land

Lionel

You think I cant afford in-air wifi? Civilian world rlly has you lost

Lionel

what’s up?

Delali

I read it and it’s perfect.

Delali

Can you get me the first audition?

Lionel

biiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Maya, Denise, and Elise had been planning their housewarming since they first moved that summer, and Maya couldn’t believe how perfectly they’d timed it. With her new ascendance at work, she was kind of excited for her different worlds to collide. Ever since Maya had saved the Harry Nguyen shoot, Lacey had been praising her nonstop, and it was giving her a surprisingly simple insight into how she, too, could access workplace fulfillment: by actually putting some effort into her job. Until that shoot, Maya had been comfortable skating by doing the bare minimum—sneaking in late after her 8:00 a.m. barre class, piling sweater dresses into her Net-A-Porter shopping cart when she was supposed to be working, and zipping out of the office at six on the dot to hit happy hour. But realizing that she could actually be good at her job (with the help of a little magic, sure) had spurred her. Her increasing grip on her powers, as evidenced by a metric that was now solidly approaching violet, meant she could conjure duplicates of sought-after designer pieces, transport to work within minutes of waking up, and basically always be ten steps ahead of everyone else.

She couldn’t wait to see the look on Elise’s face when she found out that Maya was telling the truth about being Lacey’s new golden girl. Now, when the sorors she hadn’t seen in months asked her what she’d been up to, she could just talk about accompanying Lacey to a press dinner at Bar Pitti, instead of worrying about how to not accidentally reveal she was a witch. Even the witch stuff was seeming less and less scary, and she’d been feeling so generous that she actually invited Gabbie and Delali.

A series of knocks sounded on the bathroom door.

“Maya!” Elise called. “The CS girls are here.” Maya turned in front of the mirror one more time, rearranging the curtain bangs on her new wig and adjusting the hem of her House of CB minidress before opening the door.

“Babe!” one of the CS girls yelled from the hall. She pushed past Elise to hug Maya, and Maya did her best to return. “Your apartment is fucking amazing.”

“Thanks for coming,” Maya said, doing her best to sound like she meant it. She’d invited her coworkers mostly as a courtesy, and as she scanned the group of girls, all in off-duty takes on their usual weirdo outfits, she was surprised to see that every last one of the junior PR girls had come. Barring Tatiana, which honestly was understandable. There could only be one golden girl, and Maya’s new dominance had been hard on Tatiana, who was now the only girl in the office who didn’t kiss Maya’s ass. Still, she wondered what Tatiana was doing instead tonight, and then immediately decided she didn’t care—she had a full night of dancing, drinking, and receiving compliments ahead of her.

* * *

Delali walked into Maya’s apartment building, trailing a group of girls in lavender mini dresses and turquoise heels. As she stepped into the perfumed elevator, Delali reached into the pocket of her felt bomber jacket, pulling out her phone to check the time—she didn’t want to be here for a second longer than she had to be. Reading Dr. Portillo’s mind had sent her into a tailspin, and the last thing Delali wanted was to be at a random party where annoying “is that Georgia?” whispers kept erupting around her. But if she didn’t catch Maya and Gabbie tonight, who knew when Maya would agree to meet again? The elevator door was just about to close when a foot stopped it. Delali, to her own surprise, immediately recognized it as Gabbie’s. She heard one of the FKA girls suck her teeth.

“Oh my god, Gabbie, hi,” Delali said, relieved.

“Hi!” Gabbie chirped as she stepped carefully into the elevator, balancing a big white bakery box in her arms. “I’d give you a hug, but,” she lifted the box.

“Right,” Delali said.

“So sweet of Maya to invite us tonight,” Gabbie said, shaking a coil of hair out of her face.

“Yeah,” Delali mumbled, zoning out as the elevator started to rise. Then something caught her eye. “Wait,” Delali said, pointing at Gabbie’s hand. “What’s this? Did you get your nails done?” For the weeks that they’d known each other, Maya and Delali had begrudgingly complimented each other’s manicures each time they changed, while Gabbie and her nubby nude fingernails watched on in silence.

Gabbie curled her fingers against the box sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“What’s the occasion? Is Dan coming back for Halloween or something?”

“No,” Gabbie said. They’d argued about that actually. “I just made friends with this other influencer girl and wanted to meet up to ask her some questions and she suggested a nail date. So I thought, why not?”

“It looks really good,” Delali said, oddly proud. “Is that Opal-lin Around?”

“A Pearl Could Dream,” Gabbie replied.

It was weird taking the ride up to Maya’s apartment with a bunch of other people, and even weirder seeing the apartment full of guests. Inside, people were packed wall to wall, drinking and talking, and “Party” by Beyoncé was blasting through the speakers. A table pushed against the wall held drinks and snacks, and even though it was chilly out, the double doors leading to the balcony were open, the crowd spilling outside.

“Let’s find Maya,” Delali said at the same time Gabbie said, “We have to go put these on the table!”

Delali sighed. As badly as she wanted to get in and out, it was clear Gabbie was thrilled to be there. She followed Gabbie to the snacks table, where she diligently arranged fifty purple cupcakes on the table, then whipped out a stack of peach-colored business cards and arranged those on the table, too. The cards said “Crafting & Coconut Oil” on one side in folksy cursive, and on the other, read “Gabbie Nwosu: 4C Hair Chick - DIY Goddess - Baker Babe.” Delali poured herself a Henny and Coke.

“I keep texting Maya but she’s not responding,” Delali said once Gabbie had finished. She stood on her tip toes to scan the room.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll turn up,” Gabbie responded placidly, sipping her Diet Coke. “Who knew Maya had so many friends?”

“Oh!” Delali shouted. “There she is.” Across the room by the balcony doors, Maya was wearing a red dress with tassels, and talking to a group of people. They looked totally engrossed and entertained by whatever Maya was saying, an experience Delali had never had. She grabbed Gabbie’s hand and pulled her through the packed room. Maya, apparently already drunk, looked confused at first, then pulled them into hugs.

“Hiiiiiiii,” Maya oozed as her friends dispersed. When she pulled back from hugging Gabbie, she scrunched her face in confusion. Gabbie was wearing a strangely inoffensive outfit: a beige sweetheart-neck sweater with high-waisted jeans. She even had her nails done. “That’s cute,” Maya said, slightly accusatory.

Gabbie looked afraid. “Oh, it was a gift from this fashion startup,” she explained inspecting herself. “It’s not really my style but, I don’t know, I could never throw out free clothes.”

Maya nodded eagerly. “Okay, I’m so glad you said that because I was cleaning out my closet yesterday and I was thinking about how I have so many clothes that would actually be so good for you.”

“OMG,” Gabbie said. “That’s actually really sweet. I mean rude, but sweet. I could definitely make some content out of that.”

As Gabbie spoke, Maya scanned the room, apparently looking for someone more interesting to talk to.

“Is there somewhere—” Delali started.

“Oh! This is Elise,” Maya said dragging a girl in a patent leather tube top over to them. “And that’s Denise. You know, these two didn’t even think you were real cause you’re never here.”

“Paralegal hours,” Denise responded.

Delali tried to be polite as Elise, Denise, and Maya dragged them into conversation, but it wasn’t easy. How much was there really to say about Below Deck? It took a second, but as she watched Maya pulling faces and tossing her hair over her shoulder, Delali realized what was happening. It wasn’t just that Maya was drunk—which she definitely was—it was that Maya was in her element. Delali saw unbothered Maya so much that she’d actually forgotten what she’d been like the night they met. Maya loved a party, and Delali wasn’t sure she’d voluntarily leave to talk about witchcraft, even if it was only for a few minutes.

When Denise and Elise finally drifted away, Delali started to talk again but was interrupted by Gabbie, of all people.

“Are your friends from The Bar here?” Gabbie asked, fiddling with that beaded bracelet she always wore.

“OMG, yes,” Maya said. “Joe and Shelby—you have to meet them. They were actually there that night we met.”

“Oh,” Gabbie said. “Didn’t you say there were three of them?”

Delali threw a perplexed look at Gabbie. Who cared about the makeup of The Bar’s current waitstaff? They had way more important things to talk about.

“Who, Faison? He’s sick or something. Let me go get Joe and Shel—” Maya started, but Delali grabbed her arm before she could run off. In an instant, the entire room went still, the party falling dark and quiet. The girls were suspended there for a moment, and when the lights came back on and the music resumed, they were in Maya’s bedroom, the chorus of “Drip Too Hard” continuing in the background as if they had never stopped.

“Ugh,” Maya said from atop her bed. Her hands were empty—phone and drink vanished—and the silver Amina Muaddi mules she’d been wearing all night were sitting neatly by the door. Delali was on the floor, leaned up against the huge pile of clothes Maya had deposited while getting dressed, and Gabbie was sitting at her desk. “Fine, Delali,” Maya sighed. “What is it you needed to talk about so badly?”

“Wait, before we start,” Gabbie said, shooting a pleading look at Delali, who looked like she was about to explode. “What the heck are we gonna do about these?” She pulled a sanction from the pocket of her jeans. It had appeared on her desk that afternoon, after she had calmed down a particularly defensive dad in a parent-teacher conference, and it had inspired a weird combination of feelings. On one hand, she was happy to finally be joining Maya and Delali. On the other hand, Gabbie had never been involved with the law, and she didn’t want to start now. She couldn’t believe she didn’t even have Dan to talk to about all this. “I did an act of magic that was so subtle. And I got one anyway!”

“It’s weird,” Maya confirmed. “We’re supposed to be using our powers more, not less, right?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about!” Delali said. She took a breath and lowered her voice. “I just—hear me out—I want to meet the Council. Dr. Diop, to be more specific. And I think racking up these sanctions might be the key to doing that sooner rather than later.”

“You want us to try to get sanctioned on purpose?” Gabbie asked.

“Who the hell is Dr. Diop?” Maya added.

“Do you guys read anything?” Delali asked.

Gabbie averted her eyes and fiddled with her hair. “The important parts,” she mumbled.

“She’s one of the doctors at the WHO, and she’s on the Council. She does work in magic heredity—I think that maybe she can tell us why we got our powers so late. Or why Alba thought our metrics were so weird. Or why only a third of the witch population has named powers but all three of us do.”

“Does it even matter?” Maya asked. “Why all this is happening? Maybe it just is.”

“I don’t know,” Delali said. She thought back to their last session, to Alba’s expression when she’d seen the metrics. “That might be true, but Alba seems just as confused by our powers as we are.”

“She said she’d talk to the WHO for us,” Gabbie offered.

“Yeah, and she also said they probably wouldn’t be taking any special cases.”

Gabbie and Maya looked at each other, considering Delali’s proposition.

“Why don’t we just try to find the doctor once we’re able to transport?” Maya said.

“How? How would we get ourselves a one-on-one meeting with a Councilmember? A Councilmember who’s in the middle of solving a Crisis?”

“But the whole Council will be at the Gathering. We could approach her there,” Maya said.

“There’s no guarantee we get invited to the Gathering,” said Gabbie.

“Don’t say that,” Maya responded. “We’re manifesting.”

“Alba said it could take over a year to fill our metrics you guys, which means over a year before we can transport to the Sphere,” Delali said, her voice rising. “At the rate these sanctions are coming”—she gestured toward the card in Gabbie’s hand—“we’ll be summoned way before our metrics are full. Plus look at this.” She touched her hand to one of her sanctions and revealed the text again:

In the instance that you receive five sanctions, you will be located and transported to 33,26 to discuss your behavior with the Council. You will be afforded the option of attending with your mentor, instructor, or closest elder should you choose.

With the utmost love and affection,

The Council

“Will be located and transported,” she emphasized. “They’ll transport us. We don’t even have to be finished with our training.”

“So instead of waiting, you want our first trip to the Sphere to be the witch equivalent of a court hearing?” Maya was dubious, her perfectly arched eyebrows raised dramatically.

Delali shrugged. “The sanction says ‘discuss,’ it’s not exactly threatening. I mean, we haven’t done anything wrong. If the Sphere is what it seems like, I don’t think this would be a high-risk meeting.” She lay back against Maya’s mountain of clothes, frustrated. “I thought you wanted to get to the Sphere as badly as I did.”

“I do,” Maya said defensively. Improving her magic and getting better at work had dovetailed so perfectly she’d almost forgotten why she was doing it in the first place.

Delali watched as Maya pouted in thought and Gabbie pulled at a curl.

She lowered her voice. “Maybe I am overthinking it. But I just want to know why I can suddenly read a random person’s mind. That wasn’t exactly on my twenties bingo card.”

Maya folded her arms across her chest, then nodded. “Whatever,” she said.

Delali understood that in Maya speak, this was an enthusiastic “yes.”

“So we’re basically just gonna keep doing what we’ve been doing?” Gabbie asked. She turned her sanction over and over in her hand. Three more of these and she’d be standing in front of the famed Council. The idea gave her a chill.

“Exactly,” Delali said. “We’ll just see what comes first—our final sanction or our final assignment.”

After a moment of silence, Gabbie added, “I feel like we should pinky swear or something. To commemorate this.”

“Can we just focus on filling our metrics?” Maya asked pointedly. She saw Gabbie’s face drop, and immediately regretted it. “Sorry, that was rude.” She stuck out both of her pinky fingers. Gabbie enthusiastically hooked hers around Maya’s, offering her other to Delali. Delali laughed, shook her head, and hooked a pinky with each of the girls, too.

@celebriteesshop

yooo maya dropped off your cards at the bar today

@celebriteesshop

they’re sick!

@celebriteesshop

kind of like . . . such an old idea that it feels new you know?

@craftingandcoconutoil

Omg thank you! Finally someone *gets* it.

@celebriteesshop

so if you see celebritees business cards floating around . . .

@craftingandcoconutoil

. . . I’ll put them in the recycling!

@celebriteesshop

😂😂😂

@craftingandcoconutoil

Hold one of the cards up to the light!

@celebriteesshop

there’s a hologram???! 🤯

@craftingandcoconutoil

Yep! I have a holographic printing tutorial on my page 😊

@celebriteesshop

next level 🙌🏽

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Gabbie patted her last, straggling student on the back of his tiny windbreaker, gently pushing him into the arms of his mother, then closed the door behind them. She turned back to face the empty classroom, her eyes landing on her metric, which she’d placed at the front of her desk along with her paperweights and confiscated balls of slime. She went to her desk and held the ball in her hand, looking through it to see her distorted fingers on the other side. Since the conversation at Maya’s housewarming, she’d been feeling even more stressed about her progress. Her metric was still the lightest of the three by far, and she only had one sanction. But she’d come up with a plan.

Gabbie took a deep breath, grabbed her tote bag, and walked out of her classroom and down the hall to the teachers’ lounge. Once the door had closed behind her, she searched the sauce-splattered countertops and stale-smelling, coffee-stained cabinets, finally finding what she’d been looking for: the Notorious RBG mug that belonged to Bri, another TFA teacher, who also taught a third-grade class. Bri, also known as @noneofyourbriswax, was by far the most famous person Gabbie had met before Delali. Her TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube channel had at least 300k followers each, and she always got the best and newest crafting supplies for absolutely free. Gabbie was, in her opinion, the better crafter: the cutout pumpkin on Bri’s classroom door paled in comparison to the bedazzled Día de los Muertos skull on Gabbie’s. She was also pretty sure the pink and green pom-pom rug she’d DIY’d for her classroom had been the inspiration for an identical one that had ended up on Bri’s Instagram. Same with her paint-swatch birthday display and Halloween hot chocolate bombs. Bri had never seemed interested in collaborating with Crafting and Coconut Oil whenever Gabbie mentioned it, but she was desperate. She’d been stuck at 50k on both platforms for weeks despite churning out content at a pace that only a crazy person (with magical powers) could.

Gabbie brewed a pomegranate tea—Bri’s favorite—then snuck a mini mason jar out of her bag. She’d used her powers on other people multiple times now, but this would be the first time that wasn’t totally spontaneous. She knew she’d be way less nervous if she just used a potion, so she’d been up all night with her lesson book open on her countertop, trying to get the recipe right.

She mixed and remixed until her IKEA pot emitted a deafening bang and she had a thick, yellow syrup. It had solidified overnight, and now she scooped a spoonful into Bri’s tea. Even though she remembered reading that the intensity of a potion did not correlate with the quantity ingested, she was scared it was too much. Anyway, she couldn’t undo it now. The mixture had already melted away, disappearing into the tea completely.

Gabbie knocked on the doorframe of Room 601, and Bri looked up from the screen of her clunky, New York State–issued ThinkPad.

“Hey Gabbie,” Bri called. She smiled. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” Gabbie said, approaching Bri’s desk. She took in the orange, purple, and black streamers on the ceiling, the paper plates Bri’s students had colored and taped all over the cinderblock walls—the room really could use some work. “Just had some leftovers of the treats I made for the students today. I thought you might want some.” She raised Bri’s mug, then placed it on her desk. “Goes well with tea.”

“Ugh,” Bri said. She pulled a bug-eyed look. “You are the best!”

Gabbie pulled a Tupperware out of her tote bag, pulled off the red top, and extracted an ornate meringue lollipop. She took a second to take in her handiwork—the delicately piped rainbow rosettes, the gold leaf, the high-end pearl sprinkles. She’d outdone herself.

Bri gasped. “Ohmygosh,” she said, grabbing the lollipop. She took a loud, crunchy bite. “This is so good.”

“Trust me,” Gabbie said, practically shaking from the weight of her deception. “It’s even better with the tea.”

“And they look amazing,” Bri continued. “Do you mind if I take a pic?” She stood as she said this, pulling her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans.

“Sure,” Gabbie responded. “Hey, you know I have a TikTok where I post this kind of stuff, right? It’s called Crafting and Coconut Oil. Same for my Insta and YouTube.”

“Do you?” Bri asked. Gabbie wasn’t a naturally suspicious person, but she really doubted Bri was unfamiliar with the account. “That’s really cute.”

“Yeah,” Gabbie said. Bri finally reached over and lifted the mug to her lips, taking a sip. Gabbie could feel her heart in her throat. Bri swallowed, and her face immediately relaxed. Her shoulders dropped and she blinked a few times as she adjusted. Yes, Gabbie thought—the potion was working. “You know, if you’re gonna post something similar, I think you should tag me.”

Bri nodded, smiling absently. “Yeah, definitely, of course.”

“And, like, in the future, too.”

“Yeah.” Bri continued nodding, now in unison with Gabbie, as if she understood what she was really getting at. “I’ll do it as soon as I get home.”

Satisfied, Gabbie broke into a smile and started to back away before Bri could change her mind. “Thanks for agreeing to promote me, Bri! That’s so sweet.”

She turned and walked out of the room, too scared to wait and see if Bri would somehow realize what had just happened. She knew the potion would wear off at some point soon, but there was no way Bri could pretend this conversation hadn’t happened.

Gabbie was at home tending to her DIY teacup cactus garden when her phone let out the first chime. She picked it up and peered at the screen—it was a batch of notifications from Instagram. She opened Bri’s page—a grid of crafts, school-friendly outfits, and baked goods all washed in an ashy white filter—to see that Bri had already posted a picture of the meringue lollipops. She hadn’t even bothered to remake them, she’d just posted the pictures from that afternoon, alongside an incredibly long caption:

I just wanted to take a second to shout out fellow teacher and crafty girl @craftingandcoconutoil AKA Gabbie Nwosu AKA one of the most talented creators out there! Crafts, natural hair, baked goods—Gabbie does it all!! Today Gabbie showed up with a Tupperware full of the most gorgeous meringue lollipops and was kind enough to offer me one! Let me tell you, they taste as good as they look—like an orgasm and firework on your tongue, combined! This is NOT the first time Gabbie’s work has blown me away. For the rest of the week, I’m gonna be reposting @craftingandcoconutoil’s work because yes, she’s that good!

Gabbie scrolled through the grid to find that Bri was, in fact, reposting her work, with full credit. She’d even added Gabbie’s handle to the captions of the pictures of the rug and hot chocolate bombs. Gabbie sat and watched, phone in one hand, metric in the other, as her follower count ticked higher and higher. When her follower count crossed from five digits to six, she let out an involuntary shriek and called Dan—though he was probably asleep. Gabbie made sure that Dan would wake up to three missed calls, their code for a soft emergency, then turned off her Instagram notifications and got ready for bed.

In bed, thinking about the possibilities of Crafting, a thought sprang into Gabbie’s head—she wanted to tell Faison, too. She hadn’t expected him to think about her again after she’d left The Bar the other night—she’d even wondered if her powers had somehow activated and that was why Faison had paid her so much attention. But he’d DM’d her the morning after, saying she’d inspired him to do more hands-on design. Since that message, she couldn’t go more than five seconds without thinking about him. There was the draw of his supernatural eyelashes, of course, but there was also the way he just seemed to get C&C. Of course, she was still madly in love with Dan. But talking to Faison was a nice distraction, and it couldn’t hurt to have another entrepreneur in her network. Maybe she’d message him in the morning.

In the morning, Gabbie was awoken by the sound of her phone buzzing against her nightstand. She reached for it immediately, accepted the call, and sat up in bed.

“Hi, sleepy,” Dan said, his voice soft and affectionate, a smile spreading across the phone screen. It had been months since Gabbie had heard him sound like that. “Sorry if I woke you. You had a soft emergency?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabbie said, shaken awake by the memory of yesterday’s insane follower count. She opened her Instagram and there they were: the thousands of followers she’d amassed last night, plus their DMs, proof that it had really happened. “Dan, the most amazing thing in the world happened to me.”

Dan looked relieved. “Oh, good. I thought it might be something bad.” He tousled his hair and took a bite of the donut he was holding. “What’s up?”

“Okay, so you know how I said I wanted to start taking C&C really seriously, but I was stuck at like fifty thousand followers?”

“Wouldn’t it be C&CO? Technically?”

Gabbie waved her hand. “Yeah but that’s not nearly as cute.”

Dan looked unimpressed by this. “Yeah, I remember,” he said.

“Well, yesterday this other crafter who teaches at my school reposted some of my stuff and gave me a huge shoutout, which, honestly she kind of owed me because, not to be paranoid but, I feel like she’s been copying my stuff for a while now? Actually, it’s Bri, I’ve definitely mentioned her to you before. Anyway she posted me and now I have like—” Gabbie checked her phone. “105,659 followers!”

Dan lifted his head, finally giving Gabbie his full attention. “Really?” The corners of his mouth jerked downward quickly.

“What?” Gabbie asked. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Dan replied. He looked off camera for a moment.

“Not nothing,” Gabbie pressed. She’d know that look anywhere—it was the same one he’d made when she chose to stay in New York instead of going to Kenya.

Dan sighed. “It’s just the whole influencer thing—it’s so not you, you know? I mean more power to you but it has nothing to do with broadening early childhood education or improving the public school system or any of the things I thought you cared about.”

Gabbie was taken aback.

Dan took in her reaction, then continued. “I mean, it’s great, for sure. But you know being an ‘influencer’ or ‘content creator’ or whatever you want to call it isn’t just posting cute pics, right? You’ll have to learn how to read the analytics and pay attention to user trends.”

“I didn’t say I thought it was easy. I mean, that’s why I’m so excited. Because it’s hard. And I know it’s not important or groundbreaking or whatever, but crafting is a big part of my life. You know that.” Maybe Dan had a point—though it crossed Gabbie’s mind that Dan’s failed junior year startup, Cocktail Hour, which created personalized cocktails for users based on Myers-Briggs personality tests, hadn’t exactly been benevolent either. That hadn’t stopped her from wearing a pastel Cocktail Hour branded T-shirt everywhere she went for five months straight.

His voice softened. “Hey, babe, don’t take it that way. Listen, Gabs, I’m always going to support you no matter what you do. I’m just saying, it seems like a departure, that’s all.”

Gabbie started to explain—to tell him that C&C wasn’t about money, or having a huge following, or whatever he was imagining. That it was about crafting and sharing the things she loved with other people. That sure, it was a departure, but it was also the most Gabbie thing ever. That departure was kind of the point. But nothing came out.

Dan leaned back in his metal desk chair, his mouth rounded into a slight frown. “Just something to think about.” He adjusted his dashiki. “Listen, I gotta go—course planning is taking a little longer than usual tonight, and I only stepped out because I thought you had an emergency.”

“Okay . . .” Gabbie said. Was she crazy or was this the opposite of an appropriate response? Was it the distance, or had Dan always been like this? She had nothing to compare to though, because she’d never had anything this interesting to tell him before. “Talk to you again today?”

“Yeah. I’ll see if I can find some time.” With that, he said a quick goodbye and he hung up.

Gabbie clicked her phone off and put it back on her bedside table. She was so consumed with the dread that manifested any time she and Dan parted without resolving a conflict that even seeing her metric a shade darker couldn’t raise her spirits.

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CHAPTER THIRTY

On Monday, Maya woke up before her alarm for the first time since the FKA sunrise pregame on the morning of commencement and conjured a look she knew Lacey would appreciate. In the last week or so, Lacey had started mentioning the annual Clarke Stein trip to Paris Fashion Week as if Maya were actually in the running to go. Each year, CS sent one PR assistant along with Lacey and Moses, and most of the PR girls had long given up the dream of going, assuming the spot would go to Tatiana. But if you really pressed, they’d all admit the famed PFW trip was half the reason they applied for the job in the first place. Maya, work averse as she was, wasn’t a heartless freak. Of course she wanted to go to Paris and sit thigh to thigh with Lacey and Edward Enninful at the CS show, and stay at the Peninsula, and go to an expensive dinner where she would pretend to understand why a human being would choose to eat a sautéed snail over fried chicken. This was the glamour she’d been looking for all this time, the Devil Wears Prada / The Hills mashup that had gotten her interested in fashion in the first place.

Maya didn’t even realize how early she’d woken up until she thrust her arm into the elevator to stop the doors from closing and found a morose Tatiana standing inside, clutching two iced coffees, her delicate fingers circled top to bottom in thin gold rings. One of the coffees was Tatiana’s, obviously, but Maya could tell by the telltale swirl of caramel syrup that Tatiana had also gotten a Venti caramel iced flat white (with one pump of simple syrup and a packet of Monkfruit in the Raw) for Lacey, a clear attempt to win back her title as the number one PR assistant. Of course, Tatiana had noticed her diminishing standing in Lacey’s eyes, and as a result, had ratcheted up her efforts to win Lacey’s approval. Just a few weeks ago, Maya would’ve rolled her eyes at Tatiana’s desperation, but this morning she was feeling particularly forgiving, bolstered by how flawless she looked in her newly conjured Prada loafers and long-sleeved Duaba Serwa crop top.

“Good morning, Tatiana,” Maya said sunnily as she stepped into the elevator and turned to face forward. She took off her sunglasses and slid them into their soft fabric case.

“Hello,” Tatiana said coolly. It was like someone had wrenched the word out of her.

Maya stifled a laugh—Tatiana should at least try to seem unbothered—and began rifling through her royal blue Telfar bag for a piece of gum to cover the smell of her morning coffee. She pushed items aside as she did: noise-canceling headphones, her heels, a box of travel-size tampons. Finally she spotted the pack of extra-whitening Trident. As she pulled the gum out, Maya displaced several random items that clattered to the floor of the elevator: a sewing kit, a mini flat iron, and—fuck. A little rectangle of black silk flew into the air and floated to the ground. Maya bent quickly to pick it up, but Tatiana was watching, and had already seen it. The two girls locked eyes, Maya willing Tatiana not to be the absolute monster Maya already imagined she was. The top was easily identifiable: CS Spring/Summer collection, over $3000, rumored to be the shirt of the season, and yet to even be photographed.

Maya may or may not have nipped it from the samples closet Friday night. But Maya was not the only one who took advantage of the closet—all the girls did it when they had important events coming up, or even just a Hinge date. As long as they followed the three S’s—(don’t) sweat, (don’t) stain, (do) steam—and had the items back in the closet before Moses noticed they’d gone missing, what was the harm, really? In fact, Maya had a theory that Lacey probably knew about the whole borrowing system and turned a blind eye. But when Maya really put her mind to it, she couldn’t remember ever seeing Tatiana in one of those after-hours closet shopping sessions with the other girls. Was it possible that Tatiana was actually such a goody-two-shoes that she didn’t even borrow free CS goods? Was she enough of a kiss-ass to actually snitch on Maya? When they reached their floor and the elevator doors dinged, Tatiana’s maroon-glossed lips tipped into a smirk.

“Don’t!” Maya started, but Tatiana was already sweeping out of the elevator, speed-walking toward the back of the office.

Maya followed her at full speed, scooting around various desks and CS employees who were milling around the room. As they rushed through the office, people stopped to watch—it was obvious something scandalous was brewing.

“Tatiana, please!” Maya whispered harshly. She could only be headed to one place.

Tatiana ignored her and kept walking.

“Come on, Tatiana, like you’ve never borrowed anything from the closet!” Maya was right on Tatiana’s heels. “Lacey is not going to care. If you say anything, I’m gonna tell Lacey you’re the person who keeps leaving the break room fridge open. Or that you take a one-hour lunch!”

At this Tatiana let out a haughty laugh—it was far too unrealistic an accusation.

“Or that you borrowed the Khrystiana!” The Khrystiana was the centerpiece in the CS Winter collection, a decadent black organza gown that was to be worn by Celeste Porter to the Oscars that year (nomination pending).

At this, Tatiana finally responded. “Oh, please,” she said, wind flying through her curls as she progressed through the office. “Lacey would never believe something like that.”

Maya’s heartbeat sped up. She could not lose the last few weeks of hard work over a tank top. She panicked, and, eyes trained on Tatiana, she channeled a sudden swell of magic at Tatiana’s feet (which were clad in a pair of, honestly gorgeous, croc print Brother Vellies ankle boots) and willed her to stop. It felt strange to use her powers on another person—so far, she’d only used them on and for herself—but she deployed her power before even thinking about it. Almost immediately, Tatiana stopped, so abruptly that she bumped directly into Lacey, who had just come around the corner that led to her office. Tatiana’s two coffees lurched out of her hands and spilled everywhere, landing on Lacey’s white shirt-dress and enormous Balenciaga Triple S sneakers in Pollock-like formations.

Lacey let out a squeak—particularly shocking because the Lacey they knew was so unflappable and baritone-voiced. Open-mouthed, she looked down at the mess Maya and Tatiana had made.

“Oh God. Oh my god,” Tatiana started.

“Shit,” Maya said, numbed.

Lacey finally looked up from her dress, and employees started fluttering around her with napkins, patting at the fabric. She zeroed in on the Maya and Tatiana.

“Lacey, I am so so sorry. I just wanted to tell y⁠—”

Lacey held up her hand. “Enough, enough! I don’t care what you think you had to tell me, Tatiana. My office is not fucking Equinox!” She placed her hand on her forehead. “I thought this little competition between you two would be beneficial, maybe inspire some good work, but clearly neither of you can handle it,” she hissed, looking between the two girls. “You’re both on probation until I change my mind. Hopefully that will turn you into less of a goddamn nuisance.”

Lacey returned to where she’d come from, presumably to change.

Maya and Tatiana turned to the office space, where most of their coworkers gaped at them, not even pretending to hide their rubbernecking. Maya resisted the urge to scream. Probation at CS basically meant being relegated to personal-assistant-slash-workhorse with no rights. Tatiana was biting her lip anxiously as they walked, and looked as if she might cry, but Maya had to hold herself back from grabbing a fistful of Tatiana’s opulent hair and finding out whether it was real or fake once and for all. She tried to catch Tatiana’s eye, but she kept looking away—where had all that inhibition been five minutes ago? Maya thought to herself.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Maya snapped, cornering Tatiana by her desk. Tatiana looked up, her face warped by a mixture of guilt and fear. “I do one thing better than you at work and you decide that you’re going to get me fired? Or worse, put on probation? Is it crack?!”

“I didn’t think she was going to fire you,” Tatiana warbled. “Or demote us. I just thought you’d get yelled at, maybe get stuck refilling the gift bags at one of those holiday fundraisers or something.”

“You didn’t think that reporting me for taking the highlight of Vogue’s November issue would get me fired? Again, are you nuts? Now we’re stuck in PA purgatory and you saw how well that worked for Ashley Anand.” Ashley Anand now worked at The Gap.

“Well . . . you cheated! I don’t know what you did, but you cheated. The dress Mathilde was wearing completely disappeared! And then out of nowhere you have an identical dress in the exact shade that Harry wanted? Come on.”

Maya took a step back. She had been discreet while changing the color of the dress, even paying special attention to Tina for the rest of the day to make sure she hadn’t seen anything. But maybe she’d missed something. “What do you mean, cheated?” Maya mumbled.

“Don’t play dumb,” Tatiana said. “You obviously went into the senior resources drawer while Faye was away from her desk. You know we’re not allowed to use that drawer for internal shoots.”

“Oh,” Maya said. “Well, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal if I saved the shoot. And I definitely don’t think that’s a good enough reason for you to snitch on me to a woman who has our careers in the palm of her hand.”

Maya and Tatiana stared at each other for a long moment before Tatiana had the decency to avert her eyes. “Whatever,” she said, full of bluster. “I’m not Ashley Anand. I don’t know about you, but my probation probably won’t even last the year.” Maya didn’t answer. Instead, she rolled her eyes, hoisted her bag over her shoulder, and stormed to her desk, making sure to shoot Tatiana one last withering look before she sat. At the very least, she was sure she’d scored herself a sanction.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Before Nadia was even fully awake, she reached out to touch her bedside table, checking whether the day’s birth report had landed yet. It was February now, and her morning review of births had become as ingrained as her skincare routine. Her hand caught a sheet of Spherical paper and she sat up in bed, tapping her bedside lamp to turn it on. It was a Saturday, but witches didn’t just stop having babies on the weekends, so Nadia didn’t stop tracking them. Council work had mostly slowed down in the last months, the way it always did around Winter Holiday, and ever since Nadia stepped out of line at that meeting with Violet, Dr. Diop had been relying on Nadia less and less. In the lab, she’d found herself walking past more and more meetings that she thought she should be invited to. But they’d be back to the lab on Monday, and she wanted to make sure she was familiar with the trends of the last few weeks.

Nadia added the numbers to the table she’d been compiling, then plotted the points on the two graphs affixed to the door of her closet: one tracking the percentage of MOTs who gave birth to witches each day, and the other tracking the number of new MOTs each day. Today was another good one: there were no new MOTs, and two-thirds of existing MOTs had given birth to witches.

After the jagged movements of September and October—from that magical 100 percent day to a 10 percent day soon after, then back up again—the numbers had started trending steadily upward, and now a MOT was more likely to have a restorative birth than not. There’d hardly been any new cases since September. In the WHO, there were now formal discussions about whether these stats could be considered a remission, which Nadia thought was absurd—if the number of typic births reached 100 percent tomorrow, they’d be powerless to stop it. She tried to argue this, but ever since Nadia had crossed Violet at their monthly meeting, Dr. Diop had been keeping her at arm’s length.

The dots on the graph started to swim together and Nadia concluded that sitting and staring at the chart wasn’t offering her any clarity. She sent Aura a text.

Brunch somewhere? —Nadia

Hell yeah —Aura

Where are you thinking? —Aura

Wanna try Abra in Sidesphere West? Heard they have good cauldron cakes + potions salon. It’s 91,44 —Nadia

What’s the weather there —Aura

“Springlike” —Nadia

Cool. See you in a biiiit —Aura

The upward trend of restorative births had transformed the Sphere. The scientific confusion and pressure from Violet had been a personal and professional nightmare for Nadia. But witches, in their usual manner, had taken the good news of the restorative births and run with it. Usually a peaceful and pleasant place, the Sphere had now turned into a nonstop party. The streets were perpetually full. The sky was hardly ever dark because of light shows. People had mostly stopped working and pregnancies skyrocketed. The general population, too, had increased: witches who lived in the typic world were returning, whether permanently or just to experience the energy, no one was sure. People wore their most glamorous dresses for everyday trips to the grocery store. Even some of the activists who had worn white to mourn the Crisis had started wearing color again, the purples, golds, greens, blacks, and aquamarines that were common in the Sphere. Happiness rates wouldn’t be measured for another several months but, by all appearances, they seemed to be up.

It would only intensify as the Gathering neared—even her own mother was MIA, rushing to finish a new potion in time for the Annual Accreditation Event. Nadia worried about what would happen if births returned to the way they had been, but she knew those kinds of thoughts contradicted the spirit of the moment, the spirit of witches in general. On days like this, when she saw her people lit up with happiness, she felt like giving up on the WHO. What did it matter? Everyone was happy, and she’d lost so much influence after her episode with Violet. But as a scientist, she couldn’t let herself be distracted: the Crisis was still an open issue.

When Nadia and Aura had finished eating, they nestled into a corner of the restaurant’s potion salon to gossip about Jack, who had recently gotten engaged.

“I did not expect him to do that well for himself,” Aura said, leaning into the soft leather of her chaise lounge. Abra’s potion salon was modern and dark, full of waxy plants and low redwood tables.

Nadia laughed. “No, me neither. Zinnia’s a catch.” She reached over to pinch the wick of the candle on their table, setting it aflame, then took a sip of her Dilation Draught and closed her eyes.

“Maybe it’ll make him less irritating,” Nadia offered. “Are you doing a display for the . . .” Nadia started, but couldn’t finish. She meant to ask Aura whether she’d be doing a healing display at one of the surrounding events of the Gathering, something that could get her closer to healing full-time, but the Dilation Draught had taken effect and she was suddenly totally distracted by the ceiling of the potion salon, which was fashioned entirely of Spherical glass. It seemed to be expanding and shrinking in front of her eyes. Then something else appeared before her.

Disturbances in the Baseline. Please send sanction –Iris

She sat up. Then leaned back and closed her eyes. Nadia laughed in disbelief—the group of witches that had been spiking the Baseline for months was now one display of magic away from a summons. She was kind of excited to see them come before the Council. What exactly had they been doing to destabilize the Baseline so often? Some kind of magic flash mob in the middle of Times Square? Maybe a witch social club that they neglected to shroud. Whatever it was, Nadia was amazed they’d been ignoring Council sanctions since September.

“What was that?” Aura asked languidly. “Another banner?”

Nadia nodded. “Yeah.”

“Fucks sake, it’s been nonstop since September.”

“I know,” Nadia replied. Aura had been present for the arrival of tens of banners now, though she of course had no idea what they said.

“Nina’s birth ended the Typic Crisis and started a Banner Crisis.”

Nadia laughed, deciding to ignore the fact that Aura was perpetrating the idea that the Crisis was over—didn’t she listen to anything Nadia had told her? She closed her eyes. Just a couple more minutes and she’d send the banners off. Who cared if the sanctions reached them this time? From what Nadia could tell, there would definitely be more opportunities to send them because, as Aura had pointed out, the disturbances had been nonstop since September. Nadia had gone from having no Council busywork to receiving nonstop banners, ordering her to send sanctions, on top of her WHO work.

Nadia sat up.

“Another one?” Aura asked.

Nadia shook her head, unable to speak. She took the shot of ResElix that sat in a sunken holder in the arm of her sofa. Aura did the same.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Nadia said, standing. “I have to go. The banner . . .” She kissed Aura on the cheek and rushed through the restaurant to the street, where she transported to the Nox estate, all the while thinking: September. September. September . . . first? Had the first disturbances been the same day Nina was born? She couldn’t remember now—too much time had passed, and the disturbances had always been at the bottom of her list of things to attend to.

Once she’d landed in her room, Nadia went to the file on her desk that held all of Iris’s old reports—all thirty-two of them. Nadia spread them out on the desk. The first big spike in the Baseline had been on September first. Then again on September second, and a massive one on the fourth. After that, they calmed for a while—smaller disturbances, though still frequent, with two flash points taking place on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Nadia looked from the reports to her graph. As she marked a dot on the date of each of the big disturbances, everything came together like a puzzle. On the day of the first disturbance, September first, restorative births had skyrocketed—one hundred percent of the babies born that day had been witches—before starting a slow descent. Then they’d spiked again after September third. Smaller disturbances produced smaller spikes, and lulls caused the numbers to float back down, though after September first, they never again reached zero. Every single time these witches spiked the Baseline, witch births increased in response.

Nadia sat on the floor and leaned her back against her bed. She didn’t know who to tell. She’d blown her relationship with Violet, maybe even with Dr. Diop. And beyond that, she didn’t want to bring these witches to the Council, at least not yet, not until she figured out who they were and what was going on. She didn’t trust Violet to treat these witches as the asset they clearly were. No, she would probably treat them as a threat, the way she did absolutely everything. Nadia needed to find them before that could happen.

Remembering Iris’s banner, Nadia sat on the edge of her bed. She traced her hand shakily across a scrap piece of paper, then wrote “Immediate,” sending Iris a bald-faced lie:

Sent sanctions to approximate locations. —Nadia 🖤

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

By spring, the girls had fallen into a comfortable routine with Alba and each other. They’d meet somewhere in the Upper West Side, talk (about Maya’s shitty work life or dates with eligible bachelorettes; Gabbie’s anxiety around her growing following and unsolicited updates about Dan; and whatever details they could wrench from Delali, which was usually just a synopsis of whatever she was reading at the moment). Sometimes they’d test whatever potion Gabbie had last made. Then they would transport to Alba’s for their lesson.

“What about Saturday?” Gabbie asked, scrolling through her calendar. Delali and Gabbie were sitting at a sidewalk table waiting for Maya, which was par for the course, and Gabbie was attempting to schedule filming for a TikTok about natural hair personalities.

“Can’t,” Delali said, taking a sip of her latte. “Rehearsal.” After reading Dr. Portillo’s mind, Delali decided that if she was going to have to deal with nepo bullshit everywhere, she’d rather do it somewhere that at least paid her a lot and had fun parties. When she’d opened the script, well, Lionel was right. It did capture her. Within minutes of finishing it, she was deep in her Google search results, imagining herself in a short, permed wig, coiffed to fall over her forehead just as Hansberry’s had. She could already see herself huddled over a vintage typewriter, sporting a slouchy patterned sweater and cropped slacks, in a re-creation of Hansberry’s June 1959 Vogue photoshoot. The magazine headlines practically wrote themselves: “Young, Gifted, and Black: Delali Tamakloe on the Journey from Set to School and Back Again.” It wasn’t the fussy, moralizing story she’d expected. It was glamorous and sexy and just smart enough.

She couldn’t wait to send a fuck-you-I’m-not-graduating email to President Toggsworth, the dean who had courted her before and during her time at school, only to apparently bar her from getting the Pythagoras Prize. He was obsessed with adding more high-profile students to the school’s alumni list and was particularly bitter about former stars who had failed to graduate. But before sending her triumphant email, Delali needed to actually land the role. Lionel had worked his ass off to get her the first audition slot, an opportunity to cement her rendition of Hansberry in the minds of the casting directors before the other actresses got a chance. Undertow Media, the production company, was being super secretive about who was in the running, but Delali knew from the quality of the script alone that it would be all the heavy hitters (Anna Bloodswirth-Johnson, Zoe Mitchell, and of course, Celeste). She’d have to bring her A-game.

Gabbie withheld a squeal. She was so excited about Delali’s return to Hollywood, even if she refused to give up any details.

“I could do Monday afternoon?”

“No,” Gabbie sighed, crossing her leg. The red patent leather of her new ballet flat—which she’d purchased after a long night on Pinterest helped her define her style as hyper-feminine Rachel Green ’90s revival French girl normie—shone as she jiggled her foot. “That’s the day of KinkyCurlyCoilyCon. And I think Maya’s working that day.”

“A Saturday?” Delali asked.

Gabbie nodded. “Apparently the CS blacklist is no joke.” She clicked off her phone and pulled on her baby-blue mittens. “Whatever, we can do it another time. It’s evergreen content.”

Delali laughed. “Totally.” She loved Girlboss Gabbie.

“Can I ask you, like, a kind of invasive question?” She lifted her hot chocolate to her pink-glossed lips.

Delali shifted in her seat. “I mean, no. But yeah.”

“What’s it like to be, you know . . .” She raised her eyebrows. “Famous?”

Delali laughed, twirling a braid around her finger. “Gabbie. I mean, I don’t know. Sometimes it’s fun and sometimes it’s not? Like any other job I guess.”

Gabbie nodded, taking this in. “You’re so down to earth,” she said admiringly. “I have like eight hundred fifty thousand followers on my TikTok now—which is obviously nothing compared to your social media—but it’s already kind of freaking me out.” For a person who once ran a DelAdrian fan account, Gabbie felt she’d practiced a lot of restraint with Delali over the last few months. But a few weeks ago, she’d done a TikTok showing off her classroom’s Valentine’s day transformation, and since then she’d been rapidly approaching the million mark. It felt like a big deal, and she needed some guidance.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Delali said. “As long as you don’t get weird about your fans. Actually my publicist Gracie used to do this course called ‘How to Deal’ for girls who were coming up fast in the industry. The title’s corny but it’s actually really good and I’m sure some of the advice could work for influencing. You want me to text her about you?”

“Oh my god,” Gabbie said. “That would be amazing.”

Just as Delali took out her phone and entered the passcode, Maya, approached, her cropped leather trench blown open as she sped up the sidewalk.

“Sorry guys,” she said, out of breath as she walked around the barrier that read Café Lalo. “This shoot at work ran late.”

Delali opened her mouth to commiserate when Maya interrupted her.

“But fuck the shoot,” Maya practically shouted as she sat down in a flurry. “My metric!”

That was when Delali noticed the dark ball in Maya’s hand. Gabbie gasped. Delali grabbed the ball, her mouth open, and turned it around in her hand to inspect it.

“Come on, Delali,” Maya teased. She was the first, and though she’d been skeptical when Alba had said “you’ll know when it’s done,” it turned out to be true. She’d simply transported from home to work, like she did almost daily now, and when she’d arrived, felt a weight in her bag that hadn’t been there when she’d left her apartment. At her desk, she fished out the metric to find that the once weightless orb was now heavier than most of her Pilates weights, and was filled with a deep purple, nearly as dark as a night sky. “Just say congratulations.” There had been a distinct lack of praise in her life since the Khrystiana incident.

“Congratulations,” Delali allowed, handing the ball back to Maya. She really hadn’t been withholding the compliments—it had been obvious for a while that Maya would be first, and she was the only one who had reached four sanctions. She was just awed by the transformation of the metric. Delali had basically stopped going to school after reading Dr. Portillo’s mind, but doing deep research into Lorraine Hansberry had given her more than enough opportunities to use her magic, and she’d been filling her metric at a steady clip. She wanted to know what a full metric looked like, because she was so sure hers was almost there.

“Seriously, Maya, amazing job,” Gabbie gushed.

“Thanks Gabbie,” Maya sang, throwing her arm around Gabbie’s shoulder and pulling her close. She planted a kiss on Gabbie’s cheek, overwhelmed by the feeling of accomplishment. “You’ll be there soon, don’t worry.”

“Oooh!” Gabbie said, peeling Maya’s hand off her shoulder to examine her nails “Is this Mint to Be?”

Maya laughed and shook her head. “Close. A Fair Minimum Sage.”

* * *

When they arrived at Alba’s, her door was ajar, as it sometimes was, and Maya entered triumphantly.

“I did it,” she announced.

Alba, who had her back turned and was lighting a candle on the mantel, jumped.

“Oh,” she said, putting her hand to her chest. “Welcome ladies. Please sit.”

“I filled my metric,” Maya said.

“I know you did, Maya,” Alba responded. She waved out the match’s flame and turned to the girls.

Maya crossed her arms, annoyed to have the wind knocked out of her celebration. Of course Alba already knew, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be excited.

“I conjured you some champagne to celebrate,” Alba said, relieved to have correctly anticipated Maya’s accomplishment. She nodded to the coffee table, where, in addition to the usual charcuterie spread, she had included a bottle of pink champagne.

“For me?” Maya said feigning humility. That was more like it.

“That is adorable,” Gabbie said, pulling out her phone to take a picture. “For my Insta story,” she explained to Alba.

The girls settled into their positions on the sofa, and Alba offered them a proud smile from her seat.

“Congratulations, Maya,” she said. “Of course, we knew it was coming soon from the way your metric looked last week, but still, it’s an incredible accomplishment. To complete your training so quickly. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything like it. Please, go ahead and eat.”

Delali popped the champagne and poured everyone’s glasses, her eye catching a price sticker on the bottom of the otherwise unlabeled bottle.

“Are these from the liquor store?” she asked with a laugh. Alba had just said she’d conjured the champagne.

“Hm?” Alba asked. She looked to where Delali was pointing. “Oh, no. Though the last champagne I drank was from the liquor store. That champagne was my mind’s basis for conjuring and I guess I was a little too faithful.” She laughed and reached for a cracker.

“Oh,” Delali replied, placing the bottle back on the table. Duh.

“So, when do I get my assignment?” Maya asked.

“Whenever these two,” she nodded to Gabbie and Delali, “fill their metrics, too. You’ve started your training together, and it’s customary in the Sphere that you’ll finish it together, too. It’s a reflection of the ethos of the Sphere—of the interdependency and sisterlike bonds that are necessary to sustain it.”

Maya sat back on the sofa. “Yeah, I thought you’d say something like that.”

“I think we’re pretty close,” Delali offered. Gabbie shifted in her seat.

“I assume you are, too,” Alba replied. She paused and fiddled with her curls, apparently lost in thought. “Well, if there aren’t any other questions or concerns, I’ll start us on today’s lesson.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Dear Delali,

Your final problem set is now three months late.

Is everything okay with you?

Please do let me know if you need my help with absolutely anything.

Sincerely,

Professor Portillo

“Who’s that?” Adrien asked, looking over Delali’s shoulder.

“Adrien.” Delali nudged him away and put the phone in her bag. “Mind your own business. And open the windows when you’re pretending to smoke.”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.” Adrien opened the large, street-facing window, apparently unbothered by Delali’s dig. “Wanna run through it one more time? You seem nervous.”

With Lionel back on the West Coast and no other actor friends to speak of, Delali had no choice but to run lines with Adrien. And, because she was only human, they’d started sleeping together again. Delali had found it was incredibly easy not to catch feelings—all she had to do was, within minutes of finishing, imagine Adrien singing “We Shall Overcome (the Defense),” and she sobered right up.

“No, I’m good,” Delali answered, turning to assess her audition outfit in the mirror—a white boat neck shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans and a pair of penny loafers. She couldn’t wait to change. “And I’m not nervous,” she added.

Adrien shrugged. “Okay. But you’re doing that thing with your lip. That you do sometimes when you’re nervous.” He ashed the cigarette and rolled out a thin black yoga mat.

Delali folded her lips into her mouth.

“Well, if you’re nervous, you shouldn’t be. I’ve always thought it was funny how little you care about acting, considering you’re pretty good at it. And I’m saying that not as your pining ex but as someone who just starred in a highly successful, soon-to-be-Tony-nominated play. In a challenging role, I might add⁠—”

Delali sighed, holding up a hand to stop Adrien from carrying on. She considered making a jab about the dictionary definition of the word “challenging,” but relented when she realized that she had, in fact, been challenged through the viewing experience. “I should probably head out soon,” she said.

“Cool, before you head out could you grab me one of the wheatgrass shots in the fridge? You should grab one, too. They’re boosted with beta-carotene, if you want some extra protection from cataracts and harmful air pollutants.”

“No, Adrien.” Delali turned to leave.

“Hey, Dela?”

She stopped. “What?”

“You’re gonna crush it.”

* * *

On the drive over to the studio, Delali felt comfortable and calm, partially from the amount of practicing she’d done and partially from the tiny bit of Soothing Solution she’d sucked off her pinky to mollify her jittery nerves. The decision she’d been juggling for so long had finally been made, and it had been easier than she’d expected. Last night, while practicing for the audition, she’d been overcome with an excitement that she never felt while doing math. She didn’t know if she was moved by the story, or by the idea of walking across the stage to collect her Oscar, or just happy to be back in a comfortable routine, doing the low-risk, high-reward hobby that had filled her childhood. Maybe there was something comforting about an industry where a man’s hubris only resulted in a three-act cringefest. Instead of, like, a suite of disastrous foreign policy decisions or a casually racist economic theory. Plus she’d been playing with the idea that with her powers, she could maybe have a hand in what got made, maybe even stop some big network from producing Johnathan Manning’s next project. A girl could dream.

“Thanks, Isaac,” Delali said as they pulled up to the studio.

He winked at her in the mirror. “Good luck!”

When Delali walked in, a slight man in swamp-colored chinos and a cornflower-blue checked shirt was waiting for her.

“Miss Tamakloe,” the man said. “Right this way.” He gestured for her to follow him down the long hallway that led to the audition room. On the walls, there were posters from films Undertow had cast, and Delali found herself unsettled by all the blockbusters she recognized. Two Time, a time-travel rom-com where Henry Golding, a plucky, London-based architect, finds himself accidentally dating a woman and her great-grandmother at the same time. Lean Out, a social thriller where Lupita Nyong’o, an ambitious corporate lawyer, attempts to escape a zombified San Francisco in a dystopian near future where her office pantry runs out of hibiscus Tazo tea. And, finally, closest to the door, A Number’s Game: The Stephanie St. Clair Story, starring Nicole Armor, whose performance as a diner waitress turned industry-leading surgeon in Just What the Doctor Ordered had first inspired little Delali to start acting.

“It’s just through there,” the man said, nodding to the double doors in front of them. “Good luck—I loved you in Georgia, by the way.”

Delali gave him a strained smile, her nerves still threatening to get the best of her, before thanking him and opening the door to the audition room. It was a broad, sparse, carpeted room, resembling the kind of soulless corporate office space Delali hoped she would never have to work in. Four people were seated at a long folding table: a woman and man she assumed were the casting directors; Ruth Bailey, the bookish screenwriter she recognized from the pictures accompanying the initial Deadline press release; and, most frighteningly, Mazy Kutekwa, the offbeat writer-director heading the project. Sit Awhile was her debut feature, but she’d been gathering buzz on the festival circuit for a few years now.

Mazy was a true eccentric—the kind Adrien was playing at but could never really be—from her arugula leaf-print highwater pants and lime green bob to her acid wash jean jacket and red-framed Coke-bottle glasses. Weird artist types like Mazy had always scared Delali and made her feel vaguely inauthentic. Acting wasn’t like, the air she breathed or anything. She mostly thought the work was fun, and the lifestyle it afforded her was even better.

“Delali, hello,” said the casting director sitting furthest to the left. He reached up to smooth his hair, and Delali could hear the crunching of his gelled hair from where she stood. After a quick round of hellos, Mazy merely raising her brows in greeting, there was an awkward stretch of silence. Then Mazy nodded toward a man seated off to the side, who Delali had completely missed upon entering. He must be reading opposite her.

“Please read from page forty-two. We’re ready when you are.”

Delali’s now well-worn copy of the script fell open easily. It was said that Undertow liked to “surprise” actors with auditions scenes, but Lionel had helped her as much as he could, choosing five pivotal scenes to focus on. The one on page forty-two was an interview Hansberry had done with Studs Terkel on A Raisin in the Sun, which Delali had returned to more than any other. She quietly congratulated herself for picking the right one—doing math in a dark room for the rest of her life would be such a waste of her intuition.

“Right, yes,” Delali said. She took a deep breath and adjusted her stance as the actor read Studs’ lines. When he finished, Delali glanced quickly at her script and then began to recite the words she had already memorized. “It’s an excellent question,” she said, modulating her voice to imitate Hansberry’s 1950s Midwestern drawl. She delivered the lines until she got lost in the rhythm of the scene, the pressure she’d been feeling at the base of her neck starting to unwind. She shifted her gaze to steal a glance at the casting directors. They exchanged a quick, pleased look; Ruth nodded every so often, scribbling on the yellow pad on the table in front of her. Only Mazy’s expression was completely unchanged, as stoic as it had been when Delali first walked into the room.

Delali wondered if she could . . . She focused in on Mazy, careful not to trip on her lines, speaking seamlessly as she urged her named power into action. Soon, she felt a tension at the back of her head, like someone was pulling her scalp. Then, a second later, Mazy’s thoughts filtered into her head. Mazy thought the way most people took notes, fragmented and a bit disjointed.

Good voice quality. Actions too small. Expressions veer toward sleepy.

Sleepy?! Delali raised her eyebrows and opened her shoulders. “It seems to me there’s a preoccupation and a sense of guilt for something—that some elements are so afraid of what they feel that they’re already anticipating something that hasn’t been true,” Delali continued. She added a punch to Hansberry’s already haughty delivery, sprinkling in slight gestures as she spoke. “What they’re sensitive about is the material that’s used in it”—here, Delali added a pause that wasn’t in the original recording, luxuriating in the silence before finally continuing—“obviously.”

Delali poked into Mazy’s head again as she recited the final lines of the scene—the second time entering someone’s mind was always so much easier than the first. Better, was all she heard, and Delali gifted herself with a teeny half-second smile before continuing. When the scene was finished, her heart still thrumming with nerves, the casting directors and Ruth thanked her for her audition. Mazy sat silently typing on her phone. Delali was tempted to read her mind again, just to get one final sense of what Mazy had thought of her audition, or to see whether she was amending a ranking in her head. But no need: she could already tell, just from the swooping rush of adrenaline she felt as she left the room and headed toward the exit: she’d killed it.

* * *

Delali was a block away from her apartment when she felt a sudden weight in her bag. She was confused at first, then giddy, unzipping the bag as quickly as her hands would allow her. When she lifted the metric out, it had darkened to a purple that bordered on black, and instead of the static color she was used to seeing, it shimmered and moved, speckles of light dotting around inside. It was no longer the feather-light ball that she’d tossed in her backpack every morning. The orb now sat swollen and heavy, and felt like paperweight in her hand. She pulled out her phone to text the other girls—she was there.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

As soon as Nadia landed inside 33,26, a banner dropped in front of her:

Disturbances in the Baseline. Please send sanction —Iris

She swiped it away. The banners no longer felt like a nuisance. Now, they were instead a source of total, full-body panic. Now that she’d made the connection between the disturbances and the births, she worried that it was only a matter of time before everyone else—Violet, Iris, Dr. Diop—did the same. Nadia’s main advantage, which she held over Iris, was her anxiety, her refusal to lean into the good feelings of the pseudo-remission. Her second advantage, which she held over Dr. Diop, was her intimate engagement with the SVT. And Nadia’s advantage over Violet, who was both anxious and informed, was that she was not involved in the planning and securing of the Gathering, which this year would be grander than any they had seen in years, and as such was not nearly as distracted. But who knew how long these advantages would last? Who knew how long she could get away with lying to Iris about the unsent sanctions? She needed to move quickly if she were to make contact with these witches before Violet sent the SVT to find them.

Nadia walked along the upstairs corridor of 33,26, toward the Hollow. She passed several busy witches and MAMs as she went, avoiding eye contact with anyone she encountered. Don’t be paranoid, she reminded herself. To everyone but Violet, she was precocious Nadia Nox—if anyone belonged in 33,26, it was her. After her realization about the disturbances, Nadia had immediately transported to the typic world, with only her replica maps from prior disturbance reports in hand. It was stupid, but she’d wanted to start her search for the witches as soon as possible. But as soon as she landed in a dark alley in Manhattan, stepping out into the swirling masses of people, she realized that it was simply impossible to use sight alone to identify the offending witches in a city of almost nine million people. The whole “approximate location” thing was great for the personal privacy of witches, but horrible for anyone who didn’t have SVT tools. There was a one-mile radius for each disturbance site—close enough to send a sanction and hope for the best, but near useless for finding a witch on foot. And the most recent disturbance had happened over an hour before she reached the site, when she’d been at brunch with Aura. The site was almost certainly cold by the time she reached it.

Still, Nadia walked the city. The nature of the disturbances was such that maybe she could find something big, unignorable, noticeable to the naked eye. Something big enough to impact the progress of a crisis that had mystified the Sphere for decades. She thought a big group of witches would be easily identifiable, but as she walked she realized more and more that they could be anyone—the boisterous bachelorette party spilling out of a bar; the group of teenaged girls following their teacher on a big city field trip; the squad of elderly women shuffling onto the uptown M15 bus. Or they could have been completely separate, not planning to conduct another of their spectacular displays that night. From the East Village, she went to Brooklyn Heights and then to Washington Heights, wandering aimlessly (and making eye contact with random women) as she went, before transporting back to the Sphere, both defeated and determined to think of a better plan. All she had to show for that night in New York was an underwhelming celeb sighting: Delali Tamakloe from Georgia on My Mind outside the Court Street subway station.

Back in the Sphere she considered her options. She could wait for a disturbance, then immediately transport to the approximate location of the disturbance and scan the area, or she could somehow get access to the Spherical map in the Hollow, giving her an opportunity to transport even before Iris notified her. With the real-time map, she could even see high concentrations of magic that hadn’t reached the threshold of disturbance, and follow those. Either way, she absolutely needed to get her hands on an SVT recorder. In the rare instances that the SVT needed to locate an individual witch, hundreds of taskforce members were sent to a site with handheld recorders, which could measure the amount of bodily magic in a radius as large as one square block, helping the team zero in on potential witches. Nadia was only one person, but having a recorder was better than nothing.

Amos’s desk, which sat just outside Violet’s office, was empty, to Nadia’s relief. He probably wouldn’t stop her from trying to enter the Hollow—she was a Councilmember after all—but it was better if no one saw her trying. Nadia attempted to open the Council entrance to the Hollow, but it was locked, as she expected. There was a panel of glass next to the handle, for SVT members to use to get into the office in emergencies. She held her hand up to it, hoping it would flash periwinkle, the way it did for witches with appropriate clearance, but the panel remained dark. She wondered whether she’d ever had clearance, whether it had been removed when both Violet and Dr. Diop decided to cut her out of all things important in the Sphere. Nadia felt her shoulders drop, discouraged, as she stared at the pane of glass before her. But then she had a thought. She pushed up one of the long sleeves of her shirt, concentrating as she gently touched her palm to the glass. She spoke the spell quietly to herself, feeling nauseous as she did, but when she approached the final line, the resounding “Say it loudly from your breast,” she stopped herself. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Even though the clearance panel was only an inanimate object, the idea of Executing anything made Nadia queasy.

Fine. She’d have to work with just the recorder. Nadia pivoted to another door, the one that housed the specialized tools used by the Council and affiliated bodies. She knew she had access to this room—no Executing needed—because ever since the Violet meeting, Dr. Diop had been sending her on nonstop errands to the room to gather scales, atmo-extractors, whatever she needed. Nadia stepped into the dark room, her heart skipping when the overhead lights turned on.

In the SVT sections, there were rows and rows of shelves displaying tools in duplicate, some of them small and compact and others so large and cumbersome Nadia couldn’t imagine how they’d be useful to a mobile team. She wandered through them, lights flicking on as she walked, looking for the device as she remembered it, a slim golden rectangle that resembled a smart phone. Finally she spotted it: a glinting row of magic recorders. A stream of excitement gripped her as she snatched the tool and rushed out of the room, looking over her shoulder twice as she entered the corridor hall outside the Hollow.

Nadia transported from the hall outside the room directly to the alley in the East Village. In her hurry, she hadn’t taken the time to center herself beforehand, and her knees buckled as she landed, sending her crashing into the wall of a building. Once she recovered, Nadia pressed the small, round button that sat below the recorder’s black screen, getting frustrated when it didn’t turn on. Then she remembered the button was a defense mechanism, used to keep typics from using the tool if the SVT left one behind on a mission. Nadia sent a current of magic through the button, and the recorder came alive, three lines popping up on the screen: the one at the top a pale lavender; the second a deep, rich purple; and the bottommost a thick line of glowing gold—atmospheric magic, bodily magic, and the Baseline composite, respectively.

Nadia walked up the block, through a steady drizzle, testing the recorder. As she neared a couple on the sidewalk, leaving what appeared to be a successful date, the atmospheric magic line jumped, sending the Baseline slightly higher before it leveled out again. The jump was so small she wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for the changing numbers next to the line. When she reached a stoplight and waited next to a woman in a dark trench coat, her short, straight bob dyed an inky blue-black, the dark purple line representing bodily magic flashed quickly. The flash was what was to be expected of an average witch—but Nadia was looking for a big, sustained jump in both bodily magic and the Baseline composite. Something that mirrored the spikes they’d been seeing since September.

Nadia pulled out a map from one of the disturbance reports, looking for the nearest disturbance location. She was hoping, even praying, that the offending witches had decided to retrace their steps. She approached Tompkins Square Park, where one of the highest spikes in the Baseline had occurred back in September. It wasn’t as late as it had been the first night Nadia had come searching for the witches, so the park was not yet filled with drunken revelers, and it was too cold and wet for people to gather on the benches the way they would in the summer. Only a handful of people dotted the sparse square, and as Nadia traversed the park, she glanced at the recorder. The lines all stayed essentially flat, the atmospheric magic line warbling minutely as she walked. She spent nearly three hours just walking and waiting, recorder held aloft, only to find that the park was devoid of magic. Outside of the park, Nadia stood in front of a block that had a Michaels, Harmon Face Value, and Trader Joe’s. She checked the old disturbance maps—another incident had been logged in that area back in September, but as she stood before the storefronts, the measure of atmospheric magic actually declined.

Nadia’s resolve began to dissipate. She had almost exhausted all the disturbance sites in the East Village, and from here, her only choices were to spread out even further, to the disturbance sites on the Upper West Side, Washington Heights, and Brooklyn. But the East Village had been the hub of some of the biggest disturbances, and there was nothing to even suggest she was on the right track. If she couldn’t find anything here, she didn’t exactly feel confident about her chances further out. The recorder was useful in identifying when she crossed paths with a witch, but they’d been few and far between considering the dreary weather, and for the most part the day was identical to her first trip without the recorder: she wandered around the city retracing the locations, naively hoping that she would catch something.

The final site in the East Village was the stretch of sidewalk outside a chicly drab place called The Bar. Nadia entered, glancing at the recorder screen as she did. The atmospheric magic line turned upward slightly as Nadia stepped into the room, but fell back to average as she settled in, scanning the crowd of patrons. There was nothing out of the ordinary in The Bar, but she felt compelled to stay. After all, it was here that the first disturbance had registered on the map, the first of those spiky dots that had come to mean so much.

She settled onto a stool, pulling off her black wool coat and hanging it on a hook beneath the counter. Nadia signaled to the two men behind the bar, and wasn’t exactly disappointed when the younger one, who had an elaborate siren tattoo climbing up his forearm, headed over.

“Hi. Could I have a soda water?” she asked.

“I think I know how to make one of those,” he replied playfully. “It’s like a vodka soda, but without the vodka, right?”

Nadia laughed. “Yeah, exactly that.” Just thinking about the drink she’d had at Swallow made her sick.

He cracked a warm smile. “Coming right up.” The bartender filled a glass with seltzer and set it down in front of her. They made eye contact, their fingers overlapping as Nadia took the glass, and Nadia felt heat prickle all over her body.

“Thanks,” she said, working to keep her voice even. Nadia swiveled around on her stool and took a sip of her drink, ignoring the sharp increase in atmospheric magic that registered on the monitor’s screen. He was hot, but she didn’t need a distraction right now.

A group of laughing girls ducked into The Bar, shaking snowflakes from their hair and boots. Nadia looked down at the tool in her hand, expecting to see the dark purple line blaze to inform her that some of the witches had just walked into The Bar, but nothing happened. The lines continued to fluctuate minutely around their averages. Disappointed, Nadia gulped the rest of her seltzer and sent another jolt of magic into the recorder to turn it off before standing. It was getting late, and the other disturbance sites would have to wait another day if she wanted to give them the amount of time they deserved. She touched her pocket to conjure a fifty-dollar bill—the bartender had disappeared and she had no idea how much stuff like this cost—then dropped it on the counter and turned to leave.

She opened the door and immediately collided with a girl who was on her way in.

“Sorry,” the girl offered absently. She was tall and slender, and made a display of dragging a hand through her long, curly ponytail as she spoke. The girl was distracted, peering into the bar intently, as though looking for someone.

“No worries,” Nadia said, making her way outside. She headed back to the alley so she could transport home. If she couldn’t find the witches in the typic world, maybe she’d have to make them come to her.

Maya

hey where is everyone? eli’s the only person at the bar rn

Maya

I have donuts and depressing work stories

Shelby

storage room. strategizing w joe. he’s about to give a girl his number 😏😏😏

Maya

Pretty bald girl in all black?

Maya

I think she just left

Shelby

noooo

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Maya was standing in the gold-plated lobby of the Palace Hotel, pretending not to know Tatiana and mentally revising her resignation letter. She’d never been a natural worker, but probation had pushed her so close to the edge that she’d finally woken up that morning, her head pounding with another hangover, and decided to just . . . quit. Her parents would understand, and even if they didn’t, she could think of a few ways to make it work now that she was so good at her powers.

Probation responsibilities were only slightly more degrading than they had been when she was in good standing, but with the added humiliation of knowing they were a punishment. There was a lot of errand-running, but not the glorified kind, where she had to fetch clothes for the likes of Henry Nguyen and Annie Leibovitz. The new errands fell more along the lines of grabbing coffee for Lacey and the higher-ups or making sure Lacey’s microdermabrasion facials didn’t conflict with her kids’ spring play. Gone were the days when Maya was allowed the honor of calling up pretentious visual artists to convince them to distribute CS fragrances. Even worse than running errands for Lacey et al. was the knowing that she wasn’t even the first-choice errand-runner. First there was Moses, then there was a handful of other nameless underlings, then Maya and Tatiana, who were left with all the errands that didn’t involve Lacey’s credit card number, social media passwords, or interaction with anyone remotely important. In a word, it sucked.

For example, instead of playing fetch on a CS campaign shoot starring a confused model, she now had to assist on shoots being held at shitty events, like today’s wedding for a New York socialite who was wearing Clarke Stein for the ceremony and was in the running to have her pictures published online for Vogue weddings. The misery was only compounded by the fact that Tatiana was also on the shoot. In fact, since the coffee catastrophe, Lacey had been sending Maya and Tatiana on every single errand together, even when the errand required the effort of only one, barely sentient, human being. She was clearly aware that this heightened the effect of the punishment. So both Maya and Tatiana had been in the Palace Hotel on Madison since seven that morning (well, Tatiana had been there since 6:45, naturally).

Maya

Is it bad for me to say “I quit” in my CS resignation letter??

Delali

Maya . . . .

Maya

Will you write it for me?? please???!

Maya was hitting send and cursing the fact that she’d had to wake up before eleven on a weekend when the slim-hipped, high-strung bride, Ainsley Buchanan, finally arrived. She crossed the lobby with a jittery gait, wearing a denim wrap dress and Hermès ballet flats. Her mousy brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she shook both Maya and Tatiana’s hands with the pent-up energy of a handbag-bound chihuahua.

“Ainsley, hi. I absolutely adored your wedding announcement in the Times. It was stunning. That boatneck top from the Row? So gorgeous, and such a smart choice for black-and-white print.”

Maya had assumed the bride would see Tatiana’s kiss-assery for what it was and brush her off, but instead, she ate it up, embarking on a full-out venting sesh with Tatiana. Apparently, the wedding, and its potential appearance in Vogue, was coming at a pretty pivotal moment for Ainsley, a highly sanitized, borderline anachronistic Upper East Side socialite with a Spence education and finance fiancé to match. Just last week, Ainsley had woken up to a post about herself in the popular UES Instagram account, Hearsay Hussy, that declared her “done” in Manhattan, and, with a generous helping of the blog’s trademark snark and alliteration, even encouraged her to find a place in Brooklyn (Watch out Williamsburg! Ainsley Buchanan has fallen to the very bottom of her Manhattan socialite circle, thanks to her frenemy-turned-plain-old-enemy, Genevieve de Vries. It seems the hopelessly hip and unabashedly unwashed might be getting a new neighbor!).

Tatiana and Ainsley gushed at each other as they walked past the lobby desk and down a narrow corridor to an oak-doored elevator. A gold plaque to the right of the door read penthouse suite in shiny black lacquer. When the elevator opened on the twenty-fifth floor, Maya took in the room trying not to look impressed. She didn’t want to encourage Ainsley’s clear habit toward condescension, but the room was breathtaking.

“Oh, just wait until you see the dress!” Ainsley sang with her hand on Tatiana’s arm, as if Maya weren’t standing literally right next to them. Ainsley bounced on her toes and tapped the tips of her fingers together, her limp ponytail jumping as she moved. Maya watched in dismay as Tatiana and Ainsley gossiped for forty-five minutes straight, genuinely worrying that Tatiana would be asked to round out the wedding party and leave Maya to shoulder all the bitchwork herself. But as soon as the photographer, Brick Toddson, arrived, Ainsley was on. It seemed that whichever CS marketing person had spoken with Ainsley had told her that Maya and Tatiana were, by some bastardization of the transitive property, Ainsley’s personal assistants. And by the same property, every member of the bridal party (plus Brick) could now treat both Maya and Tatiana as if they were merely the sandwich crusts missing from the low-calorie display Ainsley had ordered for her bridesmaids. Maya’s fifth sanction could not come soon enough.

Maya and Tatiana ran around adjusting gowns and hair and blinds and lamps as the pre-wedding prep unfolded, the grand total of three bridesmaids looking incredibly smug and chic as they guzzled mimosas and prosecco. For the amount of alcohol Maya consumed in that time, she might easily have been a bridesmaid herself, if it weren’t for the fact that she was wearing an old, ripped pair of Topshop jeans and a cutoff cashmere sweatshirt. It was the best she could muster for an event like this. Finally, the wedding planner came to usher Ainsley and the bridesmaids down to the ceremony hall, and Maya and Tatiana stayed behind to change. Maya slipped into a blush Margiela gown and tried not to acknowledge how good Tatiana looked in her mint wrap dress, which sported a truly audacious surplice neckline.

Maya and Tatiana stood at the back of the hall with Brick. Maya, drunk off stolen mimosas, nodded off as the priest droned on about the sacraments of love. For the reception, Ainsley changed into another white gown, and performed a deeply embarrassing first dance to Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud,” transitioning halfway through to “Uptown Funk.” The Upper East Side weirdos seemed totally charmed, if not overwhelmed by all the funk.

As soon as the bride was distracted, Maya hid in a corner behind the mostly-neglected chocolate fountain—she was not going to let her first BFA picture be from this wedding. She was checking her phone and wondering how much it cost to book a hall in the Palace for this long when she felt a stream of breath over her shoulder and jumped. She turned to find Brick standing there. God, Maya thought to herself, had he ever considered breathing through his fucking nose?

“One of the maidens or whatever got sauce on her dress,” he said, gesturing to a cluster of baby-blue in the corner. “But we have more pictures to take. Funny positions and stuff. Could you fix it?”

“Fix it?” Maya started through a mouthful of chocolate-covered marshmallow. The dresses were silk. “I’m not a magician.” Well, Maya thought, not exactly.

“Could you just get Tatiana? And you two figure it out? I’m gonna try to set up in twenty-five.”

Maya sighed and downed another marshmallow. These kinds of moments, where her powers could easily fix everything but she had to do things the typic way, had become the bane of her existence. She looked around the room for Tatiana, who she’d lost track of a little over an hour ago. She walked the hotel’s corridors and finally found Tatiana sitting on a staircase with her phone. When she saw Maya, she quickly hid the flute of champagne she’d been nursing.

“Oh, come on,” Maya said. “We’re all drunk.”

Tatiana didn’t laugh.

“Right, well Brick needs us to clean up a bridesmaid’s gown for some pictures. It looks like it was that pasta sauce, and there’s a little tear. Midskirt. Front and center. We have maybe fifteen minutes,” Maya said, glancing at her watch again.

“Ugh,” Tatiana groaned, standing. “We’re going to need thread. I think there’s a Duane Reade on 50th.”

Maya and Tatiana were halfway down the block when the sky opened up, first with a telltale distant rumble of thunder, then with torrents of freezing rain.

“Fuck,” Maya shouted, covering her hair with her YSL crossbody. She and Tatiana both ran toward the glowing light of the Duane Reade, their dresses and tiny sandals totally waterlogged. They entered through the automatic doors, only to run into a crowd of cranky New Yorkers huddled at the carpeted entrance. They pushed through the cluster and into the store and started looking through the aisles.

“Tide-to-Go?” Maya asked.

“Shout is better,” Tatiana answered.

Maya rolled her eyes.

“Blue thread,” Tatiana said, tossing the sewing kit into the wire basket.

“Superglue? I mean, it can’t hurt.”

Tatiana nodded. They walked toward the front of the store. “Oh, and umbrellas,” Tatiana said, trailing off as she eyed the umbrella stand. Maya followed her gaze—all that were left were bright yellow Duane Reade brand ponchos. She grabbed two and they got in line. They stood in soaked silence, inching toward the checkout and looking anywhere but at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Tatiana said abruptly. She looked down at her hands, which were clasping each other nervously.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Tatiana repeated, exaggerated this time. “For getting us into this whole situation.” She gestured at their filthy hemlines and the dank, hideous aisles around them. “We should both be at the Elle March issue launch with the other girls right now, but instead we’re here. And it’s my fault.”

“It’s okay,” Maya answered after a moment. “It’s not like I was a saint to you or anything.” The girls were both quiet for a second, then Maya smiled. “What you should really be sorry for is these.” She held up a poncho.

Tatiana laughed, a relieved whoosh of air, and they stepped to the register. After Maya had paid, with the annoying knowledge that the sum would probably get lost in accounts purgatory and never be properly refunded, they put on their new ponchos and stepped out.

“Are you kidding me?” Tatiana said. It was the most earnest expression of emotion Maya had ever seen from her. Like she’d broken out of the plastic wrap that had been containing her since summer. She held her palm upward—it had stopped raining.

“I can’t tell if that’s good luck or bad,” Maya said.

“Both, I guess.”

“I hope there’s a secret leak in the roof of the Palace and Ainsley got soaked,” Maya muttered.

“At least then she’d have an excuse for the lack of volume in her hair.”

Maya was overcome with excitement—she’d been dying to talk shit all day. “Can you believe she didn’t add any pieces?”

“I’m shocked,” Tatiana agreed. “All that money⁠—”

“Only to waste it on the ugliest dress CS had to offer.”

“Don’t get me started. And could you imagine being corny enough to hold your wedding at a place called The Palace?” Tatiana quipped.

“I’m sorry, I think you mean the historic Lotte New York Palace Hotel,” Maya corrected.

“Right. Honestly, I’m just surprised they didn’t pick the Plaza.”

“I think that may have been a little Trumpy, even for them.”

Tatiana and Maya both giggled as they ducked around people on the sidewalk. “I hope that cover band gets soaked by the imaginary leak and they have to turn on some actual fucking music.”

“Would it kill them to have one line dance? I’d even take the Cotton-Eyed Joe at this point. I think Best Man has spoiled me forever.”

“Oh my gosh,” Tatiana said excitedly. It was clear now that the champagne flute Tatiana had been nursing on the stairs hadn’t been her first. “I’ve always dreamt of having my bridesmaids in all silver. Like in Best Man.”

“OMG, me, too!” Maya said. “Ainsley’s bridesmaids’ dresses look like they’re from Better Bridesmaids Warehouse.”

“Yeah, I’m not exactly convinced they’re Vera Wang like she said. I’m gonna try to sneak a peek at the tag when we get back.”

Maya laughed. “Okay, wait, I thought you were an Ainsley superfan?”

“A superfan?” Tatiana gawped. “I’m just a high achiever with access to Google.”

“Well,” Maya said, stunned by Tatiana’s honesty. “At least you know yourself.”

They reached the steps of the Palace and stopped, looking up at the building’s grand facade.

“I just—” Tatiana blurted after a moment.

Maya turned to her. “What?”

“I like this. Laughing with you. Having you on my side. Can we not change it when we get back to work?” Maya watched Tatiana for a moment. She was biting her full bottom lip and wrapping a single 4C coil around her finger over and over again. Maya’s heart thumped. Shit. Suddenly she knew what this was. The office bitchiness, the reluctant admiration, the hyperfocus and constant one-upping. Was it possible that Tatiana had a crush on her?

“I know that sounds crazy,” Tatiana said in response to Maya’s silence. “Considering⁠—”

“It’s not crazy,” Maya said. “I like this, too.” She looked at the entrance to the Palace. Everything was quiet and still except for the occasional, quiet whoosh of a taxi along the rainy streets. It was so still that if it weren’t for the shining, glistening lights all around them, they would have forgotten they were in New York City altogether. Maya leaned down, took Tatiana’s face in her hands, and kissed her.

* * *

In the lobby, Tatiana moved to head back to the ballroom, but Maya pulled her back to face her. “Who cares,” she murmured, then leaned down and kissed her again, with none of the gentle restraint of before. When they pulled away, Tatiana jerked her head toward the secluded elevator bank, and, up against the elevator door, she twined her arms around Maya’s waist, drawing them closer together. They made out against the cold, marble wall, Maya’s hand squeezing tighter and tighter around the plastic handles of the Duane Reade bag. She pulled away, then, with her eyes trained on Tatiana’s, pressed the penthouse button. Tatiana broke into a giggle—a cascading sound that made Maya’s knees go weak—and nodded.

“Can’t wait to get demoted again,” she joked.

“Same.”

The penthouse was exactly as they had left it—food, clothes, and makeup strewn everywhere, handbags planted on the floor. The view was twice as stunning at night, the lights more glamorous than the tacky rococo décor could ever be. Tatiana went into the bathroom, and while Maya waited, she touched up her hair in the mirror above the dresser, smoothing the new frizz with a magic-filled finger. Tatiana stepped back into the room.

The two were awkward and unsure for a second, but soon they were kissing and grasping again, their movements turning frantic. Maya tilted Tatiana’s head gently to the side, then kissed carefully behind her earlobe, then down the side of her neck, then in the soft little crater beside her collarbone. Tatiana pulled her dress over her head, struggling for a moment with the stiff fabric, and Maya did the same. On the bed, Maya straddled Tatiana, eliciting a gasp when she settled one of her legs between Tatiana’s thighs, pushing the thin, satiny fabric of her underwear against her.

“Is this okay?” Maya whispered. Tatiana nodded, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, and Maya continued, slipping her hand downward. Maya watched Tatiana’s reactions as she touched her, her lids fluttering closed, coils of her hair popping out to frame her face as she started to sweat. In the windows behind them, the moon was high and full, bathing the room in moody white light. Maya couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed Tatiana’s softness before, her sincerity. Tatiana let out a low moan as Maya’s fingers moved against her, slow at first and then faster, and then, deliberately, slow again.

“There?” Maya asked.

Tatiana nodded again, breathless, and heat threaded through Maya’s stomach. “Yeah.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Violet hadn’t been pleased to admit Natasha’s offspring to the Council—in her opinion, the fewer Noxes influencing the Sphere, the better. But it was hard to deny the girl’s importance. Nadia was a serious, studious witch, and she had dedicated herself wholly and unreservedly to understanding the science of magic. When Violet had approved the AME, Dr. Diop started working closely with Nadia while Dr. Miloy focused on other MRP efforts. Soon, Dr. Diop was lobbying to have Nadia added to the Council, at least for the time being, in light of her new position.

Her work was strong, reflecting the aptitude of a witch with three times her experience. But, in addition to her unusual ability for the science of magic, Dr. Diop, Dr. Miloy, and other top members of the WHO quietly hoped that Nadia’s Executioner power could someday be of use in the organization’s attempts to imbue typic babies with magic. It was a long shot, but imagine the Shatter went on for another decade? Two? It was not unrealistic to think that one day, reaching the end of the possibilities of science, they might begin to tamper with that fatal power, to see if it was as capable of generation as it was of destruction. They wanted to treat her like the precious resource she was. Violet had resisted for some time, before ultimately calling for a vote, and the Council voted unanimously to add Nadia as a junior member. But when the girl had misstepped, in full view of Dr. Diop, her greatest advocate, Violet had been relieved to have an excuse to sideline her.

Nadia was first to enter the Hollow for today’s Council meeting, holding the door open for her mother, Natasha.

“Violet,” Natasha said as she whisked into the room. She took her seat at the long table.

Nadia bent in a shallow bow. “Regent.” She sat in the adjunct chair they’d conjured, situated just behind the table, close to the door.

Violet gave them each an empty smile. “I appreciate your punctuality.”

Natasha nodded, and the room fell into silence. Violet eyed Natasha as the remaining Councilmembers filtered in, feeling herself grow more and more bothered by Natasha’s perfectly coiffed appearance, by the stately demeanor that came so easily to her. The proud posture, neatly ironed robes, and microlocs pulled into an intricate bun, would all look affected on another person, but on Natasha it was decidedly regal. Natasha was never anything but perfectly courteous to Violet, but Violet could always detect a note of hostility tinting each of their interactions. That was one of Natasha’s most notable talents, her ability to convey so much (disgust, condescension, blame, fury) with so little. Violet, understanding her place both in the Sphere and in their relationship, typically withstood Natasha’s jabs with a degree of poise. Still, after all these years, it wasn’t easy to know that Natasha was looking down at her over the broad, imperial bridge of her nose, privately judging Violet as unworthy of the throne. Privately casting judgment on Violet for her handling of the Shatter, of the political decisions she’d made at only twenty-two.

Soon after the Noxes had seated themselves, Stella Orchid Hampton, whose ancestor created the charm that helped measure the Baseline, entered and sat. Stella had deviated from the family’s scientific tradition, growing the Hampton family influence by patronizing charm and spell development. Now she spent her time indulging her truly strange affinity for the typic world, transporting to Morocco, Sweden, Dubai, at a shocking clip, in service of the cushy UN job she’d managed to secure for herself over there. It was one of Stella’s many oddities. Young witches dreamt of the typic world the way girls in suburban Georgia dreamt of Paris, but the vast majority of witches grew bored with the typic world by the time they hit twenty-five and returned to the Sphere. Stella had somehow missed the memo.

“Regent,” she said as she approached the table, giving Violet a low, exaggerated bow. Violet nodded and Stella fell into the seat on Natasha’s left. Violet had known both Stella and Natasha since they were young, but her unceremonious ascendance to the Regency had kept her away from most of the sleek social events that had occupied their time, and Stella and Natasha had stopped dealing with her outside of Council business entirely after the Shatter. As soon as Stella settled, she and Natasha fell into quiet chatter where they sat. For a moment, Violet wished she could listen in on whatever they were discussing, not only because the entire setup transported her to training school, but also because she was curious to hear what Natasha had to say about the baby, Nina. Had it cured her decades-old bitterness? Unlikely.

One by one, the remaining members of the Council took their seats, and when all sixteen members had greeted each other and sat, she nodded to her assistant, Amos, who stepped out into the hallway and closed the heavy Hollow door behind him.

Violet started the meeting abruptly, as she always did, and Nadia had to pinch the inside of her elbow to keep herself from nodding off while listening. The many trips to New York in her off time, which she’d spent unsuccessfully stalking the streets, had completely exhausted her, and being called into an impromptu Council meeting didn’t help.

“As you know,” Violet began, her many gemstones and jewels glinting as she spoke. “The primary focus of this Council meeting is the Gathering, and the Gathering committee members will be joining us to present their plans once we’ve finished the standing agenda. In a year as unique as this, the event will certainly require extra considerations, which is why I’ve called for an off-schedule meeting. We’ll also be having a Council meeting in April, in addition to the scheduled quarterly meeting falling in May. Are there any subjects outside of the standing agenda that anyone would like to present for discussion?” The room was quiet. “Wonderful,” Violet said dryly. “We’ll begin with the SVT summary. Iris?”

Iris nodded, opening a folder before her, and the room full of witches adjusted in their seats to face her. “Yes, well, as the Regent is already aware, the disturbances that have been taking place since⁠—”

Nadia pulled nervously at the collar of her shirt, willing Iris not to say September.

“—September have continued.”

Nadia closed her eyes.

“At almost the same pace. We’ve distributed sanctions to the offending witches⁠—”

“How many sanctions have actually reached the witches in question?” Violet asked.

Iris turned to Nadia, who looked to her report. “At least one witch has received four total sanctions. Thirty-two sanctions total have been sent.”

The members of the Council looked at each other, raising their eyebrows.

Iris continued. “It is, of course, unusual for a witch to continue sanctionable behavior after a single sanction, let alone two or three, but until the witch has received and ignored five sanctions, we have no real recourse other than to continue sending sanctions. This is in accordance with the privacy protections outlined in the AUBs.”

Violet sat back and tapped her nails on the tabletop. She needed to strike a balance. Any action could be seen as overreach—she didn’t want a repeat of the uproar she’d inspired when she recommended tracking the whereabouts of all witches in real-time. But she was perturbed by the insolence of these witches.

“Have we cross-checked typic world news and events to gauge the impact of the behaviors?”

Iris nodded, and looked to another SVT member, Janai, who stood and read from a report she’d prepared. SVT witches were embedded in positions of power and influence in the typic world and sent daily reports to the Sphere.

“There’s nothing unusual, Regent. Nothing that suggests these witches have impacted the course of the typic world in negative, or even significant way. The news is absolutely pedestrian. All rates of crime, death, birth, wealth accumulation, political transformation, average GDP growth, are in line with existing trends.”

Violet felt a sense of relief, but it was uneasy. “Then we’ll continue to send sanctions,” she concluded. She looked to Nadia, who was averting her gaze. “And let’s draw up a mute,” she added. “See if we can draw some of these witches back to the Sphere. Nothing extreme,” she emphasized. “Just the most concerning areas.”

Nadia could feel herself starting to sweat. She’d worried about this. A mute was a way of rendering an area devoid of magic, so that a witch would find herself powerless in that area. The logic was, assuming they’d targeted an area that the wanted witch frequented often, the witch would get frustrated and return to the Sphere, requesting an audience with Regent to understand the reason for the mute and ask for it to be lifted. Nadia had been toying with the idea of a mute, trying to figure out if she could somehow direct the witches to herself instead of Violet. But no matter how she looked at it, she couldn’t make that puzzle work. Even if she could intercept the witches somehow, there was no way of knowing if that was safe. She had no idea how many of them there were—judging by the sizes of the disturbances, it could be tens, even hundreds of witches she was looking for. And maybe they weren’t benevolent; maybe their showstopping acts of magic were actually acts of evil.

“Yes, Regent,” Iris said. She looked to Janai, ready to offer her the assignment, but Nadia interrupted.

“I’ll do it.” Heads swiveled to her. “I’m familiar with the important areas,” she clarified.

“That’s absolutely fine,” Violet said tersely. Ideally, the Nox wouldn’t be involved, but she was a talented witch and would undoubtedly apply the mutes well. There was a moment of quiet as Nadia turned to the notebook in her lap, writing preliminary plans. “Now, would be preferable,” Violet clarified. She would have loved to have spoken more harshly to the girl, but Natasha sitting in her line of sight reminded her not to. “And I’d like a full, detailed report on the actions taken on my desk tonight.”

Gabbie

Hey girlies! What’s everyone up to tonight?

Delali

Dinner with Safiya!

Delali

We’re at Clover Hill if you wanna join

Maya

that’s nice, ill be spending the evening in hell

Maya

aka im in the office til 10

Maya

how’s the metric going gab?

Gabbie

I’m so so so close. I’m really trying, I swear!

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Gabbie glanced at her watch as she opened the door to The Bar. It was only 9:30, which meant she had at least an hour before Maya stopped by, if at all. She ducked into the dark room, which was exactly as she remembered it from the last time she’d been there, months ago when she picked up her shrug. She was trying not to freak out about the fact that she was the last of the girls to fill her metric. Slow and steady had always been her thing anyway. If she focused on teaching and Crafting, there was no way she wouldn’t catch up soon. Most of the color in her metric had come from the stuff she’d done for social media, but the weird thing was, over the last week, the little acts of magic she used to do in her room to fill her metric were just . . . not working. The video editing she once did with the tap of a finger, the dishes she used to clear up with just a thought—suddenly out of reach. When her Wi-Fi went out (as it always did) and she couldn’t fix it just by magic, that had been the last straw. Sure, the East Village was a long way to travel for internet. But she needed to be somewhere she could be comfortable and inspired. She couldn’t get her creative juices flowing just anywhere.

Gabbie walked in to see a girl at the counter pouring a glass of wine. She looked up and smiled, and Gabbie swallowed her disappointment.

“Hey there, how can I help you?”

“Hi! Are you Shelby?” Gabbie had stayed super attuned to any mention Maya made of The Bar, and by now she knew the usual cast. “I’m Gabbie, a . . . friend of Maya’s.” Friend felt like the wrong word, but she wasn’t sure how else to communicate what Maya was to her.

“Oh right, are you one of the birthday girls?” Shelby asked.

“Yeah,” Gabbie said, warmed by the thought of Maya mentioning her and Delali in one of her famed late-night chats at The Bar.

“Cool to finally meet you.” Shelby smiled and rested a hand on her hip. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I’m just, uh. Here to use the Wi-Fi.” Gabbie tried not to make it obvious that she was looking past Shelby, quietly hoping Faison would walk through one of the doors that lined the back wall. Their DMs had puttered to a halt around the holidays, and Gabbie hadn’t realized until then, when she was home in Vermont scrolling the @celebriteesshop account, just how much she loved her conversations with Faison.

“Yeah, go nuts,” Shelby said. “It’s free.”

“Okay, great, thank you.” Gabbie, realizing she hadn’t thought past this part, felt a rush of self-loathing. She couldn’t believe she’d wasted an hour of her Friday taking the subway downtown in hopes she would bump into Faison. Was she just gonna sit here and wait? She and Dan had a call early the next morning—she wanted to sleep in, but Dan was leading a hike with Kim for some of his students, and they’d be at a nature preserve outside Nairobi for the whole day. If she wanted to talk to him at all on Saturday, she needed to wake up for the call, or else deal with Dan’s lukewarm, one-word responses for three days while he forgave her for missing it.

Just as Gabbie sat down, the storage room door opened and Faison walked into the room wearing a Cher celebritee and a pair of tartan dress pants. He was carrying a cardboard cutout of Jack Daniels, and Gabbie was almost certain he broke into a smile as soon as he saw her, his steps slowing as he took her in. Gabbie’s stomach flipped—he was even prettier than she remembered.

“Hey, you,” he said. Gabbie couldn’t describe his eyes as anything other than . . . twinkling.

“Hi,” Gabbie said.

“What are you doing all the way down here? Thought you worked up in the Bronx.”

“Just came to get some work done.” She pointed to her laptop. “I didn’t know you’d be working today⁠—”

Faison’s smiled shifted from confused to sly as he placed the box on the bar. He knew.

“I’ve actually just finished my shift,” he said. He reached over the bar to grab his sling bag and Heron Preston puffer, which were hidden under the counter. “Shelby’ll deal with these. Right Shelb?”

“Whatever, Faison,” Shelby responded, eyes trained on her phone.

“Oh, cool,” Gabbie said, trying to avert her eyes from the brown strip of skin he’d just exposed.

“Posts have been looking really good lately,” Faison said. “I check Crafting every day.”

“Really?” Gabbie asked. “I mean, yeah. I’ve been working really hard. But I don’t know I guess I’m kind of blocked at the moment.” It wasn’t even remotely true—she had like ten videos that could use editing right now and way too many unanswered brand emails in her inbox—but she needed to say something to keep Faison around. She couldn’t stand the sight of him putting his jacket on.

“You know working more isn’t the answer to a block, right?”

“It’s not?”

Faison smiled devilishly. “Nope.”

“What is?”

“Going on a nighttime walk with someone you like,” he answered.

Gabbie could only giggle. She was vaguely aware of Shelby’s loud sigh behind the bar.

“Come on,” Faison said. “You’re not gonna find any inspiration in here.”

Outside on the sidewalk, it was dark and chilly, and Gabbie could feel herself getting jittery with excitement. There was nothing more exciting than the start of a Friday evening in New York, even though Gabbie usually didn’t have plans.

“Where do you wanna go?” she asked.

“Anywhere,” Faison said, shrugging. “I’ve got until midnight-ish. You just moved here right? A couple months ago?”

“Yeah, in September. Gosh, it’s been like six months now.”

“And before you moved here, what was the thing you like, dreamed of seeing? I feel like everyone in New York has that thing, you know. The one thing they imagined when they thought of the city. What was yours?” They’d already started walking south.

“Oh,” Gabbie said. “I don’t know, mine’s kind of embarrassing.”

“That’s one of the requirements!” Faison exclaimed. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

Gabbie smiled. His enthusiasm was adorable. “It’s just the Brooklyn Bridge. Which is hilarious because I live in Washington Heights. But, you know, it’s so beautiful. It’s always been a thing for me. I can’t believe I’ve been here for half a year and I haven’t been yet.”

“What’s the embarrassing part?”

“Well, I guess if I’m really being honest, it’s because of Miranda and Steve. In the Sex and the City movie. I’m not even a Miranda and I’m torn on whether the movies are even canon but I just always rooted for them so hard. You know the scene, the one where she finishes her pro/con list and then she just rushes to the bridge and for a second she’s worried Steve won’t be there but he is?”

Faison smiled blankly.

Gabbie gasped. “You’ve never seen it?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, I get that, the movies aren’t for everyone. But you’ve at least seen the series, right?”

“Here and there,” Faison confessed. “My sister’s made me watch a few.”

“Here and there?” Gabbie put her hand over her mouth and shook her head. “That’s one of the biggest mistakes people make with Sex and the City. Just because the episodes are perfectly self-contained they think they can get away with watching them here and there! But they’re wrong, trust me. There are meaningful series-long character arcs!”

Faison held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll watch it, I swear. Just stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Gabbie said.

Faison laughed and checked his watch. “I think we have just enough time to walk across the bridge before I head off.”

“Okay,” Gabbie said, smiling. She tried not to think of Miranda and Steve making out while Al Green swelled in the background. “I think that’s a good plan.”

They headed toward the station together, the silence between them notable, charged but not yet awkward. Gabbie was careful not to bump into Faison too much as they moved, but at some points the pedestrians on the street made it impossible. Not that she really minded. On the train, their conversation was so comfortable and unbroken that they almost missed their stop.

“Ta-da,” Faison said when they arrived.

Across the street, the Brooklyn Bridge towered above them, its cables arcing through the darkened sky like Christmas lights. Even in the March cold, huge crowds of shivering people congregated at the bridge’s entrance. Gabbie had to hold back a squeal. Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge was something she had wanted to cross off her bucket list with Dan before he left for Nairobi, but he’d been so busy getting ready for his trip that it never happened. Now, staring at the beautifully lit bridge, she couldn’t believe she’d ever let that plan fall off her bucket list.

Gabbie charged ahead without waiting.

“Whoa, wait up!” Faison, laughing, scrambled to meet Gabbie as she neared the first leg of the bridge.

The waterfront glimmered, and she turned to look at the view of Manhattan, reminded of why she had chosen this over Fulbright with Dan. The city stretched before her, soaring, sparkling, perfect. Well, nearly perfect—she reached for her bracelet. As they walked, Gabbie took in every face, every view, every tiny window in the bridge’s metalwork with quiet awe. Faison kept looking down at the cars that hurdled across the lanes beneath them, mesmerized.

“Have you been here before?” she burbled, awestruck.

“A couple of times,” Faison answered, grinning.

“What’s so funny?” Gabbie asked.

“Nothing. Your excitement’s contagious.” He pulled a Nikon SLR out of his fanny pack and started clicking as they went.

They fell into comfortable conversation as they went, talking about their work at first. Then Gabbie wanted to know how Faison’s camera worked, and Faison wanted to know how she managed to control a classroom. Gabbie answered all of Faison’s questions thoroughly, surprised to realize that she actually loved talking about herself. No one ever asked her about herself. Most people were content to just let her listen.

As they neared the end of the bridge, Gabbie and Faison were interrupted by an elderly couple in matching yellow cable-knit sweaters, who asked them for a photo.

Once they had arranged themselves, Gabbie held their camera up to her face and called out. “Okay, one, two, three, cheese!” She heard Faison laughed behind her.

The woman and her husband, hunched over and red-faced from the cold, walked over and took the camera. “Oh, what a gorgeous photo,” the woman said. “And taken for us by such a gorgeous couple!”

Gabbie’s face got hot. She opened her mouth to correct the woman, but Faison spoke first.

“Thank you,” he said, grabbing Gabbie’s hand and giving her a playful smile. The rough feel of his hands surprised her; the last person who’d touched her was the ancient manicurist at Nails Time on 141st.

“You two have a wonderful night,” the woman said before she and her husband walked off.

Gabbie and Faison started walking again, taking in the glowing light of the buildings lining the East River. She was disappointed to feel his hand drop from hers. “So when you said cheese just now, was that your teacher voice?” Faison teased, giving her a sideways smile.

Gabbie opened her mouth to protest, but then laughed. It was her teacher voice.

“Okay, cheese!” Faison mimicked, his voice climbing to girlish pitch. “You’re funny.”

“Listen,” Gabbie said, gearing up to defend herself. “Old people and third graders are a lot more alike than you’d think.”

Faison laughed at this, and Gabbie was struck by the realization that Dan always responded to her jokes. He never just laughed.

“I bet the kids love you. Even when you’re a kid, you know who the pretty teachers are.”

Gabbie was taken aback by the comment. She was racking her brain for something to say when they reached a stretch of flat concrete. “Oh,” Gabbie said. “We’re, um, at the end of the bridge.”

“Looks like it,” Faison said. Gabbie’s heart sank against her will—she couldn’t think of another excuse to extend the night, and she knew enough to know that witches could not stop time. Faison looked out at the water and then down at Gabbie, and she warmed in his gaze. “Should we get pizza?”

Gabbie wavered. Crossing a bridge on a whim was one thing, but getting dinner (or, really, a late-night snack) with Faison alone felt like crossing a line she’d been trying to avoid for months. But . . . she looked up at Faison and at the bridge they’d just crossed. They’d made it this far already. It would be a waste to just turn around and head back into Manhattan . . . right? At least, that’s what the little Carrie Bradshaw on her shoulder was saying. “Always,” Gabbie said. “Pizza’s my favorite food.”

“I’ll remember that,” Faison said. And Gabbie had no doubt that he would.

They walked through Dumbo in search of a pizza place, a decidedly new energy between them.

“This place?” Gabbie asked, nodding to a shop at the end of the block.

Faison took in the incomplete fluorescent sign, one Z blinking and the A totally dark. He shook his head. “I never trust a spot that has more than one dead letter.”

Gabbie laughed, and after that they bypassed several pizza parlors for increasingly stupid reasons, using each as an excuse to talk longer. It became a little game between them—Gabbie vetoed one place because she didn’t like the red tiles lining the walls; Faison rejected another on the grounds that the cashier had French-tucked his sweatshirt into his jeans. They talked about their dream cars and their immigrant parents, what had brought them both to New York, their favorite things about their respective neighborhoods.

Finally, they chose a pizza place with tasteful blue tiles and inconspicuously dressed cashiers, and Faison paid for Gabbie’s two-dollar slice of plain cheese.

Gabbie couldn’t stop checking her watch. She was dreading the moment they finished eating and Faison had to disappear. She was taking the smallest possible bites of her pizza.

“Where are you going after this?” Gabbie asked, leaning forward in her chair.

“This party my friend’s throwing.” Faison shook his head and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Kind of an annoying scene. But could be good for the brand.”

“Oh,” Gabbie said, her heart drumming as a plan started to form. “What’s your friend’s name? Or handle or whatever?”

“Mmm,” Faison said as he chewed. He pulled his phone out and opened an Instagram page called @nontreevents.

“Non-tree events?”

“No entry.” Faison explained. “Like no, then letter n, and then⁠—”

“Oh,” Gabbie said.

“Do you wanna come? I could get your name on the list. Maybe not the perfect audience for Crafting, but who knows.”

“Totally,” Gabbie replied, though she didn’t mean it at all. She wanted to be alone with Faison, not crowded into a dark event space full of hot influencers, where they’d have to shout to hear each other. “I have to pee.”

Inside the bathroom, Gabbie pulled up the @nontreevents Instagram page. She clicked the post for that night’s party, a flier in violent early-internet turquoise with black lettering, and stared at it. She’d never tried to use her powers for something so remote and intangible. But she’d also never wanted anything more. Fingers resting on the screen, Gabbie closed her eyes and willed her intention into action. It was a moment before she felt it, but it came, the power moving through her body like a strong, fast current. She opened her eyes. The image beneath the glass was shaking, and there was a sound like a cyclone in her ears. The sound got louder and louder before finally stopping. Her screen stilled. The small bathroom was quiet. Gabbie touched up her lip liner in the mirror and returned to the table.

“Done,” she said. “Ready to head out?”

Faison was looking at his phone. “Yeah, actually, my friend’s thing just got canceled.

“Oh,” Gabbie feigned. She pulled at a curl. “That’s too bad.”

“Nah,” Faison said as he stood. He grabbed their plates and threw them in the trash. “Honestly, I didn’t want to go anyway.” He looked down to meet Gabbie’s eyes. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

She looked away, flustered. “You didn’t tell me what your New York thing was.”

“Oh yeah.” Faison smiled. “Well now I can show you.”

Outside, they walked for ten minutes before stopping in the middle of a quiet block, in front of a big, modern apartment building.

“Your thing is . . . a new build?” Gabbie asked.

“My favorite aunt used to live there,” Faison explained. “She doesn’t anymore . . . but when we visited as a kid, I remember the view from her apartment being crazy. Five-year-old me couldn’t believe you could see the water from that far away. I’m sure there are a million better views in the city but, I don’t know, I’ve always wanted to see this one again.”

“Was she your favorite because she was freakin’ loaded?”

Faison looked to fight off a moment of hesitation, then shook his head. “She’s the one who taught me how to sew.”

Gabbie swooned. She was about to ask him how he planned to get to the roof when a woman approached and entered the building, the heavy door swinging slowly behind her before stopping slightly ajar.

“Another sign?” Faison asked with a mischievous smile.

Gabbie balked. “I don’t know.” She was not the kind of person who trespassed.

She gazed at the building. It was sleek and new, and close enough to the water that they could still hear it lapping quietly in the background. Gabbie wondered if the rooftop view could compare to the one from the bridge.

Faison watched the shifting expressions on her face. “Come on,” he urged. He hustled across the street and Gabbie stood still for a second before her curiosity won out and she jogged after him. She had never done anything like this before, and up until just now, hadn’t been sure she was capable of it. But here she was, nimbly slipping through the sliver of doorway and holding it open for Faison. They looked around until Faison found the stairwell, reaching out to grab Gabbie’s hand as he held the door open with the other. Gabbie snuck in and began to climb, Faison close behind her. They completed the first few flights easily but at the fifth, they started to flag.

Faison huffed and puffed dramatically, mocking Gabbie’s labored breathing.

“Shut up,” she called behind him.

“Shhh,” Faison joked. “We’re trespassing, remember?”

When they finally reached the roof door, Gabbie burst through dramatically.

“One small step for woman, one giant step for womankind,” Gabbie said as she caught breath. Faison laughed, following as Gabbie strode across the terrace, arms spread as though she owned it. An electric current of excitement ran through her. She couldn’t believe what she—they—had just done.

“You look like you’ve done this before,” Faison teased.

Gabbie shoved him playfully. She looked around as the crisp air cooled the sweat on the back of her neck. There was no one else out there—only a well-thought-out arrangement of plants, wooden deck furniture, and short, bright bollard lights.

“Oh,” Gabbie said as her eyes landed on the view. A reflection of the city shimmered on the surface of the river, and even at this late hour, people swirled along the streets below, climbing in and out of cars, entering buildings, standing in groups on the sidewalk. Faison stood next to Gabbie, and she felt the heat of his body as he took in the sight. After a moment, he sat on one of the wooden chairs and motioned for Gabbie to join him, but she shook her head.

“I’m not tall enough,” she admitted reluctantly, knowing Faison would make fun of her. “If I sit, I won’t be able to see the view.”

To Gabbie’s surprise, Faison rose from where he’d been sitting and dragged a table over to her.

“Does this work?”

Gabbie smiled and accepted Faison’s outstretched hand. She leaned into his warm, sturdy grip, climbing onto the table, where he joined her. They both took in the view in silence. In the quiet of the moment, Gabbie snuck a look at Faison’s handsome profile against the skyline for a moment before looking away. Faison pulled out his camera and took a couple of quick snaps of the skyline. Then, without warning, he turned the camera on Gabbie, taking a shot as she stared out at Manhattan.

“Hey!” Gabbie said, turning when she heard the camera click.

Faison laughed, looking at the photo. “Teacher by day, model by night?”

“Stop,” Gabbie said, leaning in to look at the photo. When she saw it, though, she paused. Damn. She did look pretty good.

“Good, huh?” Faison asked, reading her mind.

“Yeah,” she said softly.

Faison met her eyes, and quiet grew between them. He leaned in and kissed her. Gabbie jerked back.

“Hey!” she said sharply. “Why did you do that?” She stood and stepped off table.

“Oh—sorry,” Faison said, his voice colored with confusion. “I thought you’d be into it. It seemed—I don’t know, I thought we were vibing.”

Gabbie stared at him. She took another step back, suddenly feeling stupid—and ashamed. “It’s really cold,” she said. “And late. We should go.”

Faison opened his mouth, a debate playing out on his face. Then he nodded. “Okay, yeah,” he said, standing. “I have the brunch shift tomorrow.”

They went back into the building, and as they walked down the stairs, Gabbie made sure to set an alarm for her morning call with Dan.

Gabbie

OMFG

Gabbie

MY METRIC IS FULL!!!!!!!!

Maya

Ahhhhhhh

Delali

I’m . . . gonna cry

Gabbie

I already cried

Gabbie

I woke up this morning and it was so heavy!

Delali

Did you do something big last night?

Maya

meet at Delali’s today?? Asap??

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Oh my god!” Gabbie shrieked. “This is so exciting!”

Maya covered her ears.

“I mean, I knew you were gonna get it but now it’s official,” Gabbie said. “I would like to formally request to be your plus one to literally anything you have to go to while you’re promoting this movie.”

Delali had gotten a call from Mazy Kutekwa yesterday, in the middle of a workout with her trainer. It hadn’t taken her long to notify everyone in her life that she was leaving school to go back to acting—she’d just made sure to leave out the part about Dean Toggsworth bursting a blood vessel when he’d found out another celebrity admit wouldn’t be making it to graduation. Toggsworth had called an emergency meeting, where he’d been pretty clear that Delali’s only choices were to graduate on time (therefore boosting commitment rates from high schoolers and nudging the university closer to being the most exclusive in the world) or get steamrolled by the university’s PR team. Delali had accepted the challenge. Sure, she could try to postpone production or come back to graduate when it finished, but she wasn’t feeling particularly flexible considering Dr. Portillo’s inner monologue back in November. Chemistry reads with potential Rob Nemiroffs started next week, and she was already getting excited by the buzz she could generate from a pap walk with Austin Butler.

“Me too,” Maya added. They were all lying on Delali’s California king eating chips and guac, but now Maya stood and looked over her shoulder dramatically, as if posing on a red carpet. “But not just anything, the Met Gala would be preferred.”

Delali couldn’t help but admire the audacity. “Done,” she said. “Are you and Tatiana gonna wear matching Clarke Stein?”

“Careful before I read you more of Adrien’s tweets,” Maya threatened, but Delali noticed a tiny smile.

“Jeez, I can’t believe the girl you used to call ‘Ratiana’ has already made you this soft,” Delali said. After the wedding, Maya had texted Delali, “nvm about the quitting thing.” Today, she’d showed up to Delali’s in the kind of outfit she used to wear before probation errands took up all her time: a white satin top with shoulder pads and rouching at the neck; a pair of straight-leg jeans that had black leather pockets; and black pointed-toe pumps. She’d even curled her ponytail. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Maya flopped back on the bed and threw a chip at Delali.

“OMG that’s why you were so late today, isn’t it?” Gabbie asked excitedly, propping herself up on her arm. She brushed a bunch of crumbs off her black mini skirt. “Were you with Tatiana before this?”

“No,” Maya said. “I mean, yes, but that’s not why I was late. We went to The Bar for breakfast so she could meet everyone and you know how long brunch takes there. Especially when Faison’s mopey, which he definitely was this morning.”

“Mopey?” Gabbie asked. “What happened to him?”

Maya shrugged. “I don’t know, but he had on his Adele celebritee so it’s probably a girl.”

Gabbie bit her lip and pretended to pull some fluff off the thrifted sweater vest she’d worn today.

“Anyway, your turn for updates,” Maya said. “What’s going on with Sam?”

“Who?” Gabbie asked.

“Your boyfriend, Sam? I feel like you haven’t mentioned him in ages.”

Delali tried to hide her interest, but she couldn’t. She’d noticed the absence of mushy Insta posts about Dan too, and was pretty glad to see it. She’d always thought Gabbie could do better than the sunburnt Peace Corps boyfriend and for months, Maya had been appreciatively pointing out the improvements Gabbie’s style—maybe they were witnessing a post-breakup glow up.

“So?” Gabbie dug a chip into the guac. “First of all, his name’s Dan. Second of all, he’s away in Kenya⁠—”

“Well, that never stopped you before,” Delali said.

Maya snickered, sucking the salt off her fingers then covertly wiping them on her faux-leather pants.

“Things are fine,” Gabbie said, her mind going to the text Faison had sent that morning.

Faison

hey—sorry about the attempted kiss last night. didn’t realize you weren’t into it. down for friendship if you are 🤟🏽

By ‘fine’ she meant she’d spent the last fourteen hours replaying the Faison kiss, and only five minutes on the phone with Dan. She could hardly look at him now, even through a screen. “Anyway, we have a banner to send, remember? You’re the ones who have been dyyyying to get to the Sphere. Completing this assignment is what gets us there.”

“Right,” Delali replied, straightening up. Throughout their training, Alba had never allowed them to contact her by phone, email, or surprise in-person meeting. She’d confined them to banners, so they could get a better grasp of the way the Sphere communicated. They’d always sent Alba their individual questions as they arose, but something about sending this message together seemed right. So, even though it was a Monday night, the girls all met at Delali’s.

Delali joined Gabbie on the floor, hiking her jeans up before she sat, and Maya followed. She summoned a sheet of Spherical paper. “So what are we saying?”

“We did it?” Gabbie suggested with a shrug.

“Or maybe more like, our metrics are full,” Maya added.

Delali nodded and began writing with the tip of her freshly manicured finger, the text appearing on the page as she did:

Alba—

Our metrics are full and we believe we’ve completed our training. We’re ready for our final assignment.

—Delali, Gabbie, and Maya

“Good?” Delali asked. Gabbie and Maya nodded, and she added to the bottom of the page:

Send immediately.

The text fled silently from the paper, leaving it blank. The girls looked at each other.

“What now?” Gabbie asked.

“I don’t know,” Delali said. “Wait?” She checked her watch.

“We could watch a movie,” Maya suggested.

“Hocus Pocus?” Gabbie recommended.

“No,” Delali said at the same time Maya said, “Be for real.”

Delali pulled a decorative gold pin out of her braids and fiddled with it. She was about to recommend going out to dinner when the banner appeared.

It read:

Congratulations, girls. I am tremendously proud. Your assignment has made itself clear to me over the last three days. I will relay the details to you at Sunday’s meeting.

—Alba

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Nadia was at the grocery store getting sugar for Nina’s porridge when the banner dropped.

The two witches caught in the latest mute are confirmed to be unrelated to the recent disturbances. The Regent asks that you please apply a mute to two new locations by the end of the day.

—Iris

Nadia felt a mixture of anxiety and relief. Eight witches had been caught by her mutes so far, which she’d applied as strategically as she could. She’d capped them at three (Violet hadn’t specified how many she expected, and if she wanted more she’d have to be explicit), and placed them in the least frequent disturbance sites (like Washington Heights and the Upper East Side). She carefully avoided Brooklyn Heights, the East Village, and the Upper West, where she felt the witches probably spent most of their time. So far, none of the witches who had come before Violet had a history of magic that matched the disturbance sites, and Nadia had been waiting all day for news on the two new witches who had come forward that morning. It was good to know that they, too, were unrelated to the disturbances, but she was running out of low-risk areas to mute, and she could feel whatever esteem the Council had left for her fading with each failed mute. How long until they handed over muting responsibilities to Janai or another member of the SVT? The situation with the mutes had given her one more, last-ditch idea, and now she was just waiting for an opportunity to carry it out. But with the mute inquiries and all the planning around the Gathering, 33,26 had been too busy for her to do it yet, and actually casting the mutes was taking up a significant amount of time and energy.

Nadia swiped the banner away, grabbed a small jar of purple rock sugar, and transported home, where her family was about to have dinner. She appeared in the kitchen to find her mother, wearing a dress with long bell sleeves, standing over the stove.

“Where’s Opal?” Nadia asked, referring to their conjurer. She’s the one who had sent her out for sugar in the first place, since she liked to make her porridge from scratch instead of conjuring it wholesale.

“She’s gone home,” Natasha answered, reaching into a dark oak cabinet for milk. “Oh, don’t make that face—I made the very porridge that grew you into the Sphere’s youngest ever Councilmember.”

Nadia laughed, but she was uneasy. Her mom hadn’t really looked at her since she’d appeared in the kitchen. Something was definitely bothering her. Natasha poured the milk in silence, then raised a finger to stir.

“I got the sugar,” Nadia offered, pulling at the throat of her black turtleneck.

Natasha looked up now, her eyes landing on Nadia’s fidgeting hand. “Any news?”

Nadia was confused by this. Councilmembers would’ve been updated about the inquiries at the time she’d received her banner from Iris. Nadia looked through the doorway into the dining room, willing Eve, Nina, or her dad to appear. “They’re not the witches we were looking for. I’ll have to do more tonight—mutes on two more locations.”

Natasha nodded quietly as she stirred, eyes back on the stove. “I don’t appreciate the way they’re treating you,” she said finally, her tone clipped.

She plunked the jar of sugar onto the countertop. “To be clear, by ‘they’ you mean Violet,” Nadia protested.

“Yes, in fact, I do mean Violet,” Natasha replied, her voice loud and quivering with anger. She gave Nadia her full attention now. “My issues with the Regent aside, there’s no reason for you to be treated in such a manner. I understood your desire to be in the Council when it was to do with the WHO and the Crisis⁠—”

Nadia opened her mouth to correct her, but Natasha lifted a stern finger.

“I understand that the Crisis is not yet over. But you’re clearly no longer considered important to the mission of the WHO. For reasons I can’t understand beyond Violet’s petty dislike of our family. How does it make sense that you, the person who cast the mute, which is a very physically taxing act of magic, are not included in the inquiry of those witches caught by the mute? How does it make sense for you to sit here waiting for communication from Iris Kelembe, a witch of very inferior talent? It’s degrading, Nadia. And it’s particularly degrading for a Nox.”

Nadia didn’t totally disagree with her mother. Some of what she said was true: she obviously wasn’t important to the WHO any longer. But Nadia needed her proximity to the Council to figure out the puzzle of the disturbances and turn them into a real solution for the Crisis.

Nadia sighed. “I know, Mom.”

“Enough of the ‘I know, Mom.’” Natasha said sharply. She looked at Nadia closely. “You need to withdraw from the Council.”

“Withdraw?” Nadia repeated. Even without the mystery of the disturbances, Nadia wasn’t giving up on the idea that Dr. Diop would accept her back into the fold—her work was too good for Dr. Diop to just throw her away. She was suddenly enraged, her nails digging into her palms as she clenched her fists. “First you want me to join you in a . . . whatever your plan was,” Nadia said, refusing to say the word coup aloud, “and now you want me to withdraw because I’m no longer the golden child of the medical sphere? Because you don’t want me to work with someone you dislike? Just because we have the same power doesn’t mean we’re the same person.”

“Nadia,” her mother warned.

“I’m not driven by whatever it is”—she waved her hands around—“you’re driven by. I don’t care if Violet’s a bitch to me. I have a goal.”

Natasha let out a dour laugh. “So you’ll endure whatever humiliation necessary for you to reach that goal? Good for Violet, then.” She turned back to the cauldron and began stirring it again, even though it was likely long finished. “Good for Violet.”

Nadia stood quietly, watching as her mother resumed stirring.

Natasha looked at Nadia one more time, her face angry at first, then clouded with something else—disappointment. Her next sentence she delivered sincerely, as if simply thinking out loud. “I did always wonder why you were the one who got the power. I cannot imagine you using it.”

Tatiana

Edibles and takeout tonight?? To gird ourselves for the storm . . .

Maya

ugh u know I wish I could 🙁 but it’s Sunday remember

Tatiana

Oh yeah. Tell your auntie I said hi! Hope she’s feeling better soon

CHAPTER FORTY

Gabbie, Maya, and Delali crowded into the elevator of Alba’s building to take the familiar ride up to her penthouse. Alba accepted the girls wordlessly, walking to her armchair without waiting for them. They exchanged a look while they took off their shoes and spring jackets. Immediately, everything about today’s meeting felt different. The energy in the apartment had shifted. Where they usually felt like they were entering the warmth of a coffee with a favorite professor, today they felt like they were entering a business meeting where they were about to receive bad news. Alba stood next to her chair instead of sitting.

“Ladies.” Alba gestured to the couch. “Please, take a seat.”

“Is everything okay?” Delali asked as she sat.

“Feel free to eat as much as you’d like. Before anything gets cold.”

Maya eyed the table. Alba had outdone herself with today’s spread. There were two elaborate hors d’oeuvres displays, a pasta dish, salad, and even a chocolate tart. Alba never conjured them desserts. Was it just her or was Alba being weird as hell? She even looked a little disheveled—well, as disheveled as Alba could look. Maybe that was from conjuring such a big spread.

The girls took their plates and served themselves while Alba watched absentmindedly, fluttering her fingers through her hair and moving her emerald ring from one hand to the other. At some point, she must have realized she was still standing, because she hastily sat down, tossing the girls a pacifying smile.

“Girls, I have to say how proud I am of you.”

The girls looked up from their food, startled to hear her speak after the long silence.

“How proud I am of how quickly you’ve progressed. You’ll remember I didn’t even think it was possible back when you started badgering me about the Gathering.” Here she waved her hand around and let out a fluttering laugh.

“Is this about our final assignment?” Maya asked, putting her fork down. “Do you know what it is?”

“The three of you are so wonderfully strong and talented. I do feel lucky to have had you as my mentees.” It was true. Alba considered her relationship with the girls to be a tremendous stroke of luck. The kind of luck she had given up on hoping for. “I’ve never felt more certain about anything, really, than I am about your abilities.”

“Alba,” Gabbie pleaded. “What is it?”

There was a long, pronounced silence. Alba took a breath and leaned forward in her chair. She’d thought carefully through her words before this, and now she reached back into the explanation she’d prepared. Anyone would be surprised, even scared by what she was about to say. These girls especially. She had to proceed carefully. “The vision came to me three days ago. And if you’ve been reading your lessons, it should make a degree of sense to you all. You’ll have read that, historically, the government of the Sphere operated without great conflict. While the Regent’s word is generally law, the Council has always had a very material impact on her governing choices and frankly, the Sphere has never really needed laws. They long functioned as the only true limit to the Regent’s power. But that all changed when Violet ascended the throne,” she said.

Alba paused, lacing and unlacing her fingers. She wanted to give the girls time to accept a new version of the Sphere. After a moment, she stood, pacing the living room. The girls leaned back on the couch, quiet with confusion. They had never seen Alba so clearly at a loss for words. Even when she went off plan or lost energy from one of her visions, there was always a seamlessness to the way she spoke to them, the vague sense that she had anticipated every possibility and prepared herself accordingly. But this was nothing like that. It seemed, for the first time, that Alba was truly off book.

“Violet wasn’t ready for the Regency when she ascended the throne,” Alba continued. “It’s possible that she could have gotten a handle on things, but certain . . . events early in her reign seem to have made it hard for her to exercise her power in a judicious way. Ever since the Betrayer’s failed campaign to dethrone her, Violet has felt threatened by the Council and their influence. She’s become a tyrant,” Alba said gravely.

She crossed the living room and settled back into her chair, taking in the girls’ solemn faces. “She’s used her position to terrorize witches across the Sphere. She’s padded the Council with her allies, and her closest advisors act as a network of spies to draw out and dispose of all her dissidents. What’s proven most troubling for the average witch has been her campaign of sanctions. Any witch she sees as a threat, or deems too powerful, is called to the Council and stripped of her powers. It’s not my role to feed you political perspectives—everything Violet has done is perfectly legal, and you have plenty of time to learn once you’ve entered the Sphere—but my vision has made it clear that I must.”

At the word ‘sanctions,’ the girls were beset by a shared panic. Delali avoided making eye contact with Maya. Because of her, Maya was only one sanction away from a summons. One sanction away from being stripped of her powers. Maya thought of her delicate new place in the CS hierarchy—Lacey had been pleased with the wedding photoshoot, and Maya had a feeling her next assignment would be some kind of step up. She’d promised Tatiana she wouldn’t quit, but she wasn’t sticking around unless she got out of probation soon. And like a Real Housewife on her second season, she couldn’t quite fathom how she’d managed before her powers.

“What was your vision?” Delali asked.

“Since the day I had my first vision of you,” Alba began soberly, “I’ve been trying to understand you—your tremendous abilities, your truly unique situation. I wondered if you three were just oddities, but I had a feeling it was something more. My vision confirmed that suspicion. You’re not ordinary witches. You’re destined to liberate the Witch Sphere from Violet’s tyranny.” Alba willed her voice to maintain its steady authority. “You’re destined to remove Violet from the throne.”

“What?” Maya protested. But Alba’s gray eyes were steady, serious. She wasn’t kidding. Delali’s heart drummed in her chest. Gabbie felt a cold sweat starting to trickle down her scalp.

“I will not deny that this is a particularly challenging final assignment, but I believe you can do it. It does make a sort of sense—your assignment doesn’t call for you to help the typic world, but to help the Sphere.”

There was a long moment of silence while the girls wondered how to react. Gabbie reached to toy with her bracelet, then remembered she’d taken it off the morning after the Brooklyn Bridge and pulled at the hem of her plaid mini skirt instead. Maya fought the urge to whip out her phone and scroll through Twitter, which is what she usually did when she was confronted with a task she didn’t want to deal with. Only Delali tried to respond, though no words came out: she kept starting and stopping as she thought of what to say.

Finally, Delali asked, “How?”

The question stirred Alba to action. She stood and turned away from the girls, examining her long rows of shelves as she muttered to herself. “It’s here somewhere,” she said, reading the spines before her. She walked along until she reached a thin book bound in worn navy leather, wedged between two massive tomes on the shelf above her crystal ball. “Here it is. There’s an old binding spell,” Alba said as she made her way back over to the girls. She sat, and Delali caught an embossed title on the cover: Ancient Spells, Tried and True. Alba placed the book on the coffee table and flipped through its old, pale pages.

“Yes,” she said once she’d found the right page and read it over. “If done correctly, this spell will temporarily strip Violet of her powers, rendering her unfit to rule and providing some time for the Council to oust her from power and end her Regency. The words and accompanying ritual are fairly simple, but it’s difficult to cast successfully. No one is sure why, but I suspect it has to do with intent, the level of singular focus a witch needs while performing the ritual. Your mastery of intention is likely the reason you’ve been called to this.”

Delali placed a steadying hand on the couch as she leaned forward. “When?” she asked. “And what happens after she’s removed?”

Maya was too angry to speak. Why was Delali acting like they’d already accepted this insane assignment? This wasn’t the time for her to be playing spokesman.

Alba nodded. “Upon the realization that the Regent has lost her powers, there will be a vacuum, and the Council will be mandated to hold an election for Violet’s replacement. I believe there are still enough honorable members in the Council for that election to be fair and honest. And to your first question, in my vision I saw a party, which I can only suspect is the Gathering. Again, it makes sense—the event has long been a New Year of sorts for us, a time to celebrate new beginnings. The removal of Violet surely fits the bill.”

Gabbie looked at Alba, doubtful. “So we’ll be casting the spell at the Gathering? That sounds . . . chaotic. We don’t even know if we’re invited.”

“It would be,” Alba agreed. “But binding spells don’t take effect immediately. It takes a lot to bind a witch’s magic. You’ll have to cast the spell days, even weeks beforehand.”

“Steep,” Delali said, remembering the term Alba had used in an earlier lesson.

Alba nodded.

“How long would the Regent lose her powers for?” Maya asked.

Alba glanced down at the open pages of the book before looking back up at the girls. “Well, that depends on you girls. Binding is always temporary, but how long the spell lasts depends on the power and intention of the witch casting the spell. Between the three of you, I imagine you can bind them for a year⁠—”

“A year?” Gabbie cut in. “That’s so long!” If there was one thing their lessons had made clear, it was that powers were sacred. A witch didn’t just have her powers—she was her powers.

Alba sat back and crossed her legs, her face set into a scold. “I suppose it’s a matter of perspective,” she said. “To me, a year without powers for Violet is much less than a lifetime without powers for all of you.”

Gabbie, Maya, and Delali were silent, looking at Alba, the pages of the spell book, and then, finally, each other.

Delali made eye contact with Gabbie, whose lips were pursed and eyebrows were raised. Alba was right—it did make a weird kind of sense. Delali had never really moved past Alba’s reaction on that first day they showed her their metrics, the bafflement bordering on concern. Their power had to mean something, and maybe this was it. Besides, as far as Delali knew, the final assignment wasn’t exactly optional.

Gabbie shrugged in response to Delali’s look. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not like this was any weirder than everything else that had happened in the past few months. And if they refused the assignment, then what? They’d be right back where they started in September, when their powers just butted into their lives whenever they felt like it.

When they turned to Maya, she sighed and gave them a resigned eye roll.

“Fine, I guess,” she said to no one in particular. She turned back to Alba and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. “What are the instructions? Do we start learning it today?”

Alba slid the book across the table and stood again, this time crossing the distance to the girls. “Unfortunately, this is something I can’t teach you three,” she said, handing the book to Maya. She took a step back to address them all. “In fact, the nature of the spell means I shouldn’t even be in the same room while you all practice it. We can’t risk you unintentionally binding my powers. This is something you’ll have to do on your own. But I believe in your abilities. You girls are special, you’ve trained well, and the timing of my vision has made it clear that you are ready. Whatever direction I’ve given pales in comparison to the natural abilities that have caused the universe—the Mothers—to entrust you with this duty. You’ve come a long way from your first lesson, and I’m certain you are capable.” Alba concluded with an encouraging smile, which quickly disappeared from her face, as though it had been an accident.

Delali opened her mouth to see if she could get away with a few questions, but Alba held up a hand to stop her.

“I’m sorry,” Alba said. “I can’t help you any further. This assignment is yours to understand and complete. I’m worried I may have already said too much.” She walked toward the door and the girls stood slowly.

For a moment, they didn’t quite believe the session was over. But Alba was quiet, long enough for them to realize the lesson was really, truly finished. Maya was the first to start gathering her things and heading to the door. Delali and Gabbie followed. Her hand on the doorframe, Alba gave them one last useless piece of advice. “Where you are lost or unsure, return to your lessons. I’ll speak to you all on Sunday, and no sooner than that.” Then she shut the door behind them.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Nadia stood in front of her bedroom mirror, applying her foundation, then eyeliner, then a burgundy eye shadow. She usually didn’t bother with makeup, but today she needed every weapon available to her. Her hands were unsteady as she applied her lip stain, the reality of her plan dawning on her. She wished she had a friend on the Council, someone she could talk to without breaking confidentiality codes. Nadia clicked the tube shut and smacked her lips the way she’d seen Eve and Aura do it. Then she grabbed the piece of paper she’d prepped for today and transported to the hallway of 33,26, just outside the Hollow.

“Nadia.” Aura’s little brother was stationed at a desk outside Violet’s office.

Nadia broke into her most convincing flirty smile, if she possessed such a thing. “Hi Amos, how are you?”

“I—good. I didn’t expect to see you today. You know the meeting’s not until tonight, right?” He smiled timidly, radiating nerves. He was fiddling with the edges of the notebook in front of him and his cheeks seemed to be quivering. “I mean obviously you would know that. Since you’re on the Council and everything and you’ve been on it since before I got this job.”

“Right, yeah,” Nadia replied, starting to feel some sympathy.

“Can I help you with something?”

“I just came to have a look at the Spherical map quickly. We’ve been dealing with this band of witches that have just been . . . ugh”—she rolled her eyes in theatrical frustration—“so hard to catch!”

“Oh yeah,” Amos said. “Iris has been having me make those replicas of the map to send to you.” Then he was bashful again. “Violet’s not in though.”

“Oh, is she not?” Nadia asked. It was pretty common knowledge that Violet spent the morning before a Council meeting with her partner and kids. “That’s annoying, I just wanted to get an idea of where the witches might be right this very second and I need the map for that. Would you mind if I just . . . slipped in?”

Amos raised his eyebrows. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Nadia said.

“Yeah, of course. Of course,” he repeated. Amos stood from his desk—or really he sprang up from it, maybe trying to communicate his eagerness to help. He headed down the hall to the Councilmembers’ entrance to the Hollow, and Nadia stopped him.

“Oh, not there!” she said, trying to keep anxiety out of her voice. The more people that saw them interacting, the worse this could get for her.

Amos stopped midstep, then turned.

“Didn’t you want to see the map?”

“Yes,” Nadia said, placing her hand on his shoulder. “But the map was actually moved to Violet’s study. For planning related to the Gathering.”

Amos’s eyes met hers, and Nadia knew he knew she was lying. But he walked to the door next to his desk anyway, then pressed his hand against the panel on the wall and held the door open for Nadia. She walked past him.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered from the other side of the door, then closed it behind her.

Nadia took in the dark panels of the empty office, the gilded paintings of Violet’s foremothers. She walked across the room with an unfamiliar freedom. Her movements were typically so measured and restrained in the study, where she’d only ever been in Violet’s presence, on days when she didn’t hold meetings outside. She stood over the Regent’s desk. Its massive surface was crowded with papers (Violet was notoriously disorganized), all reports from different Sphere agencies. Bookmarked volumes copied from the Archive were flipped open, their pages marked with notes. On one corner of the desk, two charmed dictation pens signed document after document with Violet’s looping signature. A third had fallen, its enchantment apparently too weak to keep it suspended.

Nadia’s neck prickled with heat as she scoured the desk, which was like a monochrome Where’s Waldo. She only had ten, maybe fifteen minutes before Amos got suspicious. Her eye fell to a stack of profiles that had banned written across the top—political dissidents who Violet was allowed to exclude from the Gathering on the basis of safety. Finally, Nadia found what she was looking for, a sheet of Spherical paper that read:

Dear Valued Witch,

You have been affectionately selected to join the Regent, Council, and your fellow witches at this year’s Gathering, to be held at 33,26 on May 28, at 7:00 p.m. WST.

With love,

Your Regent

In the bottom right-hand corner was a charm that read: send immediately.

The rest of the page was blank, the invitations already delivered to a list of names that Nadia couldn’t see. She quickly set out writing the coordinates she’d snuck in on a note card, the numbers disappearing from the Spherical paper as the invitations were sent. She wrote the main ones: the East Village, the Upper West Side, the locations in Brooklyn and in between—then she also added some of the rarer ones, as many as she could fit before she got scared of the time. She couldn’t risk these witches not receiving their invitations. When she finished, she slipped out into the hall and gave Amos a small nod. No witch could ignore an invitation to the Gathering.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

“Let’s just use our sanctions to meet the Council,” Maya mocked as they spilled out of Alba’s building and onto the stoop. “That makes sense, that makes perfect sense.” She stomped down the stairs.

“Sorry,” Delali said, too shaken from the meeting to defend herself. She followed Maya and Gabbie down the stairs. “Sorry.”

“Do you know what would be sorry?” Maya asked. “If we lost our powers because someone didn’t want to wait a couple of extra months to fill our metrics to transport.”

“Hey,” Gabbie said, putting her hands up to stop them. “We all agreed to that plan, okay? We all did this together.”

Maya crossed her arms, her face settled into a scowl.

“And I know you’ll say it’s corny, but, we’re gonna get out of it together, too.” Gabbie leveled a look at both of them.

Maya took a deep breath and shook her head. “Sorry Delali,” she said. Her face dropped. “I just don’t want to lose . . .” She couldn’t say it again.

“It’s okay,” Delali said. “I know.” The idea of returning to Hollywood without her powers made her nauseous. She could get the accent together, sure. But she’d already started scheming on all the ways she could bend the industry to her will, conjure up projects she thought mattered. Without that possibility, she didn’t know how long she’d last. “But there’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to do this, right? Our metrics are full. It’s a final exam made specially for us and our capabilities. We haven’t gotten sanctions letters since last year . . . we should be fine, right?”

“Hey,” Gabbie said. She nodded toward a couple of students walking past—why was she the only one who ever seemed to notice when they were in public?

“Should we go to Delali’s?” Maya asked, hiking her Bottega Veneta padded cassette bag over her shoulder.

“Actually,” Gabbie said, “could we go to mine?”

Delali and Maya looked at her. Gabbie’s was the only apartment they hadn’t seen yet. Maya had just sort of assumed it was awful.

“I have to let the Verizon guy in to fix my Wi-Fi,” Gabbie explained. “Again.”

Delali and Maya agreed, too rattled by their assignment to argue. The three of them headed across the street and found a secluded patch of grass in Riverside Park to transport from.

* * *

“Oh,” Maya said when they walked in, relieved. “This isn’t as bad as I imagined.” Gabbie’s apartment was roomy and full of light woods, whites, and pinks, with lusciously flowering plants and gold accents serving as focal points.

“Thanks?” Gabbie responded. She’d already headed into the kitchen to grab wine and glasses.

“It’s really cute, Gabbie,” Delali confirmed. She kicked off her Air Forces and settled into the blush velvet sofa.

“Seriously, I’m so impressed,” Maya said, taking in the gallery wall.

“Have you seriously never watched one of my TikToks?” Gabbie asked Maya as she poured. “Most of them were filmed in here.”

“I mean . . . no?” Maya confessed. She kind of liked that Gabbie didn’t force them to watch her TikToks at gunpoint, the way some of her other aspiring influencer friends did.

Gabbie half-laughed, half-sighed.

“Mm!” Maya said, grabbing her glass. “Wait, I actually have! Back in like, November I watched one of your ‘Get Ready With Me’ videos. Just to try and understand your . . . mindset. Sartorially. I started pulling items from my closet shortly after.”

Delali busted out laughing and Gabbie, seated in a fluffy white accent chair, threw a decorative pillow at Maya.

“Wait have you seen any of my videos?” Gabbie asked Delali.

“Yeah,” Delali said casually. “I’ve seen all of them.”

“Yeah fucking right,” Maya said.

“All of them?” Gabbie clarified.

Delali nodded. “Why is that so hard to believe? They’re famously pretty short.”

“Quiz her!” Maya yelled, pointing at Delali.

“Umm,” Gabbie said, thinking. “Oh, what kind of dog do I have? At home? I did a TikTok over Christmas⁠—”

“And she knocked over your cake batter and it poured all over her head. Her name is Sandy and she looks like a poodle?” Delali was suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know all the different mixes or whatever. And she’s black.”

Gabbie, who looked truly touched, put a hand on Delali’s knee.

“Anyway,” Delali said, gulping back the rest of her wine. “The spell.” She suspected they were stalling. Gabbie and Maya followed Delali’s gaze to the coffee table, where Maya had tossed the spell book when they first entered. They gathered in a circle around her coffee table. The sun was setting, and the orange sunlight cast a glow over the page. They all hunched over it in silence for a moment, reading and rereading the spell. Alba had hyped it up so much, they hadn’t known what to expect. But the page was sparse.

to repeat:

There are times when one must take

Leaving absence in her wake

Handed to the one we trust

Use this only if you must

And once you choose this course is best

Say it loudly from your breast

“I can’t believe that’s . . . it,” Gabbie said. “No positioning, no pace, no volume—it doesn’t even say how many times to repeat it.”

“Maybe that’s what makes it so hard to cast,” Delali suggested. She hated these kinds of exam questions, where you were tested on not just the result, but your very interpretation of the question.

“Well, Alba did say it was more about intention than anything else,” Maya said.

“I’m more worried about how we’re supposed to cast it,” Gabbie inserted. “I don’t think we can cast a spell from a literal world away.”

Gabbie and Maya both looked to Delali. “Okay, I don’t know everything off the top of my head. But I do think we need to be there. Like, near Violet.” She pulled out her two lesson booklets and read aloud from the section on spells:

“Spells may be cast only on subjects in view of, or in reasonable proximity to, the witch casting the spell.”

“Well, we did know we’d have to transport for the assignment,” Gabbie said. “And we do know where the Regent lives, 33,26. Next to the Cradle.”

“Okay, so we can get to the Cradle if we follow the instructions in the Transportation section, but then what? What if she’s not there when we go?” Maya asked. The whole thing was starting to look like an annoying riddle.

“She lives there,” Gabbie said.

“I know that Gabbie, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be there whenever we choose to go. Did you even read the customs section in the lesson book? Witches do not take work seriously at all. They’re always on fucking vacation!”

Gabbie pouted as she considered Maya’s point. “True.”

“We could do it during a Council meeting,” Delali said quickly. “She’d definitely be there then.”

“Oh my god, yes!” Maya exclaimed. “They’re once a month, right?”

“Yep,” Delali said, her stomach wobbling as she came to a realization. “Nine p.m. on the first of every month.”

Gabbie looked to the DIY chalkboard calendar she kept hanging by her apartment entrance. “Today?” she choked out.

“The Mothers do work in mysterious ways,” Delali said.

Gabbie groaned. “Guys, I don’t feel amazing about this.”

“It’s actually perfect,” Maya said. “Council meetings are at night, so it would be dark and no one would see us. Violet and the Council will be stuck in the same place for at least an hour.” She was close, so close to finally seeing the world that had kept her afloat this whole time. To making sure her powers wouldn’t be stolen by Violet. The spell had to be cast tonight.

Delali nodded. “If we don’t do it tonight, we’ll have to find another way to get to Violet later on. I think this is it. I don’t think this timing is by chance.”

Maya placed her hand on Gabbie’s. “It’s like you said before. You’re not going alone,” she said. “It’s the three of us.”

Gabbie nodded, a sense of warmth washing over her. Nothing that had happened between them had been predictable or probable or reasonable, but they had all experienced it together. Behind all their bickering and eye rolling and judgment was another thing, an affection that underscored their relationship like the low hum of a harmony. A feeling of absolute certainty. Gabbie knew she’d be safe with Maya and Delali, no matter what happened.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. She looked at her watch and set an alarm for eight forty-five. “We have five hours to practice. Let’s do it.”

The girls hammered out their intention, burrowing into the details they couldn’t afford to mess up: their aim was to temporarily strip Violet of her powers, for at least a week but certainly no more than six months, and the binding should take effect at midnight on the night of the Gathering. They aimed to pass their assignment, so they could give back to the Sphere they wanted so desperately to visit. And finally, they aimed to keep their powers, which they’d come to rely on so much. Once this was established, they practiced reciting the spell, making sure they fell into an easy chorus, the way the lesson on group spellcasting instructed. Then they turned to the sections on Transport.

principles of transportation

(general/intraworld)

Transportation is the practice by which a witch displaces herself. This displacement may take place over any distance and the witch may take with her any dependents (typics; MAMs; children).

A mastery of transportation includes arrival at the desired time and in the exact desired location, no changes in appearance or dress arising from travel.

A witch may transport from a seated or standing position. A witch may not transport while in motion.

To transport, a witch should envision all elements of her destination, considering all six senses (smell, touch, taste, sound, sight, and mood). The only instance in which this is not required is when traveling to the Cradle, as the Cradle is intimately and soulfully known by all witches.

Before transporting, the witch must inhabit her body entirely, developing an awareness of all its contours. Only when the processes of envisioning and inhabitation are complete should the witch mobilize her power and her intention to transport.

principles of transportation (interworld)

After completing her training, a witch is entitled to transport between worlds.

For a beginner witch, practice for interworld transportation must begin with a trip to the Cradle (33,26 SPH or 40.7263, -73.9817TW, depending on the direction of travel). Even after her first effective interworld transport, it is recommended that a witch only transport to the Cradle until the practice is mastered.

For transportation instruction, please see Transportation (General/Intraworld).

When a witch transports as part of her mentorship assignment, the attempt to transport will necessarily be successful, unless the witch commits an egregious technical misstep. Transport is not to be considered a test but rather an act necessitated by the nature of final assignments. The witch must endeavor to complete her assignment immediately upon arrival in the alternate world, and must return to her original world immediately upon completing the assignment. Any loitering before or after performance of the assignment is considered breach of the assignment instructions.

“So we don’t really have to practice?” Maya asked.

Delali shook her head. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“Then we have two more hours to practice the spell,” Gabbie said, checking her watch.

The girls returned to studying the binding spell, stopping only when Gabbie’s alarm went off. They looked at each other.

“Ready?” Maya asked. She was surprised by the current of excitement leaping up in her stomach—she wasn’t even afraid anymore, just ready.

“Yep,” Gabbie said. “Oh, just one thing.”

“What now?” Maya asked.

“There’s something about my apartment that . . . I don’t know, makes it really hard for me to do magic in here. Maybe it’s just, like, a superstition or something. But whenever I want to transport I go to this random place on Fort Washington. It’s always empty.”

“And you thought this was a good place for us to practice for our final assignment?” Maya replied.

“That’s only because—wait,” Gabbie said, realizing the Verizon guy had never showed up.

“Let’s fucking go,” Delali interrupted, grabbing her jacket. “We only have fifteen minutes before the meeting starts.”

Gabbie led the girls out of her building and down the street, to a courtyard in the middle of a collection of apartment buildings. As promised, it was empty, but for extra cover, they huddled into a narrow alleyway between two buildings.

“Okay,” Gabbie said. “Ready.”

Delali grabbed the other girls’ hands, Gabbie’s palms warm and soft, Maya’s stiletto-nailed and slender. They looked at each other for a moment, breathed deeply, then closed their eyes. Holding each other tightly, Gabbie, Maya, and Delali focused, channeling every last thing they had studied in the past hours—past months—through their bodies. At once, they felt between them a current of heat and a sudden numbness. The brick walls, the barren dusty ground, the sound of a dog barking nearby—everything that surrounded them disappeared slowly and deliberately, and a soft whirring noise enveloped them. The sound built, growing louder and more forceful, overwhelming them completely. It enveloped them, the volume soaring, expanding, surging, until it disappeared entirely and the girls entered a loud silence. When they opened their eyes, they were no longer in New York. They were in a different world altogether.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Violet was in her study, reading the Gathering committee’s updated emergency exit plan, when someone knocked on the door. She looked up from the diagram and sighed—she knew it was Amos, coming to tell her it was time for the quarterly Council meeting. She looked at the stack of papers she’d been planning to reread for the hundredth time before the meeting: the profiles of the eight witches who had been caught by mutes. It would all have to wait until later, she decided, summoning the door open for Amos.

“I’ve got Iris here for you,” Amos said as the door opened, then quickly retreated.

“Regent,” Iris said breathlessly, closing the door behind her. Sneaker wedges this time. “I’m so sorry for my intrusion, but⁠—”

Violet sat up straighter in her chair. “What, what is it?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”

“The map has malfunctioned,” Iris said.

Violet tilted her head. The Spherical map was host to some of the oldest, most powerful magic in their world, and it had never once failed. “What do you mean?” she asked, pushing away from her desk and standing. The movement jostled her mug and sent tea spilling over the desk. Violet distractedly spun her index finger counterclockwise, and the mug righted itself and refilled with the cooling liquid.

“Somehow the enchantment has been broken,” said Iris. “Sadie⁠—”

“Who?”

“One of the junior SVT agents. She alerted me to a monumental spike in the Baseline,” Iris said. “By the time I arrived to see what had happened, the map was no longer registering changes in atmospheric magic. It’s . . . frozen.”

“What do you mean, frozen? We need the map for the Gathering.” The map was essential to keep the Gathering safe and organized—it was the only time of year they switched from a typic world view to a Sphere view. “Magic doesn’t freeze.”

“Regent,” Iris said gently, giving Violet a grave look that bordered, annoyingly, on sympathetic. “We can call in experts to do a final examination, but I think it’s safe to say that the map is no more.”

Violet walked away from her desk and back again, a cold sense of panic overwhelming her. She pressed her hand to her temple, letting out a ragged sigh. “Does the rest of the Council know?” she asked. They would be filling the Hollow any minute now.

As she said this, it occurred to her that perhaps it was the Council that was behind the sudden deficiency of the map. Was this it? Was this the attack that she’d been anticipating for decades, the attack that would finally remove her from the throne? For this to happen now, just a few weeks before the most important Gathering in decades, the Gathering that she’d hoped would garner her the popular support she desperately needed . . . Violet sat back at her desk, clamping down on a rising sense of fear and rearranging her features into a cool, neutral mask. Suddenly, Iris, with her solemn expression, no longer seemed like a trusted agent but a potential adversary, maybe an instrument for the other side.

“Well?” Violet asked Iris briskly. “The Council?”

“They don’t know anything. I wanted to inform you first,” Iris said carefully, registering the change in Violet’s tone. Violet turned to her desk, looking it over as if there were something there that could help her, but of course, there wasn’t.

“Is it the same group of witches? That spiked the Baseline in September?” Violet asked.

“I’d assume so, but there’s no way to know,” Iris said. “The map is . . .”

“Broken, I know. How could they have evaded sanctions all this time?”

“We’ve followed protocol, Regent. They hadn’t yet received five sanctions. I told you it was unusual—” Iris stopped here, and her face contorted with worry.

“What?” Violet asked. “What is it?”

“I’m just wondering about the Gathering,” Iris said uneasily. “Do you think it’s safe to go ahead with the festivities?”

“Of course it is,” Violet replied. It had to be. Canceling was not an option, and Violet leveled Iris with a look that made clear she had crossed the line. She drummed her nails on her desk as she decided how to proceed, her panic growing at the thought of a band of insolent witches, potentially plotting against her, now totally unreachable. The practicalities of bringing together an event at the scale of the Gathering (food, decorations, entertainment) were all of a sudden insignificant, and yet they too required her attention. Violet reached into her drawer for a quick sip of Soothing Solution. She thought of what her mother and grandmother would’ve done when they were in power—how they would handle a conflict that threatened the Gathering and perhaps the safety of the Witch Sphere at large.

“Call together three more teams of agents,” she said finally, opening her eyes to peer at Iris. “We’ll need to at least triple security for the event.”

“Triple?”

“Yes,” Violet said evenly. “Would that be an issue?”

Iris closed her mouth. “No,” she said meekly. “Absolutely not.”

“Good.”

Iris nodded and Violet rose, following her into the Hollow.

* * *

The facade of 33,26 was wholly ordinary. With its stately gray brick, black shutters, and outsized white columns, it looked like any other prefab McMansion. But still, when the girls arrived on the house’s front lawn, it was clear to them that they had crossed to another side. Much like Alba, 33,26, despite its normalcy, somehow asserted it was of another world. The grounds of the property extended for acres, first neatly cropped, then growing into thick woods, and everything was underscored by an uncanny energy. It was dark, and there were no other living beings in the girls’ vicinity as they proceeded toward 33,26. An eerie quiet repelled them as they approached, but there was also something that invited them despite their hesitation. They knew they had reached the right coordinate, and when the long, lanky arms of a willow began to emerge at the side of the house, they were sure.

“I feel . . .” Gabbie started as they walked through the grass. But she couldn’t finish. Even though the moment was serious, ominous, she felt a lightness—a comfort in her body she had never experienced before. She looked to Maya and Delali, who were both gazing at the tree, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Gabbie asked.

Maya couldn’t answer—she was already feeling a strange feeling, something like grief, at the fact that they’d have to leave immediately after casting the spell. She wanted badly to stay.

“I don’t know,” Delali confessed.

Now that the girls were there, approaching the grasping arms of the Cradle, they felt aimless, like unchaperoned little kids on a field trip. They were vulnerable, hidden only by the dark of night and armed with a spell that was incomprehensible in its simplicity. Whatever confidence they’d had on the other side had fallen away.

“Whoa,” Maya said as they stepped beneath the tree, sweating through the thin fabric of her bodysuit. She took a step backward, thinking she had imagined the temperature change, but she hadn’t: it was at least twenty degrees warmer beneath the tree’s branches, which swung glossy and black in the moonlight.

“Kinda wish Alba would’ve mentioned the temperature change,” Gabbie said, fanning beneath her armpits. “I’m roasting.” Maya and Gabbie turned to Delali, waiting for her to chime in, especially since she was particularly inappropriately dressed in her Champion hoodie, but she wasn’t even paying attention to them—instead she was looking skittishly around the grounds as though someone was following them.

“Let’s hurry up,” Delali said finally, shivering despite the Cradle’s warmth. “We can’t linger, remember? We have to just do the spell and go.” She extended her arms, waiting for Gabbie and Maya to grip her hands, ready to fulfill Alba’s prophecy.

* * *

Amos emptied the house for the Council meeting, supervising as non-essential occupants of 33,26 transported to various destinations. Nadia slipped into the meeting at the last minute, transporting to the Hollow from the lab, where she’d been idly dismantling and reassembling a potion that would be used in next week’s AME tests. It was hard to care about it at all now that she had her hypothesis about the New York witches, but she only had four weeks left to wait. Nadia settled in her chair, eavesdropping on Councilmembers’ conversations, which were mostly about the Gathering. Her mom allowed her a brief smile from across the room.

Violet entered the Hollow from her office, her expression indecipherable. She walked to the table but did not sit, instead standing behind her chair at the head of the table, holding lightly onto its ornate wooden frame. Nadia looked to the other witches at the table, wondering if anyone knew what was going on. Why wasn’t Violet sitting? Violet waited as the room quieted slowly. Then she spoke.

“I have been informed by one of our senior agents that the map of the Sphere is broken,” Violet said carefully, looking at each of them in turn, wondering if there was another betrayer in their midst. The room was silent until Stella Hampton let out a disbelieving noise caught between a laugh and a scoff.

“Don’t,” Thistle, another Councilmember, said to Stella under her breath, and Stella threw her a look.

“Honestly, Thistle,” Stella pressed on. “Is this the kind of thing that warrants Council attention now? I mean, if we don’t have a talented witch on hand, surely a piece of tape will suffice.”

“Thank you for that detailed analysis,” Violet snapped. She fixed her eyes on Stella. “This is not a rip in the scroll or a bug in the magic. A group of witches performed an act of magic so powerful that it caused a spike in the Baseline that has rendered the map ineffective. The map attempted to register levels of magic beyond its capacity to measure.”

“What?”

Nadia clamped a hand over her mouth, realizing the voice she’d just heard was her own. Her plan to meet the witches at the Gathering had seemed foolproof—but now she wondered whether the witches had a plan of their own.

“The witches behind this act must be extraordinarily powerful, and we now have no way of knowing their next movements. That said, the Gathering will continue as planned. In the meantime Iris and the SVT will bolster security and attend to the map and there will be no further discussion of the matter.” It was only then that Violet smoothed the skirt of her robes and sat.

The Councilmembers exchanged looks, wondering if anyone would protest. But before anyone could, Violet started on the first agenda item.

* * *

“There are times when one must take / Leaving absence in her wake.”

The spell had come with no directions, but once the girls started chanting, it led them. Their voices stayed low, but, in perfect sync, their speaking sped up, until they recited the spell like a playground tongue-twister. They could feel heat rising in their bodies, leaving them weightless, bodiless. The heat encouraged them—something was happening—and they kept their eyes closed, repeating the words with meticulous concentration. Soon, they felt a tickling, electrifying sensation—ropes of light were emerging around them and wrapping around their arms. And despite the instinct to marvel that the spell seemed to be working, to open their eyes and gape at the light, they continued. The light pressed against their eyelids, the threads cutting away at the darkness around them.

“Handed to the one we trust / Use this only if you must,” the girls repeated, and the cords of light thickened, wrapping tighter and tighter still. Almost all at once, pulled by some inexplicable instinct, Maya, Delali, and Gabbie opened their eyes and looked from their linked hands to each other, before turning in concert to the house. They focused the might of their collective intention onto the veiled window of Violet’s study. The girls carried on, keeping their concentration even as a cage of light surrounded the house, the gold beams thin at first and then, like the wisps circling the girls’ arms, thicker and more dazzling. The light, gripping both the girls and the house, started to pulse in time with the frenzied rhythm of the girls’ heartbeats. “And once you choose this course is best / Say it loudly from your breast.”

The light burned to an impossibly bright blaze and the girls began one last repetition of the chant. They closed their eyes against the glow before the beams let out a final terrifying flash, disappearing and leaving nothing but darkness in its wake. The girls opened their eyes, blinking at one another. It was done.

Gabbie

OMG WE’RE GOING TO THE EFFING GATHERING!!!

Maya

Told u! manifesting is key!!!

Delali

Feel like it’s kinda poetic that it’s on the night of graduation

Maya

Does this mean we passed the assignment?

Maya

Alba said “new witches” are favored in the lottery

Gabbie

Oh yeah, and we would have to pass to be considered “new witches,” right?

Maya

Plus we have to transport btwn worlds to get there. all signs point to PASS

Delali

!!!!

Delali

Idk. A question for Sunday I guess.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Gabbie wanted to look good, but not like she’d tried too hard, and as she turned in front of her mirror, she decided she’d nailed it. She was wearing a pair of running shorts that some athleisure brand had gifted her a few weeks ago and a cropped baby tee. She’d refreshed her puff and worn a little makeup. She smiled despite herself—she couldn’t believe her life. She’d felt so light since casting the binding spell. Part of it was knowing that they’d finished the big assignment they’d been working toward for months. Another part was knowing that she, Delali, and Maya were about to be a part of witch history. After they’d gotten back from casting the spell, the girls slept over at Delali’s, exhausted. But in the morning, over bagels, they sat with the realization that their spell would oust a Regent who had been tormenting other witches for decades, and the fear was replaced with a kind of giddy, buoyant self-satisfaction.

But the most exciting part, Gabbie was ashamed to admit, was knowing that she, Delali, and Maya would soon be going to the Gathering. Delali and Maya had both gotten their invitations at home, the day after they cast the spell. Gabbie was worried she wasn’t invited, but then her invitation arrived while sitting at her desk at school during quiet reading time. Now everything was perfect.

There was a buzz at the door and Gabbie ran to the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Letting you up now!” Gabbie chirped. She pressed the button to open the door, listening through the speaker as it opened. She rushed back to the mirror and fussed with the puff at the crown of her head, stopping only when she heard a knock. Gabbie pressed against the door and looked through the peephole. On the other side, there was Faison, so tall he was almost out of view. He carried an overstuffed tote bag and was wearing a Keke Palmer celebritee with maroon Wales Bonner track pants. He scratched at his stubble and looked around apprehensively. God he was hot. Gabbie opened the door.

“Hi,” Gabbie said, trying to sound equal parts chill and upbeat. It was her first time seeing him since the incident at the Brooklyn Bridge. Gabbie hadn’t responded to the text he’d sent the morning after, opting to ‘like’ the text instead. Part of her thought it was because, well, she was an awkward and conflict-averse person. But another part of her wondered if she just didn’t want to give Faison written confirmation that she was “down for friendship.” She didn’t want to lie. “Come in.”

“Hey, you,” Faison said as he entered, giving Gabbie a smile. He slipped out of his shearling Birkenstocks in the entryway. “I know you have a thing about shoes inside.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” Gabbie said, closing the door behind him. Maybe Faison didn’t hate her after all. “Could I get you water or a drink or something?”

“Water’s good,” Faison said. He held his hand up in salute. “Strictly business over here.”

Gabbie’s heart dropped. “Yeah, of course,” she said, heading to the kitchen to grab a glass. She pointed to her coffee table. “You can set up over there. Sorry, it’s so small in here.”

“No,” Faison replied. “This place is sick. You really did it up nice.”

Gabbie looked over from the sink to smile at Faison, but he was already studiously pulling fabric out of his bag. Wow, Gabbie thought, no small talk at all. He really was here for business. When Gabbie had gotten her invitation for the Gathering, she didn’t think twice before DMing Faison.

@craftingandcoconutoil

Hey stranger! Maybe a weird request, but I’ve been invited to a black-tie event and really want to wear something custom and unique! You think someone over at celebritees could hook me up with a gown? 🤔 I would take a bunch of pics and post on the account! I think it could be great exposure. I understand though if you don’t want to do it.

@celebriteesshop

hey! woah that’s not weird at all. that would be huge. cant think of a better way to debut our couture stuff

@celebriteesshop

i have some ideas but let me know what you’re thinking and i’ll get started on something

Now she wondered if reaching out was a mistake.

“So I did a first rough cut of the dress,” Faison started. “I went with something kind of fitted on top and flowy on the bottom. The idea behind that was to accentuate your waist. Respectfully.” He scratched his stubble as he stared at the dress, one hand on his hip. “But also I felt like feminine and flowy is more your vibe so I wanted to represent that, too. I’ve been waiting to use this fabric for a while too—it looks like it’s solid but it actually has a little bit of a shimmer to it. Nothing too crazy, though. What do you think?”

Gabbie walked into the living room and passed the glass of water to Faison silently, her eyes trained on the dress. The fabric was pale purple, and Faison was right, it did glimmer when you looked at it closely. The top had a wide, open halter neckline, with fabric pooled at the bust to make a low, neat cowlneck. Over the fitted bodice, the silk was gathered toward a center seam, so neat that it looked like it was pleated. Then, at the hip, the structure gave way to a luxuriant skirt of lightweight overlapping silk, a slit running up to the top. Gabbie was amazed that Faison could imagine her in something like that.

Faison looked at Gabbie, his face tense with expectation.

“It’s definitely rough, and there are still some seams that need to be finished. There’s plenty of time to change it if you don’t like it. But if you like the general shape it would be good to do a fitting. Either way I should get your measurements for whatever design we decide on.”

“Faison, it’s perfect. It’s perfect.”

He let out a dramatic breath and wiped imaginary sweat off his brow. “Yeah?”

“Um, yeah! Look at this. I had no idea—” She shook her head. “Can I please please please put it on? I know it’s not finished but can I?”

“Yeah of course. We need to check the fit.”

Gabbie went to the bathroom with the surprisingly heavy armful of silk and dressed. When she came back out to the living room / kitchen / bedroom, Faison was fiddling with his measuring tape and looking too big for her tiny sofa.

“What do you think?” she asked hesitantly.

Faison looked up and broke into a smile, in what Gabbie thought might be appreciation. But it vanished so quickly that she couldn’t be sure. “It looks great. But the fit . . .” he said, studious again.

Gabbie pulled on the tight halter strap and baggy waist. “Not ideal,” she said with a giggle.

“Here, stand in front of that mirror while I adjust it. You can let me know what seems right.”

Gabbie tried not to stare at Faison in the reflection, but it was hard. Faison came up behind her, and she was immediately undone by his proximity. She watched him work, his jaw clenching as he tried to keep a bunch of pins held between his lips.

“Stand up a bit straighter?” he said, murmuring through the mouthful of pins.

Gabbie did as instructed and Faison stretched the tape over her shoulder, his rough fingertips paralyzing her each time they touched her skin. It was way too quiet. She worried Faison could hear her heart beating or see her thoughts getting carried away.

“What’s this event you’re going to?” Faison asked. He was on his knees now, pinning the hem of the skirt. “I mean, whatever it is, a mention on Crafting will be a game-changer for us. You’re almost at a million now.”

“Oh, it’s an influencer thing. A gala,” Gabbie fibbed. “No pictures inside, unfortunately. But I’ll take tons before and after.”

“Cool,” Faison said. He moved up to Gabbie’s waist now, considering the top of the skirt. “This isn’t quite right either, is it?”

“No,” Gabbie said quietly. “You just need to take it in, right?”

Faison shook his head. He’d lowered his voice to match Gabbie’s. “It’s not that simple.” He rested his hand on her, halfway between her hip and her butt. The warmth of his hand radiated through the silk, and Gabbie felt a jolt of heat in her stomach. “You might need a dart or two. We want the fabric to run like this, see?” He ran his hand up and down to demonstrate.

Gabbie nodded, her heart thrumming as they made eye contact in the mirror. Faison looked away to begin pinning, and Gabbie had a feeling so heart-wrenching it forced her into action. She knelt and turned to face Faison, who, though he seemed surprised, was still, eyes trained on her. She placed his hand back on her hip and looked up at him, at his neck, his lips, and then finally his vivid brown eyes, which seemed to be brimming with something. Hunger? Gabbie leaned up and kissed him, a deep, sudden kiss. Faison responded with expert lips, slow but sure. But Gabbie’s new desire made her impatient. She intensified the kiss again, pushing a hand into his thick hair. Faison dropped his measuring tape and took Gabbie’s face in his hands.

After a moment she pulled away and motioned urgently. “The couch.” They stumbled toward it, one moment kissing and the next holding their faces silently, breathlessly close. In some part of her mind, Gabbie knew this was absurd, dramatic, immoral, but it felt too natural for her to stop. Faison backed Gabbie up against the arm of her couch, and they fell clumsily onto the hard, square cushions. He helped Gabbie maneuver herself out of the halter, then pulled his celebritee over his head in one swift motion before lowering himself on top of her, kissing her urgently. Gabbie threw her leg over Faison’s back, drawing him closer, stunned by how good it felt to finally touch him.

Faison peeled the dress down and off, revealing the seafoam-green Aerie underwear set only Dan had seen before him. Faison’s eyes roamed her body appreciatively before he settled a hand on the curve of her waist and began kissing her again. His kisses moved from Gabbie’s lips to her jawline, his hands from her hip to between her inner thighs, and she heard a sigh escape her lips. She pulled him even closer, until their bodies pressed flush against each other. Faison’s ragged breathing filled her ear, his hands tensing and relaxing as they roamed her body, and the smell of his cologne overtook the acrylic paint odor that never seemed to have left her tiny apartment. Then Faison tucked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear, easing the fabric down thoughtfully. He spent a lasting, tender moment at her neck before placing his hands on her hips and moving downward, his head settling, finally, between her thighs.

* * *

After ten minutes of satisfied silence, Faison spoke first.

“That was—unexpected,” he said, a smile in his voice. He kissed the side of Gabbie’s head, which he was cradling against his shoulder. “I promise I was trying to be professional.”

Gabbie didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything. Her head was spinning. What the fuck had she just done? Well, besides have her first man-assisted orgasm. She’d just had sex with someone who was definitely not her boyfriend of nearly five years. What kind of person had she turned into? Sure, Dan had his problems, and he’d barely called in the past few weeks, but cheating was never okay. She felt sick.

Faison bent his head down, scrunching his neck to try and get a look at Gabbie’s face. “You asleep?” Gabbie shook her head wordlessly and Faison, catching her worried expression, sat up. “Are you okay?”

Gabbie buried her face in her hands. “Faison,” she started, her voice muffled. “I have a boyfriend.” A boyfriend who apparently didn’t speak unless spoken to, but still.

An eternity passed. Or at least, it felt like an eternity, even though it had probably only been ten seconds. Faison didn’t say anything, and when Gabbie finally looked up she could see his jaw clenching and unclenching. She pulled her underwear on slowly, then grabbed a T-shirt from the pile of dirty clothes she’d hidden in her desk chair earlier.

“Wow,” was all Faison said. He licked his lips and shook his head, rising from the sofa. He dressed in record time.

“Can you say something, Faison? Please?” Gabbie begged.

Faison scratched his stubble again and finally looked at her, his face unnervingly blank. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never been in this kind of situation before but . . . I don’t know.” His face dimmed and Gabbie had to look away. “I guess I just didn’t expect it from you.”

His facial expression, a devastating combination of disappointment and hurt, was making her nauseous. He just didn’t get it: her situation with Dan, the stress in her life, the way hanging out with Faison, even just DMing him, seemed to make all of that vanish. She could fix this. She just needed to find a way to end things with Dan, then she and Faison could pick up where they’d left off. But by the look on his face, Gabbie figured the damage might be done. She wanted so badly to rearrange it, back into that mischievous, amused look he always gave her.

“I’m sorry Faison. I’m so, so sorry. I’m really not that kind of girl at all. I’m like, the opposite of that girl⁠—”

Faison shook his head and turned toward the door.

“No, really,” Gabbie said, standing. “Please just let me explain. It’s just that Dan is so . . . he’s nothing like you.”

This seemed to disgust Faison even more, and Gabbie realized she should probably shut up. But she couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving so upset with her, the thought of him going home and stewing in his anger, or writing her off completely. Or worse, the idea of him meeting some hot girl at The Bar that night and forgetting all about her. As Faison slipped on his Birkenstocks, Gabbie grabbed his arm and he turned to face her, confused. She caught his gaze and held it, centering herself, her heartbeat slowing as she summoned her power. Faison was unmoving as she worked, their eyes locked together. Gabbie waited for his expression to change, for it to grow cloudy, then relax, the way it had with Michael and her students and the head of influencer marketing at Elmer’s.

But it didn’t. Faison just furrowed his brow, shook his head, and released his arm from her grip.

“Whatever Gabbie. I’ll just finish this dress for you, all right?”

Gabbie

Hey are you busy right now?

Gabbie

I need someone to talk to.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Hey Dela,

Are you sure you didn’t kick the dean’s dog or something? The school’s media approach has been super aggressive. Linked coverage below, though I recommend you skip . . .

Calling my contacts for opposite spin and fluff, so be ready for phone calls etc. And keep the cute pap strolls coming. Any chance of rekindling w/ Adrien?

minilink.so/7dhr

minilink.so/y89j

minilink.so/kd5e

minilink.so/bnw4

xo,

Gracie Hamilton

Hamilton PR & Management

Delali rolled her eyes and clicked out of the email window. She used to love a game of PR volleyball, but she’d forgotten how much armor she had to build to weather the bullshit for so many years. She hadn’t expected Toggsworth to go so hard, but now she was sure the debacle would have to end with a sit-down interview. In a new tab, she pulled up the Jordyn Woods episode of Red Table Talk (a classic) for study, and had just hit play when her buzzer trilled through the apartment.

Delali padded over to the door and picked up the wall-mounted phone.

“Hello?”

“I have a Miss Gabbie Nwosu here for you,” Stavros said from the other end. Delali hadn’t had the heart to get him fired. He lowered his voice. “She brought cookies—I think she might be a fan.”

“It’s okay,” Delali said, though she was a little confused. She looked at the time on her phone—she was supposed to be seeing Parasite with Safiya in less than an hour. “Send her up.”

Before Delali could get the door fully open, Gabbie started rambling. “I did something bad,” she said. Delali pulled the door open and Gabbie rushed, gesticulating as if she’d just sipped a particularly potent Energy Ale. “Something so, so, so bad and I didn’t know where to go, because no one would understand, and I almost went to Maya because that subway ride would’ve been way faster but she’s probably fucking Tatiana”—Delali froze in place. Did Gabbie just refer to sex as fucking?—“or still asleep from whatever crazy partying or whatever she did last night and let’s be honest, the only thing meaner than Maya is Maya when she’s been woken up from her slumber.”

Delali pulled two bottles of wine out of the wine cooler. “You like red, right?”

Gabbie sighed and flopped onto Delali’s sofa like a ragdoll. “Whatever.”

“What did you do? I doubt it’s that bad. You know stealing from Michaels is a victimless crime, right?” Delali said as she grabbed glasses from her cabinet.

“I slept with Faison,” Gabbie said.

“Well that was inevitable.”

“What?” Gabbie asked, lifting her head from the sofa.

“He’s celebritees right? You guys are always leaving each other weirdly charged comments. And the way you ask Maya for updates about The Bar isn’t exactly subtle.” Gabbie was open-mouthed as Delali walked into the living room and shrugged. “I don’t see the problem—he’s pretty hot.”

“But I still haven’t broken up with Dan!” Gabbie wailed.

“Ohhhhh.” Delali poured wine into each of their glasses. She’d forgotten about that part.

“Then after we slept together I told Faison everything⁠—”

Delali grimaced.

“Then he got really upset and I just couldn’t handle it and I used my named power to make him forgive me.”

Delali’s grimace deepened.

“But it didn’t fucking work,” Gabbie said, her face knotted into an expression of total distress. “You remember that thing I told you about my apartment? About how I can never do magic when I’m in there? It’s cursed or something! I am breaking that fucking lease tomorrow!” She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip. “Not that that changes anything. Even if I could change Faison’s opinion, is it even fair to do something like that to someone you care about? Everything I’ve done is so, so wrong.” Gabbie let out a big, weary sigh.

“Oh,” Delali answered. She didn’t know what else to say. Gabbie had definitely fucked up. But it was probably too soon to tell her that.

“Yeah. Oh,” Gabbie said, then started to cry.

“Oh, Gabbie, don’t cry,” Delali said, panicking. Seeing Gabbie cry was like seeing a poodle get kicked. She grabbed a tissue from the ceramic box her housekeeper refilled every Sunday and dabbed at Gabbie’s face.

She tried to think of something that could comfort Gabbie. “Well, I’ve kind of been getting battered in the press because my former dean seems to have a vendetta against me? They’ve written some pretty mean shit.”

“That does make me feel, like, one percent better. Why in the world would the Mothers create magic and then not create an undo button? Seems like, pretty obvious that you would need one.” Gabbie started gulping her wine and Delali reached out to stop her.

“I’m sorry, Gabs.”

“And I can’t believe we have twenty-four more hours until we meet with Alba again. I need to know if we passed! Imagine if we could go over to the Sphere right now. And sit in a potions salon and hang out with a bunch of other badass witches. Or go to a store and buy cool crafting stuff. Or just feel that feeling from the other night, whatever that was. Eighty-one percent happiness sounds so good right now.”

Delali took in Gabbie’s tortured face. It was kind of breaking her heart to see Gabbie, the person who had basically kept them in one piece these last few months, crumbling. She took another sip of wine and shrugged. “Should we try it?”

“What?”

“Transporting,” Delali said.

“I thought we couldn’t yet. Until we pass or whatever.”

“Yeah but we don’t even know what a pass means. When the spell goes through? When Alba gets a vision? Why don’t we just try it? If we’re not supposed to then we’ll just, like, not get there. We’ll be exactly where we started.”

Gabbie looked up, her sobbing starting to quiet down. It only took a second for a smile to start breaking across her face, and Delali could tell she was working to hold back a squeal.

“Wait!” Delali warned. “Not without Maya.”

“Obviously!” Gabbie said, pulling out her phone to call.

* * *

It only took Maya thirty minutes to get to Delali’s, and when she did, she was dressed in her Saturday best—a knit Hanifa maxi dress and strappy heels.

“What’s this about?” Maya said as soon as she entered the apartment. Her newest install was straight and shoulder-length, bumped at the ends.

“We want to try and transport,” Delali said. “To the Sphere.”

Maya shrugged, dropping onto the sofa. “Okay.”

“Really?” Gabbie asked. She looked to Delali in disbelief.

“Listen, I don’t know the rules to this shit but in the notable figures lesson I read about a dressmaker in the Sphere who makes all the best stuff for the Gathering. It’s the first place I wanted to go when we pass but the longer we wait the longer her client list is gonna be.”

Gabbie and Delali took Maya through the plan they’d drawn up using the Sphere map from the lesson book. In the instance that they did successfully transport, they’d arrive at the Cradle, like the transportation section instructed. They’d go to the Archive inside 33,26, so Delali could find a spell to help her reliably modify her voice for the movie. Then they’d go to the big grocery store in Centre Sphere so Gabbie could get hail for her hair growth serum. Maya added Derra’s, a dress store just outside the Centre, where the best tailor in the Sphere could conjure your dream dress in three adjectives or less.

They sat in Delali’s living room and held hands. They closed their eyes and transported, their sole intention to leave the typic world behind them.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The girls felt a jolt when they arrived, the sudden feeling of solid ground beneath them again, and opened their eyes to find that they were indoors. To their right was a shelf stocked with pedestrian spices—salt, pepper, Lawry’s—but when they turned to the left, they found a shelf lined with small glass jars filled with substances they didn’t recognize. Gabbie let out a squeak then covered her mouth. She pointed to the item that had inspired the noise, a jar labeled “Cradlebark.”

“Did we do it?” Maya whispered.

“I think so?” Delali peered past one of the shelves and into the aisle, her thoughts racing: there was too much to take in. It seemed the Centre Sphere Grocery was more like a department store: past the rows of potion ingredients, the room opened into a huge commercial space. Delali could see a section for foodstuffs, and past that, what looked like a clothing section, then a hardware section full of unfamiliar tools. She stepped out into the aisle, and the girls followed her. In front of them, two preteen girls appeared out of thin air, giggling and holding hands. Delali, Gabbie, and Maya all gasped, then burst out laughing as the girls scurried away.

“I think those might be our fellow witches,” Gabbie said, her mood lifting. She walked further into the store, gazing at all the oddities that surrounded her.

“Holy shit,” Maya said, following Gabbie. “We passed.”

“Yeah,” Delali confirmed. “Holy shit.”

“Oh,” Gabbie said, pointing upward.

Maya and Delali followed her finger to look at the ceiling, which was made entirely of a red, yellow, and orange glass-like material, resembling a kaleidoscope. Sunlight filtered brilliantly through the pattern, and when the girls looked down, they saw that the floor danced with the colors. And the whole place buzzed with a barely perceptible melody that the girls sensed was making them calmer, happier. Was that what witch music sounded like? Around them, women milled about, shopping, chatting, and eating, indistinguishable from typic women to the untrained eye, but to the girls, sporting a radiance that immediately exposed them as witches.

“This isn’t the Cradle, is it?” Maya said as they walked further into the shop.

“Who cares?” Gabbie asked.

Delali looked at her map to confirm what they’d already assumed. “It’s the grocery store.” Maybe they’d accidentally muddled their intention. She couldn’t stop staring at the other witches, enchanted by the swift and delicate way they moved, as if walking on air. She’d never seen so many elegant women in one place. Each one carried herself with the authority and grace she had once attributed to Alba alone. Now she knew she could attribute it to all witches. “This is⁠—”

“The most perfect place you’ve ever seen?” Gabbie finished. She took a warped glass bottle off a shelf. Inside was a silver powder, which popped and fizzled as Gabbie turned the jar in her hand, letting out little beams of light. “Look at this.”

“Is that edible?” Maya asked.

“It must be,” Delali answered. She pointed up at something that had just caught her attention—the word Grocery in ornate gold script, floating above them as if it had been painted onto the air.

Gabbie read the jar’s label aloud. “Ameliorator.”

“Well, that can’t be bad,” Delali said. “Open it.”

“You want us to shoplift in the Witch Sphere?” Gabbie asked, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching. The closest cluster of witches was an aisle away, at the edge of the baby clothing department. “Do you want to get us smited or something?”

“There’s no such thing as shoplifting in the Sphere,” Delali said.

Delali took the jar from Gabbie’s hand and twisted it open. Delali stuck her pinky in the mixture and touched it to her tongue. “Mmmm,” she sighed, almost involuntarily. “Holy shit, you guys. Try it.” Gabbie and Maya dipped their fingers in and had the same uncontrollable reaction as Delali.

Maya took the jar from Delali’s hand, closed it, and placed it in her Prada mini backpack. She shrugged at Gabbie. “Smite me.”

“Awwwww,” Gabbie crooned, directing the girls’ attention to yet another marvel. The group of witches nearby glanced at them, confused by the enthusiasm. “Look at this!” She picked up a baby’s outfit from one of the racks, an oddly shaped eggplant-colored garment that seemed to have both a bodysuit and a cape.

Delali picked up a tag and read. “For safe and comfortable transportation with your newborn child. For ages zero to three months.” She couldn’t help but grin like an idiot as she said it—they really were in a whole new universe.

“Y’all,” Maya said, still sucking down the taste of the Ameliorator. “This is so cool.”

“I know,” Gabbie and Delali answered in unison. The girls sifted through the offerings of the baby section—it didn’t matter that none of them were pregnant or planning to be any time soon. Every inch of the Witch Sphere fascinated them; every tangible piece of evidence that their powers weren’t a fluke was something to savor. It took all of five minutes for New York to become a distant memory. The girls were quiet as they read and examined, though every now and then one of them would make an excited noise and turn to share a particularly weird finding with the others. All around them, witches spoke in velvety voices, mentions of the Gathering popping up over and over. Some wore normal clothes—which made Delali feel better about her Vans and jeans—but others wore robes of varying lengths over stiff dresses that looked to be made of felt or sturdy fleece. Gabbie was thrilled to see a witch rocking her baby back and forth in one of the weird capes the girls had just been examining, hers in a bright yellow color.

The girls found the deep cupboard that housed the hail early on, but walked around the store for at least an hour longer, touching everything they could. When they did finally decide to leave, they walked in circles, looking for the cashier out of habit, before realizing there wasn’t one, and Delali confirmed that she’d never encountered a mention of currency in any of their readings. They stayed in the shop for hours, and could have stayed for hours more if Maya hadn’t reminded them that Derra’s closed at six.

They all struggled to leave the shop, but finally were able to find themselves outside, in the middle of a city lined with cobblestones.

“Oh, it’s so adorable,” Gabbie said, watching a man and woman flirting on a bench. They were both reading, but every few moments they looked up to playfully zap each other with their fingertips.

“This is insane,” Delali said.

“Let’s just walk to the Cradle,” Maya suggested.

“Are you sure?” Delali said. “If we walk we might not make it to Derra’s before closing.”

Maya shrugged, unable to keep herself from smiling. “If we transport we might mess up again,” she said as she stepped into the street. “And I want to see what the rest of the Sphere looks like. Now that we’ve passed, we can do Derra’s any time.”

* * *

It took the girls forty minutes of wrong turns and detours, but they walked from the grocery store to 33,26. The Sphere was just like the store, normal but not. As they walked through the Centre, they passed towering shops, hordes of slow-moving witches, puffs of scented, colored smoke rising from the stalls of food vendors. Each time the girls felt lulled into a sense of normalcy, something surprised them—a witch appearing out of thin air, or roads so winding they seemed coiled, or when they walked through a new area of the Sphere, and saw its name announced by a colored banner in the sky. And all along there was always that calming, lulling background noise.

Finally, they reached the plot of grass where 33,26 stood. It was exactly as they remembered it from the night they cast the spell, only now the streets around the house were filled with witches.

“Are you sure we can just go in?” Gabbie asked. “I know it’s technically open to the public but like, the Regent lives here.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Delali said. “I think it’s a Buckingham Palace kind of vibe. The map lists opening hours and everything.”

As they rounded the side of the house, the grounds came alive. There were witches in the backyard enjoying the spring weather, families picnicking and posing for photos by the Cradle. There was one old witch simply holding her hand against the tree’s trunk in quiet meditation. Kids were running around, their parents cautioning them when they got too close to the edges of the property. A pair of teenaged witches and two boys exited a side door to 33,26, their arms laden with books.

“See?” Delali said.

She caught the door, the front of which read, in gilded letters, “Archive of the Sphere.” The girls passed through the door and found themselves in a dark, narrow corridor. They walked through the space hesitantly, reaching a set of downward sloping steps that led to another corridor. There were more steps and more corridors, over and over until they stepped into a cavernous, sunken room. It was organized in a circle, the wall lined with books, and freestanding shelves jutting into the room’s center like spokes on a wheel. In the middle, there were long tables, dotted with purple and green reading lamps, where handfuls of witches and MAMs read over books, pamphlets, and papers. There were no windows, and the only light came from a grid of chandeliers that hung from the impossibly high ceiling, soaking the room in a hazy amber. Near the entrance was a desk where a bored-looking witch in black lipstick sat looking at something on her laptop. A banner that read help bobbed above her head. It wasn’t silent like a typic library—instead there was that humming noise, that almost-music that was everywhere.

“Woah,” Delali said.

Maya grabbed her hand before she ran off. “Okay, can we set a time limit please? Derra’s closes in two hours.”

“Sure,” Delali said distractedly, then turned to walk toward the help desk.

Maya sighed. “Why am I the only one who cares about looking cute for the Gathering?”

Gabbie hooked her arm through Maya’s. “I care. Maybe we can find a fashion archive or something?”

Across the room, Delali planted her hands on the help desk. “Hi.”

The witch tapped her laptop as if turning something off to hear, but Delali couldn’t tell what. She looked up, the beads in her hair clanking noisily as she did. “What’s up,” she said. Then her face changed. “Hey, are you that girl from Georgia on My Mind? I didn’t know you were a witch.”

“Yeah, well, me neither,” Delali said, a little excited to realize she was famous in the Witch Sphere, too.

The witch narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What are you looking for?”

“This might not exist, but I’m looking for a spell or a recipe for a potion that can change a witch’s voice? Or help them to mimic another person’s manner of speaking.”

“Mm,” the witch said. “You’re looking for a spell, definitely.” She wrote “vocal mimicry” on a sheet of Spherical paper next to her laptop, and a series of numbers and letters sprang up. “Spells shelf—that’s shelf 3—row C. It should be near the bottom.” She handed Delali the sheet.

“Thanks.”

Delali walked over to the spells shelf and knelt to look for the spell, delighting in all the oddly specific titles she encountered:

Vaccination Spell

Valor Spell

Vanity Lesson

Venture Blessing

Velvet Touch

Veterinary Aid

Vice Lesson

Vitality Spell

Vixen Spell

Vocal Mimicry

She pulled out the tiny volume, then read on. They definitely weren’t making it to Derra’s today.

Vocal Repair

Voracity Spell

Waxwork Spell

Warming Spell

Wayward Witch Enchantment

Weariness Aid

Wedding Blessing

Windfall Spell

Wisdom Spell

Xenogamy Spell

Xerosis Repair

Her eye landed on a spell book that had only an X on the spine. She pulled this down, too, curious what it could mean, then took down the Venture Blessing for Gabbie and the Vanity Lesson to see if it could give her a way to fuck with Maya.

With her four books, Delali ducked around a group of studying witches with her haul and sat at the only empty table left in the Archive. Across the deep-set room, she could see Gabbie and Maya leaning over a book that took up half their entire table. Maya held her hand against a page, and after a moment, a long, stiff pink gown materialized on the table, which sent both her and Gabbie into a series of exclamations.

vocal mimicry

(developed by brescia condrey & mimi holder)

I’ve heard a sound that I admire

A voice of which I’ll never tire

It moved my heart; it made me feel

I wish to borrow, not to steal

Purpose: This spell may be used to mimic all elements of the subject’s voice.

Intent: The witch must prove a strong desire to mimic the voice of her subject. A desire to mimic other aspects of the subject’s likeness may render this spell ineffective. If the witch wishes to mimic other aspects of the subject’s likeness, she may need to consider another, more relevant spell.

Pace: The witch must begin recitation at a snail’s pace. On second repetition, the witch must recite at a slow pace. On third repetition, the witch must recite at a medium pace.

Repetitions: The spell must be repeated twelve times.

Positioning: The witch must be seated, on a chair of any type with her feet flat on the ground. The witch’s hands must be on her knees, with palms turned upward. The witch must hold her head straight, eyes gazing ahead.

Delali copied down the spell and directions to take home with her. She’d have to assume that a picture of Lorraine Hansberry on her laptop could pass for ‘reasonable proximity,’ considering the circumstances. She looked over the pamphlets she had left and picked up the one with the mysterious X on the spine. She opened it to find a page that showed only a spell—no directions or explanations of any kind. It read:

executioner’s spell

There are times when one must take

Leaving absence in her wake

Handed to the one we trust

Use this only if you must

And once you choose this course is best

Say it loudly from your breast

Delali looked at the page for a long time before rising and going to the shelf of spells. She checked through the B’s:

Backstop Spell

Baiting Spell

Balance Spell

Barbar Spell

Battle Blessing

Beauty Spell

Beard Growth Spell

Besotting Spell

Bewarning Spell

Bravery Spell

Breeze Spell

Bruise Repair Spell

Burn Repair Spell

Burp Induction Spell

Busybody Repellant

She read the list three times—twice fast and once slowly and carefully, willing her nerves to calm. Delali approached the help desk again and was met by a smile from the girl at the front.

“Hi, sorry,” Delali said. “Do you know if anyone has checked out the binding spell?”

“Checked out?”

“Yeah, like taken it. From the library.”

“You can’t take things from the Archive,” the girl said screwing up her face like Delali was the dumbest person she’d ever met. “Then other people wouldn’t be able to use them . . . You can only take copies. Everything that’s ever existed in the Archive is here right now.” She scribbled “binding spell” on the pad to double check. A sketch of a frowning witch appeared. “That doesn’t exist,” the girl said, then focused her attention back on the screen in front of her.

When Delali approached Gabbie and Maya, they were taking pictures of a snakeskin skirt that actually molted after a period of wear. Maya took in Delali’s alarmed face. “I know it’s kind of gross, but the grossness is what makes it cool, right?”

Delali placed the pamphlet on the table. “I just found this. In the spells section.” Her voice was shaking.

Maya and Gabbie huddled around the page and read. “Executioner’s spell . . .” Maya said. “But this is the spell we did.”

“Execute,” Gabbie said. “As in, permanently take a witch’s powers?”

“I don’t think we did a binding spell,” Delali said. “There’s no such thing. I think we’ve Executed the Regent.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

You won’t believe who Apple saw at the archive —Aura

Who?? —Nadia

Delali Tomaklo from Georgia on My Mind —Aura

Apple said she was asking lots of dumb questions —Aura

So I guess she really was acting on the show —Aura

Nadia, standing at her table in the lab, stared at the text for a long moment. The name Delali Tamakloe was oddly fresh in her mind, but she couldn’t quite remember why. She scanned her brain—had there been a re-airing of an old episode recently? A red-carpet dress that had ripped off a Sphere designer? Had she run into her on a shopping trip in New York? Nadia looked up from her phone. No, not a shopping trip, a research trip. The very first trip she’d taken to find the source of the disturbances, a project that the broken map had forced her to give up on until the Gathering. She lowered her pipette onto the countertop, scared her trembling arm would shake all the atmospheric magic out of the tool. Nadia knocked gently on the glass window of Dr. Diop’s office. Dr. Diop looked up from her computer.

“Hey, do you mind if I head home early?” Nadia asked. “I need some ResElix for these cramps.”

Dr. Diop offered a vague nod and looked back to her screen. “Feel better,” she said in a tone that communicated, “Fuck you.”

* * *

In her room, Nadia opened her laptop and set her browsing mode to typic. In the search bar, she typed “Delali Tamakloe,” her fingers fueled by an absurd hunch. How could it be a coincidence that she had seen Delali near a Brooklyn disturbance site just a couple of months before Delali showed up in the Sphere for the first time? All celebrity witches were well-documented, even the low-key ones—they came back for Winter Holiday and the Gathering, and often got red-carpet dresses from Derra, who went by various different names in the typic world. But Delali Tamakloe? To her knowledge, Delali Tamakloe was not a witch. Nadia sorted the search results by date:

Delali Tamakloe and the De-Intellectualization of Beautiful Women (Teen Vogue)

Did Delali Tamakloe Use Her Celebrity Status to Get into University? Sources Say Yes (TheCut)

Delali Tamakloe Exposes the Scam of Higher Education—As She Should (Refinery29)

Former Classmates Claim Delali Tamakloe, Star of Hit Sit-Com Georgia on My Mind, Skipped Out on Graduation Requirements, Coasted by with Little Effort (New York Times)

Delali Tamakloe to Head Up Biopic Sit Awhile, Directed by Up-and-Coming Director Mazy Kutekwa (Deadline)

She scrolled past all the warring headlines about Delali’s dropout drama, plucking out the articles she thought could be useful to her:

Girls Night Out – Delali Tamakloe Celebrates 22nd Birthday with a New Clique (Daily Mail)

Delali Tamakloe Spotted in Tompkins Square Park with Girlfriends—No Adrien in Sight! (TMZ)

Fading Star? Who? Weekly Podcast Says Delali Tamakloe is Still a THEM—but with Some Caveats! (ONTD)

There She Is! Fans Caught Delali Tamakloe Keeping a Low Profile at Upper West Side Café (Eonline)

Delali Tamakloe Spotted on Romantic Night Out with Old Flame Adrien (ONTD)

Back in the Game? Former GMM Star Seen Entering University Library with High-Powered Agent Lionel Burress (Celebitchy)

Not So Little Anymore! Delali Tamakloe Packs on the Pounds at University—See the Dining Hall Menu That’s to Blame! (Daily Mail)

Delali Tamakloe Spotted at Lunch with Rumored Biopic Costar Jacob Elordi (People)

Nadia clicked the Daily Mail link first, opening a page littered with spammy ads. She scrolled past the article text until she found a picture, dated September first, of Delali standing outside a building with two other girls. The picture was far away, but when she zoomed in, she was sure it was the bar she’d visited on her second trip. She noted this down. She opened another article to see pictures of Delali outside a Brooklyn Heights apartment building, and her heart quickened. She clicked through ONTD, through Eonline, jotting down dates and locations for every single place Delali had been spotted since September. She found the stack of disturbance briefings and flipped through them, crossing the approximate locations with Delali’s whereabouts on any given date. Delali’s movements didn’t overlap with all of the disturbance points, but they overlapped with at least half of them, including the very first one. Nadia turned to her computer again and typed in a series of keywords: Delali; Tamakloe; buys; apartment; Brooklyn; all-cash.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

It was dusk when the girls arrived in Riverside Park, where they’d transported from the Archive. They walked quietly out of the park and toward Alba’s, floating in the muted bubble that only disaster could create. All around them, contented Upper-West-Siders walked their dogs, strode hand-in-hand, and carried their West Side Market grocery bags like normal. They approached Alba’s block, where the streetlamp at the corner had already flickered on, shedding a pale white light over the gloomy curb. Maya marched up the stairs and hit the buzzer over and over. She did this for at least a minute, pressing harder each time Alba didn’t answer.

“I knew it,” Maya frothed. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” Delali asked.

“I don’t know, but I knew something. I just knew something was weird about her,” Maya said hotly.

“Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding,” Gabbie said, though even she didn’t sound like she believed it.

“What kind of misunderstanding, though?” Delali asked, trying to reason through the situation aloud. “If there’s no such thing as a binding spell then where did that whole concept come from? What else has she been wrong about?”

“I don’t know,” Gabbie said. “I mean yeah maybe she was wrong, but I don’t want to assume she was deliberately wrong⁠—”

“Then why isn’t she answering?” Maya said, gesturing at the building.

“Maybe she’s not home?” Gabbie folded her arms close to her chest, shivering in her bike shorts and the Georgia on My Mind sweatshirt Delali had lent her before they transported. The fitting with Faison already felt like it had happened in another lifetime. “We’ve only ever been here on Sundays. Maybe she’s in the Sphere.”

“Well, I don’t have anywhere to be,” Delali said, sitting on the step where she’d spent so much of her time since September. “Let’s wait for a little? Maybe she’s out and we can catch her coming home.”

The girls sat and waited, the sun disappearing completely and the crisp spring evening descending into a cold night. After forty-five minutes, a man jogged up the steps to enter the building. Maya stood immediately and followed him, stopping the door with her sandaled foot. In the elevator they were silent, waiting for what felt like years as they ploddingly ascended to the penthouse. Then there was a chime, and the number nine on the elevator panel lit up.

“What are we even going to say to her?” Gabbie whispered as they stepped into the echoing hallway.

Neither of the girls responded. They stalked down the hall until they arrived at the familiar door, Maya walking on the pads of her feet to keep her heels from making noise. The door to Alba’s apartment was slightly ajar, the unsmiling face of her door knocker staring down at the girls. Maya looked to Delali and Gabbie before pushing it open. When the door finished its swing, Maya felt a wave of sickness. The apartment was empty—totally bare, as if no one had ever lived there. The pictures, the books, the crystal ball, the coffee table, the couches and rugs they’d become so familiar with. Gone.

Maya looked to Gabbie and Delali, her face etched with horror. “This seems pretty fucking deliberate to me.”

“What the fuck?” Delali breathed heavily as she walked further into the apartment.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, this isn’t good at all,” Gabbie said. She sat on the floor before her legs could give out.

Delali started speaking in a rushed stream. “Maybe we should go back to the Sphere. We could try to get in contact with someone on the Council and⁠—”

“I’m not going back there,” Maya said. “No fucking way. We don’t even know what that place is. Everything Alba told us could have been a lie. What if it’s dangerous there?”

Gabbie nodded vigorously. “I think Maya’s right, Delali. At least for now. I know you wanna fix it but maybe we should just wait and come back on Sunday. Or try sending Alba a banner or something.”

“Okay,” Delali said, shaking her head. She couldn’t stop looking at the empty white shelves. It was all too strange. “Yeah, okay. Let’s regroup.”

* * *

The girls sat in a circle on Delali’s living room floor, the TV blasting Top Chef in the background.

“Did anyone else want pork?” Gabbie asked, holding up an oily delivery container filled with dumplings.

“Yeah,” Maya said, through a mouth of fried rice. “Here.”

“You know there’s no kale in this, right?” Gabbie asked. She passed the container to Delali, who passed it to Maya.

“Ha.” Maya deposited three dumplings onto her plate. She’d piled her hair into a sloppy bun to keep it out of her food and she looked slightly unhinged as she ate, dressed head-to-toe in Delali’s university sweats.

They’d been trying for hours to make sense of things, which mostly meant flipping through the two lesson books and expressing their confusion in varying tones and at varying intervals. They’d gotten nowhere.

“Okay, so Alba probably isn’t who we thought she was—” Delali started, trying again.

“Understatement,” Maya answered through a stuffed mouth.

“I don’t know,” Gabbie said. “This could be part of the assignment. Like, we have to fix the thing we broke, and Alba can’t help us to do it.”

“Maybe,” Delali said. “But how do we fix an Executioner’s spell? Execution is permanent.”

“I still think it’s possible it didn’t work,” Maya said. “Because the Executioner is the only person who can do an Execution. As far as I know none of us are named Nox.”

“That’s what’s so confusing,” Delali said. “Either Alba’s an evil genius who wrapped us up in some political game, or she’s stupid and tried to wrap us in a political game that wouldn’t work. Neither one feels great right now, considering she’s the only other witch we know.”

“I know,” Gabbie agreed. “Now I just wonder if anything we read is true. Or if anything she said is true. What if other people can Execute? And Violet’s a perfectly nice Regent who deserves her powers? I don’t want to wait until the night of the Gathering to find out. The only thing that we know is true is this.” She waved her copy of the Executioner’s spell in the air.

“Well other things did check out,” Delali noted. “The Cradle and 33,26 are real. Transporting is real and so are all of the potion recipes. Maybe she told us the truth. Mostly.”

“I still think we should go to the Gathering,” Maya interjected. “If we went we co⁠—”

A timid knock on the door interrupted Maya and the girls all froze.

“Don’t you have a doorman?” Maya asked, her quaking.

Delali nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“Oh, God,” Maya groaned. “Why would he not call?”

Delali put her food down on her replacement coffee table and walked slowly toward the door, Gabbie and Maya both watching motionlessly. “Why would he not call?” Maya repeated to Gabbie in a harsh whisper. Gabbie shrugged. Through the peephole, Delali saw a girl dressed in a black denim minidress with lime green stitching and a pair of black combat boots. Her hair was shaved low and dyed white, and she carried a stack of paper in her hand. She knocked again.

Delali spoke through the door. “Who are you and how did you get up here?”

All Delali could hear from the other side of the door was a stream of muffled explanations, then, “Please don’t call the police.”

“The police?” Delali asked. “Ew.” She opened the door a tiny crack.

“I’m Nadia,” the girl said, once the door was open. “Nadia Nox. I’m also a witch.”

The Executioner’s daughter. A Councilmember (even if just an adjunct). Delali opened the door further. “Why are you here?”

“Who is it?” Maya called from the sofa.

“I’m here because I need your help with something. I’m not dangerous,” she clarified, as if the idea were absurd.

Delali stepped back to let Nadia in. “Thank you,” Nadia said. She entered the apartment and Delali closed the door behind her.

“Shoes.”

Nadia struggled out of her heavy boots. “Oh,” Nadia said when she saw Gabbie and Maya. “Sorry, I didn’t know there were other people here.”

“It’s fine,” Delali said. “They’re witches, too.”

Maya emerged from the blanket. “I’ve seen you,” she said. “You bumped into me at The Bar. Literally. ”

Nadia nodded. “Oh, yes. Yeah.” She did remember the girl’s face. All three of them must be part of the larger group of offending witches—she’d been way closer than she thought. She followed Delali into the swanky living room and sat on the floor next to one of the witches.

“What are you doing here?” Maya asked. “Have you been following us or something?”

Nadia was surprised by the hostile response—she was the one who should be scared. A group of witches that had been defying Council sanctions for months. Scared of a group of witches who might somehow have the capacity to affect the witch birthrate in the Sphere. Though some people did just treat Noxes strangely, whether that meant reverence or suspicion. She didn’t know where to start. She settled on, “Yes. Kind of. In a way? I just want to ask you some questions. You’ve caused some disturbances in the past few months—I’m sure you’ve received some of my sanctions—and I just wanted to understand why.”

“How do we know you’re not here to take away our powers?” Gabbie asked.

“Execute you?” Nadia gaped, genuinely offended. These girls had no manners at all. “Why would I do something like that? I’m not even allowed to do that while my mom is still operational.”

The girls exchanged a look, assessing her sincerity between them.

“I just wanted to know if you know anything about these disturbances,” Nadia said. “If you do, you might be able to help me end the Typic Crisis.”

Maya scoffed. First, they were destined to liberate the Sphere, now they were meant to heal it from a Crisis that had progressed unresolved for more than three decades. “Sorry, but we’ve just been royally fucked by our mentor,” Maya said. “So I’m not sure how we can believe anything you say.”

“Fucked by your mentor?”

“Yes, our mentor,” Maya snapped. “So we have absolutely no reason to trust a witch who’s just waltzed into Delali’s apartment to interrogate us.”

“Actually,” Gabbie said. “We do.”

Everyone turned to Gabbie.

“We can make a truth tonic. It’s in the lesson book.” She looked to Nadia. “If you’re willing.”

“That’s fine,” Nadia said, anxious to move the girls along. “If you guys take it, too.”

Delali flipped through the lesson, making sure to hide the Executioner’s spell book underneath it. Gabbie took the recipe and started on the tonic while the rest of the girls sat in the living room, Delali and Maya on one side, Nadia on the other. The silence was excruciating, even with the sound of the chefs raging in the background.

“I like your apartment,” Nadia offered after a moment. The potion started to wail from the kitchen.

“Thanks,” said Delali. “That’s a great manicure.”

“Thank you.” More wailing in the kitchen. “I just had them redone.”

“Rantin’ ’n’ Raven?” Maya asked.

Nadia shook her head. “Black Like I Never Left.”

Gabbie returned to the living room, choosing to sit halfway between the two sides in an effort to lessen the tension.

“That’s done,” she said. “Now we just have to wait for it to brew.”

“How long will that take?” Maya asked.

“As long as it wants,” Gabbie responded at the same time Nadia said, “It’s ready when it’s ready.”

After fifteen minutes of staring tensely at the TV screen, Gabbie sighed. “I think we could be here all night.”

“Well,” Maya said, lying back on the couch. “I’m not saying anything until the truth serum is finished.”

Delali got Nadia a plate for food. An hour inched by, and by midnight, Maya was struggling to keep her eyes open and Gabbie had started redoing the box braids on the perimeter of Delali’s head, subjecting Delali and Nadia to games as she did.

“Okay, fuck/marry/kill,” Gabbie said, folding Delali’s hair into the extensions. “Drake, Idris Elba, and Chris Brown.”

“Gabbie,” Delali said, exasperated. Nadia snickered.

“What?”

“You’re not supposed to put the answer in the question.”

“Ugh, okay, let me try again,” Gabbie said. “What about—” Suddenly, a loud bang and flash of light escaped from the kitchen.

Maya jolted upright, one hoop earring plastered to her cheek. “Tonic,” she mumbled.

Gabbie scampered to the kitchen, and they followed her, all four girls huddling around the pot. “It’s ready,” Gabbie said.

Delali pulled four teaspoons from a drawer and each of the girls scooped a bit of the potion into her mouth. They returned to the living room, each sitting on one side of the coffee table.

Nadia repeated her reason for being there, now under the hold of her truth tonic: “I came here to ask you questions about your magic behavior over the past eight and a half months, because I think it may help me to understand the Typic Crisis. I would never strip you of your powers.”

“Okay,” Delali said. “But you have to answer some questions for us, too.”

“What kinds of questions?” Nadia asked.

Gabbie, Maya, and Delali looked at each other, not even sure where to start.

“We need to know how to reverse a spell,” Maya said finally.

“You can’t,” Nadia replied. “Well, you can but the reversal spell is incredibly finicky. When you cast it, the conditions have to be basically exactly as they were when the original spell was cast. You’re better off just casting a spell that does the opposite of the spell you want to reverse.” She was familiar with the reversal spell, but only vaguely. It was one of the things she’d learned in a required class in training school, deemed useless, and promptly forgotten after the exam.

Delali squinted, not sure that this solution entirely applied to their situation—surely if there were a spell that did the opposite of an Execution, the Typic Crisis would be long over.

“Why?” Nadia asked.

The girls hesitated. “Well, I’ll say it,” Maya volunteered. “Our mentor had us cast the Executioner spell on Violet, but that was before we knew it was the Executioner spell. We steeped it, and scheduled the intended impact for the night of the Gathering. We think it’s part of our final assignment to undo it.”

Nadia pursed her lips as she tried to wrap her head around what the girls were saying—a final assignment? As far as she knew, Delali was twenty-two years old. A little late to be completing training, though that explained why no one in the Sphere knew she was a witch. The content of the assignment was much stranger, though. Anyone could say the Executioner’s spell and expect absolutely nothing to come of it—kids with bad manners did it all the time—and a mentor would know that. And what kind of mentor would give a final assignment that required Violet to be stripped of her powers? Another Execution would be disastrous for morale in the Sphere, maybe even worse than the Shatter. It was all bizarre. Finally what she managed was, “That’s the dumbest final assignment I’ve ever heard—any witch in the Sphere, including and especially your mentor, knows that only the Executioner can Execute. Unless my mother or I casts the spell, it’s just a bunch of words. It means nothing.”

“Then why would our mentor ask us to do it?” Gabbie pressed.

Nadia threw up her hands, trying to come up with something. “Ah—I don’t know. Who’s your mentor?” Nadia asked. There were only so many Seers over a certain age.

“Her name is Alba.”

Nadia shook her head as she thought. “I don’t know of her. Probably just some anti-Violet weirdo.”

“And are you a Violet supporter?” Delali asked. She was still trying to unwind what was true and what wasn’t. So far, Nadia seemed to be operating on the same truths that they were.

“No,” Nadia replied. “But some people are a little more dedicated to that position than others. Look, I can check the Sphere directory for an Alba when I get home, to see if I can find her. Just because Alba mentored you, though, doesn’t mean your final assignment has to come from her. Mentorship pairings change all the time. Some people have three, even four mentors before they graduate. This assignment just sounds like something Alba made up.”

“There’s more?” Maya whined.

Delali had a perturbed look on her face. “So it definitely didn’t work?”

“Definitely not,” Nadia said. She could see what Apple had meant about the stupid questions. “I mean, I can get you the reversal spell from the Archive if that’ll make you feel better. But it’ll be just as useless as the spell you cast. Okay my turn?” She was losing her patience.

Nadia spread the disturbance reports on the table. Each one held a re-creation of the map, littered with copper and gold dots, the disturbances. She pointed at The Bar on the map with the tip of her lacquered nail. “What happened here? On the night of September first?”

“That was the night we met each other,” Gabbie said, a nostalgic smile flitting across her face. “It was the first time we ever used magic. We kept Maya’s phone from dropping into a sewer.”

“Who’s we?” Nadia pressed.

“The three of us. Me, Maya, and Delali,” Gabbie pointed to each of them.

“Just you three?”

“Just us three.”

Nadia scrunched her face. How? How could such a small thing, even if done in broad daylight, cause a disturbance in the Baseline?

“What about here?” Nadia tapped another location.

“Oh, there we transported to our mentor’s house. It was kind of by accident.”

“Just the three of you again?”

They nodded.

They continued this way through several points, and each time, Nadia was floored by the simplicity of the magic that had caused the spikes in the Baseline, and for only three witches, not the mass of witches she had assumed. Sometimes even just one girl had performed the magic that caused a spike. If it was truly just the three of them, they were absurdly, preternaturally strong. There was no question they were the key to the Crisis—Nadia just didn’t know how.

“Here?”

“I changed someone’s mood,” Gabbie said.

“You did what?”

“I changed the mood of this cashier at Michaels—he was being really rude and I just . . . made him be nicer. It was misunderstanding over a coupon,” she waved her hand dismissively. “He gave me my entire purchase for free. It was awesome. Then I made him throw up.” Gabbie looked somber for a moment—she hated remembering the whole episode.

Nadia’s jaw dropped.

“I know, not the greatest.” Gabbie said.

“Not that,” Nadia said when she recovered. “The other thing, about the man’s mood.”

“Influencing? Yeah, that’s my named power.”

“Influencing? You’re sure that’s what it was? You’ve done this more than once?”

Gabbie nodded. “A few times.” Her heart sank when she remembered the last time she’d tried using it.

Nadia could feel her heartbeat speed up. It was absurd, but only something absurd could explain what had been happening these past few months. Influencing wasn’t like any other named power. It wasn’t like being a Healer or a Seer, several of whom were born each generation. It wasn’t even like being an Executioner, which was limited to the Nox family alone. The ability to Influence was mythic, otherworldly, the stuff of children’s books and movies and academic theory. According to the Myth, it was a power attributed to the Mother who had provided Love of Others to the conception of the Sphere. No one knew for certain why the powers of the Mothers had never manifested in any witches. But Nadia felt that she could guess. Reading, Imitating, Influencing—such abilities were too dangerous to be sprinkled across the witch population at random.

“Do you have a named power?” Nadia asked Maya.

Seeing the intensity on Nadia’s face made her want to lie, but then she realized she couldn’t. “Imitating.”

She looked at Delali.

“Reading.”

Nadia dropped her head into her hands, an enormous realization coursing through her. When she looked at the girls again, they snapped into focus. How could she have missed this? When she’d seen Delali on the street, she’d seemed ordinary. So did Maya at The Bar. But now, alongside the other girls, it was clear they were not to be understood as individuals. They were a triptych, a unit in three parts, an assembly to be considered as one. Nadia’s heart began to race. They were the Mothers.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

The realization was joyous for a moment—the magic of the Mothers had found new vessels. The inciting incident of the Shatter had been reversed. There was, in fact, a new Cradle growing on the grounds of the 33,26. Nadia had a working hypothesis now, something that the WHO or the Council could use.

“I knew there had to be something,” Delali said. She started pacing around the room, not sure if she should be celebrating or panicking. “Alba just seemed too stunned by us, it couldn’t be normal. But . . . the Mothers?” She couldn’t believe she’d missed this—there were three of them for God’s sake. It was right in front of her this whole time.

“So we are the Mothers?” Maya asked. “Or we just have the powers of the Mothers? Or⁠—”

“I’m not sure that distinction matters,” Nadia said.

“Are you sure about this?” Gabbie asked. She was a twenty- something elementary school teacher with a dubious moral compass—she wasn’t in the position to be mothering anything.

“I’m sure.” The restorative births; the baby willow in the yard of 33,26; the seismic shifts in the Baseline—all pointed to it being true. Nadia was sure. “We’d always wondered why the Mothers’ magic never found a new vessel. I guess they finally have.” Her voice got quiet and serious as she said this, and she realized she was about to cry.

Gabbie, Maya, and Delali exchanged looks. How could this be true? But, on the other hand, how couldn’t it be?

“Alba,” Gabbie said. “What does this mean for Alba? She knew all of our named powers, but she never said anything.”

Nadia’s heart stopped. “Oh God,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t think your mentor made a mistake. There’s no way a witch with any understanding of the Sphere could remain calm in the face of those named powers. And a mentor no less.”

“So she knew,” Maya whispered.

Nadia nodded. “There’s no precedent for this, but I think the Execution could work. If you are the witches who house the magic of the Mothers—” Nadia couldn’t believe the words she was saying. “There should be no act of magic beyond your grasp. Violet could lose her powers forever.” She wanted to believe the spell would be totally ineffective, the way it was when any non-Executioner attempted it, but she abandoned the idea. She knew the regular rules did not apply here.

“Is that so bad?” Maya asked.

“Is it bad?” Nadia practically yelled. “There have only been two Executions in the history of the Sphere. Violet is . . . flawed, but she’s not deserving of an Execution. It’s a very . . . it’s a very grave thing to do. And it’s not done unless you have no other viable choice.” Nadia looked profoundly disturbed for a moment.

“Two Executions in the history of the Sphere—not including all the ones Violet does on the side?” Maya joked.

“What?” Nadia asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Alba told us—” then Gabbie stopped, realizing how foolish that sounded now. Alba had said whatever would get them to cast the spell.

“Violet has never ordered the Execution of anyone. Yes, she’s paranoid, she’s ineffective, and she’s an asshole. But she’s not evil. She doesn’t deserve to be Executed . . . no witch does.”

Gabbie buried her face in her hands. “Who knows what Alba has planned?”

“Okay,” Delali said. “Then we’ll do a reversal. If we’re strong enough to pull off an Execution, then surely we’re strong enough to do a reversal, right? Right?”

Nadia nodded, trying to breathe. She imagined the Sphere trying to deal with the Execution of a standing Regent, and simply couldn’t. The Betrayer was one ugly thing, something everyone agreed was a necessary evil, and still it had deeply perturbed the Sphere. But a Regent? No, she couldn’t imagine it. But Delali was right—if anyone could pull off a reversal, it would be them. The Mothers. “When was the spell cast?” Nadia asked.

“Last week,” Gabbie said. “During the May Council meeting. Our intended date of impact is May 28, at midnight.”

“Why midnight?” Nadia asked.

Gabbie shrugged, sheepish. “We didn’t want to ruin the Gathering.”

“Okay.” Nadia nodded. “Okay. You’ll do a reversal.”

“We’ll do a reversal,” Maya added.

Nadia nodded, but still, she felt faint at the thought of an exceptionally powerful Executioner’s spell cast by the Mothers.

* * *

It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when Gabbie, Maya, Delali, and Nadia arrived at the mostly empty Archive to retrieve the Reversal Spell. They opened the spell book where they stood, in the small space between bookshelves.

the reversal spell

(developed by unknown)

I come here now to heal my deed

Reverse the words I past decreed

All things here are as they were

My intent has grown, true and sure

The old pursuit I now negate

Please spare my soul an ugly fate

Purpose: This spell may be used to reverse a spell that has previously been cast.

Intent: The witch must prove a strong desire to reverse her original spell. Any strains of uncertainty will render this spell ineffective.

Pace, Repetitions, And Positioning: The witch must match the instructions of the original spell as closely as possible.

Other: All parties (subject and spellcaster) involved must be as they were when the initial spell was cast. The witch must endeavor, to the best of her ability, to re-create the exact conditions of the original spellcast. In the instance that the original spell was steeped, and as such has not yet taken effect, the reversal spell must be cast as close as possible to the intended time of impact of the original spell.

“How do we get the Council to have a meeting on the night of the Gathering?” Gabbie asked.

“I can take care of that,” Nadia said. “There’s always an appeal at some point at the end of the night—kind of like a prayer, to the Mothers. To ask for continued goodness in the coming year.”

“How long does that take?” Delali asked. “The Executioner’s spell had no instructions for repetitions—we just stopped when it felt right.”

“I have no idea how many repetitions we did but we were out there for at least ten minutes, maybe even fifteen,” Maya said.

Gabbie nodded. “It was fifteen.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Nadia said quickly. “It’s supposed to be a short meeting but I’ll find a way to put something on the agenda—just, you guys do your part and I’ll make sure we’re in there long enough for you to repeat the spell as many times as you need. And I’ll make sure we’re in the Hollow for fifteen minutes.”

The girls nodded. “And we just . . . stand at the Cradle the way we did before? And cast the spell?”

Nadia shrugged. It was all so mushy. Magic always was. “If that’s what you did before,” Nadia said.

“Okay,” Gabbie exhaled, after the girls had been quietly nodding at each other for a moment. “We can do it. We can totally do it. We’re the motherfucking Mothers.”

Then all four of them burst into peals of hysterical laughter, earning them a nasty look from an old MAM sitting at a nearby table.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Maya, Gabbie, and Delali did their first practice session the night they got the spell. Nadia stayed behind in the Sphere. There wasn’t much she could do by hovering. They gathered in Maya’s room, sleep-deprived and unkempt.

“On three?” Maya asked.

Gabbie nodded. “On three.”

“One . . .” Maya started. “Two . . . three.”

Focusing on the page before them, the girls began to chant. They tripped over each other at first, their different volumes and paces creating an unpleasant cacophony. By the third time chanting, they were saying the words in unison, but felt none of the usual sensations—the heat, the white noise, the weightlessness. They continued, only to be met with more of the same: nothing.

“Ugh,” Gabbie groaned.

“Okay, we can’t just get frustrated because a spell didn’t work the very first time,” Delali said, her tone sharp.

“Wait,” Maya said. She held her hands out to Gabbie and Delali. They both stared at her. “Come on,” she said. “Did you guys already forget about shared intent, physical proximity, and all that?”

“Oh, duh,” Delali said, taking Maya’s hand.

Gabbie took Maya’s other hand and the girls all closed their eyes. Delali counted quietly, and on three, and the girls started to repeat the words again, this time easily matching in pace and tone:

I come here now to heal my deed

Reverse the words I past decreed

All things here are as they were

My intent has grown, true and sure

The old pursuit I now negate

Please spare my soul an ugly fate

They felt the difference immediately, a tickling pressure spreading over their arms and the familiar warmth growing in their chests. The girls repeated the spell again and again, their voices falling into an eerie chant. With each repetition their chanting was faster, and the warmth, now running through them, grew hotter and hotter with each word. They squeezed each other’s hands in anticipation. Then, abruptly, the heat flooded from their bodies, and a cold dampness rushed in to take its place. The girls stopped chanting midverse and opened their eyes, immediately disoriented.

“Ew, what is that?” Maya said, rubbing her arms. Though her body was perfectly dry, her whole body felt slimy and wet, as if she’d borrowed Elise’s weird aloe vera body wash again. None of the girls knew what a reversal spell was supposed to feel like, especially if it was only practice. But they knew it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

“Um,” said Gabbie. “I don’t think that was supposed to happen.”

“Obviously,” said Maya.

“Let’s just keep trying,” Delali said.

They recited the spell again, the unpleasant sensation of the last failure still clinging to their skin. Then again, and again, and again for three weeks straight, their magic taking precedence over their fraught personal lives for the first time. The second meeting was no better than the first. Nor was the third or the fourth. Sometimes it was that same cold clammy sensation. Once, Maya had gotten a rash along her chest that was so ugly she called in sick for two days. Often, the spell simply got lodged in their throats, refused to come out. Every banner they sent to Alba was promptly returned unread, and after a while, even Maya stopped lurking around the Upper West Side building where they used to have lessons, giving up on ever catching a glimpse of Alba again. As the Gathering neared, the girls picked up their pace, meeting to practice every single day, no exceptions, fitting in additional practice sessions where they could. They quietly recited the spell to themselves at every opportunity, repeating it as they brushed their teeth or did their hair or lay in bed waiting for sleep. Gabbie recited the spell as she double-texted Faison and dodged Dan’s calls. Maya recited it quietly when Tatiana was asleep on her shoulder. Delali typed the spell into a page of the script so it looked like she was rehearsing lines during downtime at rehearsals. None of them stopped to think about what it meant to house the magic of the Mothers, because they knew, intuitively, that if they did, they might balk in the face of their challenge. Slowly the spell emerged more easily, left behind fewer troubling effects, and the girls began to feel confident.

How’s practice going? —Nadia

Sorry that I can’t be more help —Nadia

OMG don’t apologize!! You’re already helping so much —Gabbie

Also it really helps that I no longer have a mute on my apartment —Gabbie

Haha —Nadia

Practice is going better —Delali

How’s Gathering prep? —Maya

Chaos over here —Nadia

Doing the next mute coordinates tonight. Let me know if there’s anything you want me to avoid —Nadia

🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 —Maya

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The night before the Gathering, Nadia knocked on the door to her mother’s bedroom, letting herself in when she heard a muffled response from the other side. Natasha was standing on a platform in the center of the room, and Derra was standing next to her in a pair of wrinkled old linen pants, her signature square-framed glasses perched atop her nose. She was tailoring the floor-length, cobalt silk gown Natasha planned to wear to the Gathering, shortening the shoulder strap with the tap of her finger. Natasha allowed a small smile when she saw Nadia in the mirror. A peace offering.

“Hi, dear,” she said. “Is that the color you’re going with for tomorrow?” She pointed to Nadia’s hair, which she’d dyed a light pink. “I do actually think it suits you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Oh, well would you look at the smartest witch that ever did live!” Derra exclaimed, as she had every time she’d seen Nadia since she first started school. “I always knew you were so much smarter than the others,” she said, starting on her spiel. “Even when you were just this big. How is it on the Council? And you’re looking very womanly now, very, very beautiful. You’re looking like a true witch.”

Nadia, still standing awkwardly, gave as much of a laugh as she could. “Thanks, Derra. Everything on the Council has been great,” she lied.

Natasha turned to face Nadia, which caused Derra to accidentally eliminate the dress’s strap altogether. She sucked her teeth.

“Sorry, Derra,” Natasha said distractedly. She approached Nadia and lowered her voice. “Is everything all right?”

“Can we have a second alone?” Nadia asked Derra, who was pacing around the room and muttering to herself.

“Of course,” Derra croaked. “Send a text when you’re finished. No—send a banner. I hate checking that thing.” She disappeared.

“What’s wrong?” Natasha asked as soon as Derra was gone. She lowered herself onto her bed gingerly, trying not to disturb Derra’s hard work.

“Nothing,” Nadia said. She put her hand in the front pocket of her black denim pinafore, feeling the edges of the Spherical paper. She was only able to lie convincingly because of how strongly she believed in her plan, believed in the Mothers. “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to give you this. It’s from Aura’s mom.” She held up the note.

Natasha raised her eyebrows, then took the piece of paper from Nadia. Holding it close to her body, she watched as the glimmering message revealed itself:

Ready when you are —Thea

Something—Nadia wasn’t sure what—washed over her mother’s face, then quickly evaporated. Whatever it was, it gave Nadia no indication what the message said. But it didn’t matter. The Mothers were practicing and the Gathering was coming, and their plan would have to go forward. Even if she had to physically restrain the rest of the Council from leaving the Hollow, she would do it.

“Okay,” Nadia said. She turned to the door.

“Thank you,” Natasha called. She took a few steps toward Nadia, then stopped. “I know that must have been hard for you.”

Nadia nodded.

Natasha smiled proudly. “Let’s have a good Gathering, okay? I know you’ve worked hard.”

“Yeah,” Nadia said. She wanted desperately to have a good Gathering.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Gabbie turned in front of the full-length mirror in Delali’s massive closet, sending her purple train twirling. She strutted out into the bedroom, waiting for Maya and Delali to comment on her gown, but Maya was busy straightening a piece of her hair and Delali was rereading the reversal spell.

“Ahem,” Gabbie said loudly.

Maya looked up at Gabbie and almost gasped.

“Oh my god,” Delali exclaimed. She sat up on her bed.

“You’re telling me Faison made that?” Maya asked. She was so startled she had to put the flat iron down so she didn’t accidentally burn herself.

Gabbie nodded. Apparently Faison only needed one fitting to get the dress right. It had arrived at her doorstep a couple of weeks after the disastrous meeting—no note or anything inside.

“And then you broke his heart?” Maya added.

Gabbie’s face fell.

“Maya,” Delali chastised.

“I was just kidding,” Maya said. “He’ll get over it, trust me Gabbie.”

“Agree,” Delali said. “I wouldn’t send that dress to someone I wasn’t planning to hook up with again.”

“We could be so good together,” Gabbie sighed.

“Okay, no,” Maya scolded. She got up and placed a hand on each of Gabbie’s shoulders. “We need a focused, razor-sharp Gabbie tonight, okay? Obsessing over Faison can happen after the Gathering. We need bad witch Gabbie.”

Gabbie nodded. “Yeah, okay yeah. Yes.”

“She’s right,” Delali said. “We’ll fix the Faison thing later. Even if Maya has to imitate his mom or something, we’ll figure it out.” Now she turned to Maya. “We’re gonna be late if you don’t hurry up and pick something.” Maya hadn’t even gotten to look at the selection of dresses Delali’s stylist, Kamali, had pulled for them. Kamali had been confused by Delali’s waffling description of the event, as well as her refusal to call it by name. “A gala . . . formal but outdoors . . . not to raise money . . . fun but kind of political. And I’ll need a range of sizes, too. I’m going with friends.” Kamali had ended up pulling almost thirty dresses for the girls, organized by size and length.

“Okay, okay I’m almost done. I was just saving the best part for last.” Maya fluffed her hair and checked it from a few angles, then finally walked to the closet. She felt an immediate sense of calm as she looked at the array of gowns, remembering the first time she’d seen the Clarke Stein archive. She wished she could send a picture to Tatiana, but then she’d have to explain too much. Maya started flipping through the rows of dresses, inwardly mourning the fact that even though all of the dresses would look good on her, she could only choose one.

“Do you have anything I can drink?” Maya called from the closet. “I’m trying to have a good time tonight, reversal aside.” Delali pulled three glasses out of the cabinet next to her mini fridge. She tapped the side of the first cup and watched as it filled with vodka and soda. She did Maya’s cup next, then Gabbie’s.

“I’ve got some potions too,” Gabbie added. She picked up her cup, took a sip, and did a little wiggle. “I can’t believe we’re going to the Gathering! Finally!”

“I know,” Maya said. There was a level of earnest excitement in her voice that she was usually careful to conceal.

Maya started trying on dresses, and Delali settled into the chair at her vanity.

Gabbie, now changed back into an oversized Brown T-shirt, began unpacking her makeup bag. “What kind of makeup are you thinking?” Gabbie asked. “I feel like something sparkly would be perfect for that gown.” She gestured toward the strapless Rick Owens dress Delali had picked, which was covered in matte mauve sequins. It was floor-length and form-fitting, with a triangular cutout in the bodice.

“Glitter is good—but can you make it kind of witchy?”

“Got it.” Gabbie studied Delali’s face as she wiped off one of her lipsticks with a Kleenex. “I wonder if there’ll be any guys at the Gathering. Like, do you think witch-affiliated men are hotter than regular men?”

Delali and Maya shared a look. “Magic-affiliated men,” Delali said. “And yeah, there probably will be. Witches do have brothers and husbands and stuff.”

“I think they’re just like regular men,” Maya said.

“But what if having a witch mom makes you hotter?”

“Why?” Delali asked, raising her eyebrows at Gabbie. “You trying to build a roster?”

“No,” Gabbie said, though it was unconvincing. “I was just wondering.”

Delali opened her mouth to tease Gabbie again, but before she could, Maya gasped. Gabbie and Delali turned to look at her. Maya’s hand was clasped around a body-hugging, crystal-studded dress.

“Holy shit—is this Givenchy?” Maya stripped off her T-shirt and shorts before Delali could answer and stepped into the gown. “Zip me,” she whined impatiently, and Gabbie paused her work on Delali’s makeup to oblige her.

“Oh my god,” Gabbie said, looking at Maya in the mirror. The entire middle of the dress was missing, the strapless top connected to the slinky bottom by two silver chains that wound around Maya’s taut torso. “That dress plus a purple smoky eye? Super witchy.”

Maya laughed and turned indulgently, considering herself from every angle. “Guys,” she said. “I wonder what Violet will wear. Like what does the queen⁠—”

“Regent,” Delali corrected.

“I was joking,” Maya said. “Anyway, what does the fucking queen of the witch universe—I know,” she said before Delali could correct her, “wear to a party that’s basically the Met Gala, an inaugural ball, and New Year’s combined?”

“Except with magic,” Delali added. “God, I can’t wait.” Her life had been severely lacking in black-tie events in recent years.

“I wonder what Violet looks like, period,” Maya added.

“Same,” Gabbie added as she dabbed her favorite liquid blush onto Delali’s cheekbones.

Delali stared at them both in disbelief. “I know you guys don’t read, but you didn’t even look at the pictures?”

“Which lesson had pictures?”

“Appendix,” Delali answered.

“Oh,” Maya said. “I skimmed so much of it. I don’t think I made it that far.”

Delali sighed. “Over there,” she said, gesturing toward a stack of books on her bedside table. She was careful to keep her face still for Gabbie. “It’s in book two, in the section about the development of Spherical photography. It has pictures of all the current Councilmembers. I think it’s charmed to automatically update every year.”

Maya walked over to the table and picked up the booklet, the weight of her gown pulling at her like the sea’s current. She flipped through the pamphlet, which fell easily to the Council-members page—it was clear Delali had spent time looking at it. The first page showed the lower-level Councilmembers, about ten women on a page that looked like a high school yearbook. The pictures were in stark color against the white page, and they looked alive, the women blinking and changing their expressions minutely. On the next page, the pictures were larger, featuring a stunning set of five women with titles like ‘Head Seer’ and ‘Primary Healer.’ Maya stared at the portraits, awestruck. She ran her fingers over the page, momentarily afraid that the women would feel her touch. Finally, she flipped to the next page. There, a single portrait stretched from edge to edge.

The woman on this page didn’t wink or smirk or touch her hair like the others. Instead, she barely moved at all. The only indication that it was a live photo like the others was her sparse blinking, each closing of her eyelids revealing a look of greater determination than the last. Fine cursive appeared beneath the image as though being erased and rewritten in what Maya assumed was Violet’s even, regal handwriting. The words kept refreshing, and Maya read “Regent Violet, third of her line.”

“This is her?” she asked. Suddenly, Maya was terrified—she didn’t want to know what kind of retribution awaited them if the reversal failed. She seemed like the kind of woman who would be formidable even without powers.

“Hey,” Gabbie said. “I wanna see.”

Maya stood and walked over to the vanity, where Gabbie was doing Delali’s makeup. She held the photo before them, and Gabbie inhaled quietly. They all stared at the blinking, unsmiling photo and between them, a shared fear colored the air, the weight of the night before them finally settling firmly on their shoulders.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Nadia stood at the trunk of the Cradle, the condensation on her glass cooling the palm of her hand, stealing a moment alone before the Gathering took off. The Liatruses had held a preparty celebration at their home, and Nadia had struggled to truly enjoy the drinking and dancing and primping with Aura and Jack. That was usually her favorite part, but the night ahead loomed too large. She’d managed to sneak a few drops of Soothing Solution before they left, though, and she no longer felt hot and jittery, anticipating a catastrophe. Now that night had descended and the party was approaching full swing, it seemed that there was no way the Gathering could end in anything other than success. She allowed herself to be distracted by the undeniable beauty of it all.

The Cradle had been charmed with tiny twinkling lights, hidden among the lush green branches. They moved and sparkled, hiding themselves and reemerging, evoking the night sky and, of course, the Mothers. Purple-and-white lilies swam through the air. On the patio, Charmony, a famous band of three witches, harmonized over a jazzy bass, their voices emitting waves of purple, turquoise, and gold light as they sang, projecting over the party as if through speakers. At tables on either side of the patio, bartenders dressed in identical periwinkle gowns and suits—their uniforms for the night—conjured drinks as quickly as they could, endeavoring to impress guests with showy flourishes. Puffs of light, smoke, and fire rose from their tables in myriad colors.

Around the Cradle, the massive grounds of 33,26 were dotted with tents, each glowing with soft light and housing a long wooden table where guests would at some point eat from exorbitant spreads of both magic and typic food and drink. There were rumors that later, once the food had been cleaned up, Violet planned to bring out thousands of vials of psychedelic potions to shift the tone of the party from dignified to debaucherous, reminiscent of the Gatherings of her youth. But for now, things remained tamely celebratory.

In the space between the tents and the patio, a sea of guests stood drinking, dancing, and gossiping, some wearing unique dresses they’d commissioned, others in the most decadent typic fashions they could find. All were breathtakingly glamorous, their hair worked into sky-high up-dos, floor-sweeping shapes, or tight, supple curls that haloed their faces. Rich, riotous laughter filled the air as witches mingled, delighting in the experience of seeing and being seen. As far as Nadia could tell, there were beautiful, lively, happy witches of all ages. She’d never seen the Sphere so buoyant, and the Crisis wasn’t even solved yet.

All around there were booths for different traditional Sphere games, entertaining children and adults alike. Helia was playing a round of stop-and-start, running away from the unusually strong witch who had been hired for the game and trying to escape her pull. She was failing miserably, each time being snapped back to the starting line in a fit of giggles. Nadia herself had indulged in a game of rocket, where a talented witch was hired to launch others into the air with sheer intention before gently guiding them back to the ground on a plume of warm air.

Children chased each other around the base of the Cradle, tackling one another and pretending to cast the spells they had read about in storybooks but were several years away from actually mastering. Nadia felt full. She allowed herself a brief, tentative moment of fantasy, envisioning a near future where she and the Mothers worked to find a way to bring the Crisis to an end for good. She was shaken out of her reverie by something tugging at the cape of her black Clarke Stein gown. She looked down to see a little boy who had run away from his friends and attached himself to her leg.

“Home base!” the boy yelled to his friends. “Home base, home base, home base!” The kids stopped short of Nadia, foiled: apparently the boy was, in fact, at home base. Nadia allowed her face to lift into a smile. She’d always found kids gross, but becoming an aunt must’ve softened her, because she was finding the display beneath her kind of cute.

“Hi,” Nadia said, bending to speak to the boy. In the next second, his mother scooped him up, apologizing.

“I’m so sorry,” the boy’s mother said. When she straightened, Nadia realized she knew her—it was Magdalena, an acquaintance of hers from Bekere.

“Magda,” Nadia said. “How are you?”

“Oh, Nadia, hi. I didn’t realize that was you.” Magda leaned down to her son and spoke in a saccharine voice. “Say hi to Nadia. Eddie, say hi.” Eddie shook his head before running off to join his friends. “Sorry,” Magda said. “He’s shy.”

“That’s fine,” Nadia said, smiling. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Oh, yeah. I had Eddie right after graduation. I’ve heard your family had some luck in that department this year. Such good fortune,” she said.

Nadia beamed. “Thank you.”

Magda lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I was so relieved to learn that Eddie was a boy, because it meant I didn’t have to worry about powers—how sad is that? The new developments have really changed everything.”

Nadia shook her head sympathetically, and the two turned to watch the festival that was unfurling around them.

“It’s so gorgeous,” Magda said. “Absolutely breathtaking.”

“I know,” Nadia sighed, beside herself. “I guess we’re both too young to have ever seen the Gathering in its original glory, but I imagine this is close.” Magda hummed but said nothing, and Nadia followed her eyes to a graying woman sitting in a chair near the patio. The woman was laughing with another witch near her age, and Nadia sensed a sobriety in Magda that she hadn’t first arrived with.

“Sorry,” Magda said, her voice thick. “I was just thinking how wonderful it is that my grandmother gets to see this. That she can go away with some kind of hope.”

Nadia turned to look at Magda, to share a look of consolation or understanding, but she stopped as she caught a movement in her peripheral vision—the Mothers had arrived. In many ways they resembled the other partygoers: each girl wore a long, elaborate gown, a carefully finished hairstyle, and a luminous mood. Each carried herself with the telltale poise of a witch. Some party- goers looked at the Mothers with concentration then looked away, satisfied that nothing was amiss. But Nadia couldn’t unsee what she’d learned three weeks ago. They were different.

“I’d call that a happy ending,” Nadia said to Magda, but she was distracted now. “I’ll be right back. I’ve just seen some friends from Bekere.”

Nadia moved toward the girls, sweeping through the scene of preoccupied revelers indulging in food, drink, and dance. The girls lit up when they saw her.

“It’s stunning,” Maya said. She’d worn her hair straight, and her barely-there dress gave the illusion that she was ten feet tall. Delali wore a striking strapless dress that hugged her usually obscured figure, her hair cornrowed into a long, curly ponytail. Gabbie looked utterly transformed in a lavender silk dress with an ethereal train, her hair gathered into a puff. If nothing else went right tonight, at least they’d nailed the dress code.

Nadia smiled. “It is, isn’t it?” She was suddenly amused by the irony of it—that women who housed the magic of the Mothers were totally ignorant of the Sphere’s traditions. “Do you feel like you’re ready?” Nadia asked. The girls nodded and Nadia took a deep breath—all there was left to do was trust them.

“Okay, just to go over the plan one more time,” Delali said. “The Appeal to the Mothers will start at eleven forty-five?”

Nadia nodded. “You’ll see 33,26 emptying at that time and Councilmembers entering through that back door. I’ll be the last to go in.” She pointed to the house.

“Then we’ll just start the spell at eleven forty-four, and keep going for as long as we need to.”

“Right, even if there are people near the Cradle?” Gabbie asked, looking over to the base of the tree, which was crowded with revelers.

Nadia nodded. “No one will pay you any mind.”

Maya sighed to still her heartbeat. “That’s it,” she said, more a comment than a question.

“Yeah,” Nadia said. “That’s it.” There was nothing else to say. The reversal needed to work, and Nadia didn’t want to think about what awaited them if it failed. “There’s not much for us to do for the next four and a half hours but wait.”

“Are you serious?” Gabbie asked, gesturing toward the event. “I think we can keep ourselves occupied.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Inside 33,26, Violet gazed at the Gathering through the large windows of her study. She feared chaos, but from where she stood, the party seemed under control, moving through a jovial rhythm. The guests converged at the bars on the patio, then spread out as they bounced from tent to tent, stopping along the way for conversation, before coming together at the bars again, beginning the pattern anew. She had pulled it all off—the greatest Gathering in years, and without the benefit of the Sphere map.

Violet had spent barely half an hour outside with the guests, embracing her loyal supporters and greeting her adversaries with ingratiating but necessary friendliness, before promptly retiring to her study, where she could eye the scene from her window and watch Iris’s minute-by-minute security updates pop up on an enchanted wall in her office. On the ground, several teams of SVT agents roamed the party, dressed in gowns to avoid detection. They used miniaturized recorders worn on their wrists to monitor changes in the Baseline. By all counts, it seemed like she had done it—that she’d finally come back from the Shatter, that she had, at long last, rehabilitated her place in the Sphere’s history. She was ready to accept this as true, to unwind her shoulders for just a moment, when Amos knocked on her door.

“Regent? It’s time for the Appeal to the Mothers.”

“Yes,” Violet said. She peeled herself away from the window and entered the Hollow.

* * *

On the lawn, the girls were sitting side-by-side, watching in awe as a MAM wielding a charmed tattoo needle etched a moving image of the Mothers on Maya’s arm. Nadia had left them thirty minutes ago, joining her sister and some family friends for pictures. A sound interrupted the buzz of the needle, and Delali checked her phone. It was twenty minutes to midnight. She looked up and watched, exactly as Nadia had described, a flood of people starting to spill out of 33,26. They were mostly guests, but some staff members exited too, matching in their periwinkle uniforms. Delali nudged Maya, who looked up from her arm. Gabbie’s gaze followed.

The girls couldn’t believe how quickly the time had passed. Delali wanted to play the last two hours—the dancing, the sumptuous fruit, the unbridled screech Gabbie had let out when a witch launched her into the air and the folds of her dress flew over her head—on a loop for the rest of her life. She wanted to feed Nadia’s niece, Helia, little cubes of cake again; walk to the edge of the property with Maya and Gabbie to take Spherical pictures; flirt with the six-foot-five MAM who kept approaching her with a tray of purple candy rocks that jogged around her mouth when she ate them. But she couldn’t. It was 11:42 now. It was nearly time. They watched for another moment as 33,26 emptied, and a stream of women—Delali counted fifteen—entered the house. Nadia was last in line, her silhouette swaying as she moved up the stairs.

“That’s our cue,” Maya said. She thanked the tattoo guy and rose from the table.

The girls worked their way through the horde and toward the Cradle, where clusters of witches stood talking. They edged their way into the area they remembered from the night of the Executioner’s spell and assembled themselves.

Nadia took her place by the door and watched as the Council-members arranged themselves around the meeting table in the Hollow, standing behind their usual seats. It was strange to see the Council in the Hollow in gowns instead of their robes or everyday clothes, the room filling with the whispers of silk and satin and tulle as they moved. Violet looked delighted at the head of the table, a look of genuine satisfaction on her face, and Nadia could feel her heartbeat in her throat. Across the room, Natasha threw her an almost imperceptible smile.

“Good evening Councilmembers. I hope you’ve all enjoyed the night so far,” Violet began, warmer than Nadia had ever heard her. “As you know, it’s time for our Appeal to the Mothers, and I don’t wish to delay your return to the Gathering. So, please, bow your heads.”

One by one, each witch dropped her head.

“Your appeals may begin.”

There was silence as each witch communicated their hopes for the Sphere to the Mothers. It was all so surreal to Nadia, pretending to pray while the Mothers stood outside in the lawn. Slowly, heads rose again.

Violet smiled, a genuine, toothy smile. “Thank you all. Now, let us all return to the festivities.”

But before the witches could move to exit the room, Nadia heard a voice, her mother’s voice, begin to fill the Hollow.

“I have a proposition,” Natasha said, fixing her gaze squarely on Violet. The Councilmembers fixed their eyes on Natasha, and all the air in Nadia’s lungs quickly escaped. “A proposition that will make happiness more attainable for all witches in the Sphere. That may even answer some of the appeals made here tonight.”

* * *

Gabbie, Maya, and Delali held each other’s hands just as they had on that May night three weeks ago. In their circle, Gabbie swore that even before they uttered a word, she could feel a current of magic between them, running like electricity from one girl’s chest to another.

“Ready?” Delali asked.

“Ready,” Maya and Gabbie responded.

They closed their eyes and began to chant:

I come here now to heal my deed

Reverse the words I past decreed

All things here are as they were

My intent has grown, true and sure

The old pursuit I now negate

Please spare my soul an ugly fate

“The primary responsibilities of the Regent are simple,” Natasha continued. “To maintain the secrecy of the Sphere, to keep the Sphere safe, to foster happiness amongst all witches. Yet throughout your reign you have consistently struggled to fulfill any of these responsibilities.” Someone inhaled sharply, but Nadia wasn’t able to see who. Violet’s face was hardened, as if she couldn’t even bear to hear Natasha’s voice. Now Natasha addressed the members of the Council, speaking as if Violet were not in the room.

“In the thirty-plus years since Violet took the throne, her reign has been marked almost exclusively by catastrophe, all brought on by her own ineptitude. The births of our daughters have turned from a cause for celebration to an occasion marred by anxiety and fear. The result has been a Witch Sphere more fragmented than ever before. A happiness rate that’s dipped below 80 percent. Countless among us, myself very much included, have had to make unimaginable sacrifices to protect the reign of a weak, cowardly, short-sighted Regent. It is unfair that we all have to contort ourselves to compensate for Violet’s failures.” Natasha stopped, her accusations ringing in the air, to carefully make eye contact with the members of the Council before at last meeting Violet’s eyes. “I move to depose the current Regent and suspend all Council activities until a suitable replacement is found,” she said, her eyes still on Violet’s.

“I second that motion,” Thea said immediately.

Nadia watched Violet’s fingers strain as they gripped the edge of the table.

The girls felt the heat immediately, then came the melting of the physical world, the sublime harmony that always accompanied their acts of magic. Other witches began to move away from the Cradle, out toward other parts of the lawn, leaving the girls alone beneath the willow. It was always the girls’ instinct to speed up as they chanted, but every time they’d practiced the reversal spell successfully, it was because they’d kept the same steady, plodding rhythm, keeping their pronunciation crisp and clear. They knew now to anticipate the warmth that began at their cores and then spread through their bodies, filling them with a fever that was almost unbearable beneath the heat of the Cradle:

I come here now to heal my deed

Reverse the words I past decreed

All things here are as they were

My intent has grown, true and sure

The old pursuit I now negate

Please spare my soul an ugly fate

“I—” Violet began, her voice weak, but Natasha was swift in cutting her off.

“The motion has been seconded,” Natasha said. “We move to a vote. All in favor of the deposition?” She raised her hand and it was quickly followed by the hands of four others: Stella Hampton, a longtime friend of Natasha’s; Thistle Martinez, whose only daughter had left the Witch Sphere entirely after having two typic children; Veronica Mensah, who had long disapproved of Violet’s reign; and Betony Lupin, who had tried in vain to heal Natasha’s psyche after she’d been forced to Execute the Betrayer.

* * *

They repeated the spell again and again, light growing around the house, climbing up and around it like vines of ivy. They didn’t have to open their eyes to know what was happening—they sensed it, knew it. Around them, a commotion was beginning to erupt as guests noticed the grid of light enveloping 33,26, but the girls were oblivious: they had surrendered their senses completely to the spell.

I come here now to heal my deed

Reverse the words I past decreed

All things here are as they were

My intent has grown, true and sure

The old pursuit I now negate

Please spare my soul an ugly fate

Violet laced her fingers together on her lap. There was a stretch of quiet—it seemed for a moment that the votes would stop there. But then Gelila Bekere slowly lifted her arm. A cold sheen of sweat broke out on Violet’s forehead as she thought of other loyal supporters defecting to the other side. But, mercifully, Niellah Baker’s hands were still folded on the table before her, and when Violet looked at Mallow, she received a nod of confidence.

The vote had reached a tie. It held until Stella’s arm began to sag and Natasha’s forehead creased in uncertainty. Finally, she spoke.

“Nadia,” she said tersely, looking over at her daughter. Nadia pretended to deliberate, to buy the Mothers more time, but she had made up her mind long ago.

“Nadia,” Natasha said again. Her mother, not a stranger to coldness, had never taken such a chilling tone.

Nadia cleared her throat. “I abstain,” she said, eyes trained on her lap. She refused to enable her mother’s vendetta, to drag the episode out any longer.

“Nadi—” Natasha tried again, but Nadia cut her off.

“I abstain from the vote,” she repeated, finally meeting her mother’s gaze. For a moment, her eyes carried a range of anguished emotions: confusion, panic, anger. But then they went blank, and Nadia knew that whatever she had just done could not be reversed.

Everyone in the room turned toward the head of the table to face Violet. Her reign was as fragile as ever, but, somehow, still intact.

* * *

The earth around the girls trembled as they spoke, their voices growing louder and clearer still. All they could feel was white hot light, and their bodies were weightless as they reached the final recitation.

I come here now to heal my deed

Reverse the words I past decreed

All things here are as they were

My intent has grown, true and sure

The old pursuit I now negate

Please spare my soul an ugly fate

Finally, light released them, and they opened their eyes to a deafening silence. A single witch’s cough echoed over the lawn.

The girls looked at each other, then started toward the house, searching for Nadia. They crossed the ground floor of 33,26 pausing in the foyer, not sure whether they could go up to the Hollow. After a few moments, Nadia came running down the stairs in her bare feet, heels in one hand.

“We did it,” Maya said as Nadia reached them. Council-members were trailing behind her, starting down the stairs.

The concern on Nadia’s face dissipated. The four witches fell into an embrace as naturally as if they’d known each other forever. Gabbie let out a hiccuping cry on Nadia’s shoulder. But then they pulled away, and Nadia saw something in the corner of her eye that stole her breath. Gabbie, Maya, and Delali followed Nadia’s open-mouthed gaze to see a figure at the top of the winding staircase. The other Councilmembers turned to look, too, Thea Liatrus’s knees buckling as she caught sight of what the girls had seen. At the top of the stairs, wrapped in a floor-sweeping white dress, stood Alba.

Alba had one wrinkled hand closed around the banister, the other rested flat on her stomach. Her lips were painted a matte red that evoked dried blood, and her Afro had been pulled off her face into a striking mohawk. At first, Alba looked almost shy as she descended the stairs, the room erupting with murmurs of shock and recognition. But then she was overcome with laughter, a truly mirthful giggle that the girls had never heard from her before. Over and over, the girls heard the title whispered: the Betrayer.

It was immediately evident, as Alba walked toward the foyer, that the girls were seeing her as she truly was for the first time. She was Macy-Jo Watson, and she had none of the delicate, wounded movements that she’d performed as their mentor, which now struck the girls as utterly false. Instead, she moved with powerful determination, just as youthful as the girls themselves. Now, when she tucked her hair into her fro and fluffed, it was no longer the anxious tick they remembered, but a self-assured boast. Macy-Jo trained her eyes on Violet, who had moved to the doorway, holding the frame as though she would fall without its support. Macy-Jo approached her with a slow, deliberate swagger, and every witch in the house moved away as she walked, clearing her path to the Regent.

“It’s good to see you again, Violet,” Macy-Jo said. “Your quarters are as lovely as ever.”

It dawned on the Delali then that Macy-Jo must have been in the house all along. She watched Alba in a trance as the pieces slid into place in her mind. They’d planned every moment of the night, but the responsibility of emptying the house had fallen to the Regent’s assistant, Amos. Macy-Jo’s triumphant emergence from upstairs meant the composition of the house, an essential element of the original spellcast, had changed. The reversal would be ineffective. Delali turned to Gabbie, Maya, and Nadia, wondering if they had come to the same conclusion, and the looks of horror on their faces suggested that they had.

Nadia buried her face in her hands—how could she have been so stupid? How could she have trusted the usual protocols? Then, responding to a terrifying thought, she lifted her head and switched her focus to her hands, flexing and unflexing her fingers. They felt foreign, useless. She touched a finger to her dress and waited for it to change color as she had commanded, but it remained black. No, she thought to herself. No, no, no, no, no.

The Councilmember nearest to Nadia, catching on, mimicked her movements and had the same awful realization. Then they all did, one by one, every single Councilmember realizing that she had been stripped of her powers.

Macy-Jo was unmoved by their display—she was crossing to the doors that led to the backyard, anxious to see the Sphere she’d missed for thirty-three years, the Sphere she’d used every last bit of strength to return to. As she went, she waved her hand, and every door and window in 33,26 flung open. The Council-members followed her, awed. The powers of the Council had found the nearest empty vessel: Macy-Jo, and now she possessed the power of two Executioners, three Seers, two Healers, and a Shapeshifter. She stepped onto the patio.

Outside on the lawn, music was still playing and crowds of laughing witches were still dancing spiritedly. Between the decorative lights lilting through the sky and the colored smoke crowding their view, they hadn’t noticed the commotion inside 33,26. But when Macy-Jo appeared, the tenor of the night shifted. A wide circle cleared around her, the crowd gasping as they caught sight of her face, some attendees scrambling to grab their children and MAMs, and promptly transporting out of the event. Others fled to the edges of the property, frightened, but still curious. Exclamations of “Betrayer!” overlapped to cause a horrible din. Macy-Jo stood on the patio for a moment, speechless at the sight of the Cradle, the sight of her home. She almost hadn’t let herself believe the vision when she’d first had it, but thank the Mothers that she did. The hiss of the magic as it escaped the Hollow and found her, the flashes of silk as witches ran in their gowns—it had all gone exactly as she’d imagined it.

Inside, Nadia grabbed Gabbie, her nails pinching the flesh of her arm. “You need to go,” she barked.

The girls all looked to Nadia. It had been minutes since anyone had spoken, and they were alarmed by the tone of her voice.

“Now,” she urged. “Before you lose your powers, too.”

“Okay,” Gabbie said. “Okay.” The girls held hands there in the foyer of 33,26, and, faster than they ever had before, closed their eyes and transported back to New York.

Nadia stepped out onto the yard of 33,26, watching as people scrambled to leave. Stella Hampton shook with wailing sobs, making the motions that accompanied basic charms and howling louder when her movements spawned no action. Dr. Diop was rubbing her hands together as though the feel of them was unfamiliar to her. One by one, the remaining Council-members moved to the edge of the property, finding friends and family who could transport them home. Nadia, Natasha, Eve, and the babies collected on a patch of grass by the Cradle, and when Nadia caught sight of the baby willow, she had to try hard not to cry.

“What is going on?” Eve screeched. Nina was attached to her side in a sling and her husband was holding Helia’s hand.

“The Betrayer,” Nadia blubbered. “The Betrayer. Take us home.”

Nadia and Natasha held on to Eve, now the only one amongst them who could transport. As Eve focused, preparing to complete a transportation that would test her abilities, Macy-Jo approached them. Eve recoiled violently, but Nadia and Natasha didn’t have the energy left.

Macy-Jo’s face took on a curious expression as she looked at Natasha, as if she were inspecting a foreign insect.

“Don’t be afraid,” Macy-Jo said, keeping her hands clasped in front of her. “I’ve just come here to thank you, Natasha.”

Natasha didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to have registered the comment at all.

“For what?” Eve spat. Nina began to cry beside her.

Macy-Jo didn’t speak for a long while. “For her restraint,” she said finally, touching her fingers together to elicit a dazzling spark of magic. It was many, many magnitudes stronger than any of the inconsistent, fragile magic she’d been able to produce in the past few decades, but the message still stood. When the glow disappeared, Macy-Jo turned, then walked back to the home, the seat, the life that she had coveted for so long.

* * *

Maya had never been in a physical fight before, but she imagined this was how the outcome would feel: draining and defeating. The spell had taken everything out of them, and still, it hadn’t worked. For the brief moment that they thought they’d done it, Maya hadn’t even been able to feel her body. Now, she closed her eyes and crouched to the ground, letting her head hang before she felt a small hand on her lower back.

“Maya,” she heard Gabbie say. Maya ignored her, and Gabbie said her name again.

“Where are we?” Maya answered, disoriented. They’d transported so quickly that she had no idea where they’d intended to go. After a moment, she realized with an exhausted breath. “Tompkins.”

Gabbie said nothing, instead jutting her head to the side. “She won’t move,” Gabbie whispered. Delali was collapsed on the grass, her eyes glassy and stunned, shiny with a film of unshed tears.

Maya crouched beside Delali, careful not to teeter in her heels. “Dela,” she said quietly. She wrapped a gentle arm around Delali’s shoulders. “Come on, babe. Let’s go home.”

“Yeah,” Gabbie said. She stooped at Delali’s other side, winding her arm around Delali’s torso. “We could always go back to my place—I know how much you guys love it there,” she said, smiling weakly at her attempt at a joke.

Delali cleared her throat.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice hoarse. She moved to stand, and Maya and Gabbie stayed twined around her, propping her up. “Let’s go.”

The girls walked through the park, which was as full of people as ever. They ambled for a few aimless steps before Maya pulled out her phone to call a car—it was clear that they were way too spent to transport again. But her phone wouldn’t turn on, even though it had been fully charged before they’d left the city. She tried to reset it, but the screen stayed black. “My phone’s dead,” she said, turning to Gabbie and Delali. “Are yours working?”

“Mine’s dead, too,” Delali said. She ran a frustrated hand through her ponytail, ruining the delicate curls Gabbie had styled earlier that night.

“I’m at a hundred,” Gabbie said. “I always keep a portable charger.”

Maya refrained from reminding Gabbie that no one had asked.

“It’s eight minutes away,” Gabbie said.

The girls stood on the sidewalk, heels muddied, bodies aching, each one worlds away from the perfectly primped looks they’d worn when they left Delali’s. Gabbie started to cry, and Delali, regaining her strength, patted her back under the light of a streetlamp.

“I really loved Nadia,” Gabbie whimpered.

“I know, Gabs,” Maya said. “But we’ll see her again. She’s not dead.”

“When?” Gabbie asked. “The spell worked. The spell worked on the whole Council.”

Delali dropped her face into her hands and spoke through her fingers. “I think we’re more powerful than even Nadia knew.”

“We have to go back and fix it. There has to be something in the Archive or someone in the Sphere—” Gabbie stopped midsentence, realizing she had no real idea what a solution would look like.

“Are you insane?” Maya asked Gabbie, though her voice was gentle. “Did you see Al—” she couldn’t even get the second syllable out. “That woman? The way people reacted to her? I’m not going back there. Not yet at least.”

Gabbie started crying again and Delali shook her head. “She was a completely different person,” Delali said quietly.

“Who else is going to fix it?” Gabbie whispered through tears. “We’re the only ones who can fix it.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Maya said. “But I think we’ve fucked up enough for one night.”

“I think she’s right,” Delali said to Gabbie after a moment. “We probably are the only ones that can help. But not now. Not tonight. I can barely even keep my eyes open.”

Gabbie nodded and, after a while, responded. “Okay.”

With that, their Uber appeared, and the girls used their last reserves of energy to pile into the back of the car.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Maya could hear Delali and Gabbie laughing from the living room. She opened her bedroom door.

“What the fuck are you guys laughing at?”

Gabbie and Delali both turned to her, Delali wearing a UNICEF T-shirt and a fake mustache she’d taken from the Sit Awhile set.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Delali said in a fake deep voice, causing her and Gabbie to dissolve into laughter again. They paused laughing long enough for Delali to say, “Woah, I don’t remember sleeping beauty being just my type.”

“I’m just trying to practice breaking up with Dan,” Gabbie clarified once she’d recovered from her laughter. “He gets back tomorrow.” Faison had asked for space, then stopped responding to Gabbie altogether, even when she sent Maya to The Bar with apology cookies. But Faison avoiding her didn’t change the fact that Dan was the worst boyfriend on earth, a fact that seemed comically obvious to Gabbie now.

“I’m going back to bed,” Maya said. Every weekend since the Gathering, the girls had had a sleepover at Delali’s. It was a sort of replacement for their sessions with Alba, a way to mark the continued importance of their relationship. True laughter had only returned in the last two weeks—the first week had been dreary and exhausting. They’d only just started to use their powers again, still scared of everything they didn’t know about them. They kept waiting to hear from Nadia, but the banner never came.

Maya tried in vain to sleep for an hour, then gave up and decided to call Tatiana. Maybe she could come over and play the waitress in Gabbie’s breakup scene. As she searched her vanity for her phone, her eye flitted to the boldly colored stack on the corner—the perfect copies of the fashion books and magazines she had taken from their trip to the Archive of the Sphere. They were the only reading materials she owned besides her Kim K coffee table book, and she realized then that she’d never even opened them. Maya pulled one from the stack, taking in the cover image that had pulled her to the issue in the first place: three laughing witches draped in billowing black tulle, their eyelids covered in rainbow-colored geometric shapes that, in an endless loop, emptied of color and filled back up again. The words Augur Mag were written at the top of the page, in that script Maya had come to associate with the Sphere. She opened the magazine, flipping to a story about the Sphere’s growing aversion to the color white. There was a slight article written in subversive white text against a black background.

The Jury’s In—and White is Out!

By Davina Douglas Rune

23 January 1986

When the Betrayer wore a white caped gown to her trial earlier this year, trend forecasters weren’t sure what it would mean for your average witch. But just three months after the historic trial, dressmakers all over the Sphere have reported an absolute halt in sales of clothes featuring the color white. The reason? Sartorial expert Jenna-Plum Johnson says the color white has, like the Betrayer, come to signify greed, avarice, and cruelty. Ouch. The good news? Chic capes remain a Sphere staple. Take that, Betrayer!

For Augur Mag’s reporting on the event, see the September 7th issue (no. 338). Please be warned—the aforementioned article contains a Spherical photograph of the Betrayer.

Intrigued by the dress description, Maya touched the link, feeling a kick of excitement when Augur Mag no. 338 appeared on her desk. She opened the magazine, whose cover was just a morose sheet of mauve.

On September 1, 1986, Macy-Jo Watson, the Head Seer of Violet III’s Council, exercised an unprecedented act of betrayal against the Sphere. Just eight months into her appointment, the young witch, who is famed for her singular ability to see the future with 100 percent certainty, stole and released the magic of the Mothers.

It is reported that in the latest hours of the night, Watson slipped into the Mothers’ chamber in 33,26, where the magic of the Mothers has rested in a vessel since the original Executioner first harnessed them at the beginning of time. As Watson left the chamber, she was apprehended by Regent Violet III and Council-member Niellah Baker.

Watson is said to have deliberately dropped the vessel upon seeing the two. The vessel shattered on the ground and the magic of the Mothers escaped. An aide of the Regent reported that “the magic hovered momentarily, then separated into three distinct streams,” before disappearing into the night sky.

Watson was promptly apprehended. At her trial, Watson claimed to have had a vision of herself as Regent; she stole the magic of the Mothers in hopes of instigating political instability and taking the throne. She was sentenced to immediate Execution and excommunication to the typic world. The Execution, carried out by Exc. Natasha Nox, was only the second Execution in the history of the Sphere. Natasha would later describe the experience of using her power as “. . . devastating . . . the worst day of my life.”

WHO Doctor Alicia Tourmaline is quoted as theorizing, “Macy-Jo Watson is an example of a witch with a very unbalanced spirit . . . it is normal to see a witch with one disproportionate faculty—e.g., excessive love of self. For a witch to have two bloated faculties, and one very anemic one, is unusual indeed. There is little doubt, however, that she will find success in the typic world, where this manner of disfunction is often rewarded.”

Next to the text was a picture of a young Macy-Jo in what looked like a courtroom. Her hair was bigger, drawn off her face, and her mouth moved as she spoke her defense, then stopped, then started again. It freaked Maya out to know the real Alba—Macy-Jo—had never really left them. The same day she disappeared, she’d found her way back to them in the form of this magazine. Maya was turning the page when a banner dropped in front of her. She was confused for a moment—then she read.

Hey it’s Nadia —Nadia

Aura transported me to NYC —Nadia

Staying in Soho for as long as it takes for us to fix this —Nadia

It’s been a long fucking month —Nadia

Maya ran to the door. Gabbie was screaming in the living room.

“Oh my god,” Delali said. She ripped off the mustache. “Oh my god!!!”

NADIA! —Delali

AHHHHH —Gabbie

We’re at Delali’s!!! —Maya

She lives in BK!! —Gabbie

Yeah, Gabbie —Nadia

I know the coordinates ;) —Nadia

See you witches soon. —Nadia

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to:

My parents, Sylvia and Richmond, for everything. Mom, I never take for granted all the ways your life has made room for my own. My brothers, Howard, Chadwick, and Chase, for making me funnier and smarter all the time.

Alanna for your encouragement, belief in me, and commitment to being a hater, which inspires me in all that I do. Bill, for editing every draft of this book, assuaging my (many, many) anxieties, and keeping me full to the brim with workshop goss. Daisy for naming this book, answering all my FaceTimes, and changing the course of my life. Al for being my hype woman and the straw that stirs the drink.

The friends who have kept me upright throughout this long process: Jen, Ann-Marie, and Marral.

Absolutely everyone who has read a draft or excerpt of this book, whether in book club, for ad hoc workshop, or just for fun. This book has taken so many forms, and you all helped it get to the final one.

Karen and Anton for late-in-the-game edits.

My agents, Deborah Schneider, Penelope Burns, and Rachel Mann, for guiding me and advocating for me. Dan Ehrenhaft for acquiring and believing in this book. Alyea Canada and Ember Hood for your patience and careful edits. Sarah Riedlinger for the beautiful cover design.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

H. B. Akumiah is a fiction writer based in New York. She has a bachelor’s degree in creative writing, a master’s degree in history, and an enduring love of reality TV. Bad Witches is her first novel.

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