Page 3 of Everything She Does Is Magic

“We’ve spoken since that first day, I’ll have you know,” I tell Grace.

“Yeah,inFrench,” Grace says.

She happens to be correct, so I continue painting, lips pursed.

Grace folds her arms, fully aware she’s got me clocked. “All I’m saying is that whatever she wants, it must be a bad thing, or she’d have come inside already. She might even hate you.”

“Then we better hope she stays outside,” I say.

2

Anya

When Emily Dickinson wrote that if your nerve denies you, you need to go above your nerve, she must have known someone like Darcy Keller would someday exist and I would have to find the strength to talk to her.

Darcy Keller attracts attention the way rainbows do after storms. It’s impossible to be in her presence and not marvel at her. For one, she smiles with all her teeth, right back to the molars. It’s wide-open, inviting. Enveloping. I’m not sure how her friend Grace can stand to hold dozens of conversations with her every single day. Grace must forget her train of thought all the time, especially when Darcy laughs so hard that she has to put a hand on Grace’s arm to steady herself.

And Darcy’seyes. They are a calcite kind of green, so bright they’re almost translucent. She squints them whenever someone speaks to her, like she’s trying to climb into the words and experience whatever the other person is saying. It’s not a surprise to learn she’s as confident in her art as she is everywhere else.She manages to load her brush with the exact amount of paint needed to make an unbroken stroke across her entire canvas.

Staring at her from outside the window at Pam’s Paints is not what I’ve come here to do, but it’s all I’m capable of at the moment.

Grace has given me more than one menacing glare. It’s turned into an actual, genuine scowl now, like she’s a real guard dog. Although I don’t think basset hounds are known for being intimidating. Not that Grace is what’s deterring me. My presence is never an exciting development anywhere in this town. But I don’t usually have so much to lose by showing up somewhere.

I back away from the window again.

There is too much energy inside me. Adrenaline, pressure, butterflies. I can’t talk to Darcy until I manage to contain at least one of these feelings.

I squat down to examine one of the flower beds along Fableview Boulevard. This one is filled with asters. They’re sweet-looking flowers, with delicate purple petals and sunny yellow centers. Most of them are thriving. There are a few near the edge that have been stepped on or rolled over from the foot traffic on the boulevard. Not dead, but close to it.

Cupping one of the damaged flowers in my hand, I take a focused inhale, conjuring up the image of a sky awash with infinite gray. Gentle fists of water drumming against a window. Sulfuric sweetness perfuming the air.

A new heartbeat begins to pulse through me—the undeniable, jittering thrum of magic—traveling out through my breath and into the aster. It’s a current not unlike electricity, with me as the conduit, using the energy to revive the deadened petals inside my palm. The first spark of power always makes me feel filled to the brim with purpose and possibility.

We’re so excited!

My mother’s words cloud my focus, snapping the connection to my power. Huffing out a breath, I release my first attempt at mending this flower.

All good magic comes from breathing. Inhale intentions, exhale actions. Steady as a hiss of steam, constant as a moving train. Let the breath mold the mind and move the magic through the body.

I breathe in again, returning to the image of rain, letting it wash over the flower. Over me.

We have to meet her!

I’ve never touched a socket with a wet hand, but it must be similar to this, the way my own power zaps through me, sharp and jagged and wrong.

We’re booking an early flight so we can spend Halloween with you and her before your big birthday! See you at the end of the month!

“Shit!” I exclaim, wincing. Where the aster once lived there is now ash falling from my hand.

Great. I have killed the flower I meant to mend.

This was a mistake. Coming here to Pam’s Paints. Living in Fableview at all. It has been nothing short of a colossal misstep, and it will result in my being the first witch in my bloodline to fail my initiation into our coven next month.

My gift has become a weighted vest, burdening everything I do. My magical instinct is to mend things, but there’s so much that’s broken in the world, and there are too many people who want me to fix it. I can never do enough.

The crunch of leaves beneath my feet provides a soothing soundtrack to my renewed pacing. I have loved October in many places. It is in my bloodline to do so. I’m named after thegoddess Áine, who is known for bringing love, protection, and prosperity to Ireland. In some ways, she is nature itself, and I am an extension of that. It’s a lot to live up to, and my family doesn’t ever let me forget it. Between my storied name and my rare magical gift, it’s impossible to escape the pressure. Everyone who knows what I can do needs something from me. I’m the one who mends tattered clothing, patches holes in walls, revives dying plants. I repair what others cannot, and all it’s done is turn my own life into a mess.

“You have the potential to be the most powerful witch this coven has seen in centuries,” my Uncle Edward once told me. “If only you were more enjoyable to be around.”