Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(49)
He yanked down a victory fist for himself, giving a mock-smug nod. “I may not look the part, but you’re checking out a Thistle Grove High salutatorian over here. Would’ve been valedictorian, too, if it hadn’t been for Emmy’s overachieving ass salting my GPA.”
“Good thing you weren’t my year,” I said, flicking a strand of hair coyly over my shoulder. “Or I’d be the one catching that shade right now.”
He flashed me a defiant blue look, a corner of that delicate mouth curling with amusement. “Isn’t someone cocky. You never know, milady, I was quite the scholar in my youth. I might’ve given you a run for your money, too.”
“Doubtful,” I said, suppressing a grin as I turned back toward the swan.
It peered at us with transparent eyes, its graceful neck a curving swoop like a bass clef, wings tucked against its sides. It was gorgeous work, delicately rendered to the finest detail, each distinct feather already an almost-living marvel. “Today, you’re going to be using the Animating Charm. And while you speak the words, I want you to hold an image in your mind—this swan coming to life, as detailed as you can imagine it. Head turning, wings lifting, feathers ruffling. Whatever you’d like to see it do.”
“Piece of cake,” he said cheerfully, tucking his hands into his duster pockets. “Let’s hear those words.”
“Really?” I said, skeptical. “Imagining an entire ice swan moving sounds that easy to you?”
“I’ll have you know that my meditation practice is on point,” he informed me. “Courtesy of aforementioned emotional hellscape, mostly. So, silver linings, I can now visualize the shit out of just about anything.”
“Ah, that would explain the facility, then,” I said, nodding to myself. “A lot of our foundational magical training comes down to the same basic groundwork as meditation. So you’ll want to hold that image in your mind as firmly as you can, while you speak the words.”
I leaned close and whispered the couplets into his ear—feeling, through the bond, the frisson of tingle that spiraled down his arm at the warmth of my exhale—just in case actually saying the words aloud myself got us into some kind of trouble.
“You can say them as many times as you need to,” I instructed, moving back. “You’ll feel it when it starts to happen and the magic rushes in; it’s unmistakable. You should already know what it feels like, from summoning the witchlights. And before it happens, there’ll be something like a . . . a mental click. A knowing, a certainty that you’ve gotten it right.”
He nodded once, then turned to the swan.
“Got it,” he said, closing his eyes. There was something infinitely endearing, almost tender, about his earnestness. How seriously he was taking this lesson, like the most avid student. I wouldn’t have expected teaching him to feel so . . . pure.
To be fair, I’d never taught anyone spellwork; it was a specialization within the magical community, with a certain number of members of each family training to be teachers for the next generation—a profession funded by contributions from the witch community at large, as set out in the Grimoire. So maybe it was always satisfying to impart this kind of knowledge, even if I didn’t really know whether I was doing it right.
Somehow, I doubted teaching baby witches felt like this, quite so warmly compelling.
“Should I, uh, be doing something with my hands?” he asked, sneaking a glance at me from the corner of one eye. “Or, hell, is that a stupid question?”
“It’s not, at all,” I assured him. “Some spells are much easier if you guide them along with motions; others actually demand physical shaping, like playing an instrument. But for this one, it isn’t necessary, unless you feel it helps you hold fast to the visualization in your mind.”
“Maybe I’ll mess around a little, then.” He slid his hands out of his pockets and held them loosely lifted in front of him, black-polished fingertips twitching, clearly a little self-conscious.
Then I could see the concentration slide like a mask over his face, jostling away the uncertainty as he began to chant the words over and over, like I’d told him.
The spell took a while to manifest. At least a few minutes, much longer than it would have taken me—but also much faster than it generally took a young witch. When the working fell into place, I could feel it happen through the bond, almost as if I were the one casting. The heady, shimmering rush of magic welling just beneath the skin in sparkling streams, like sweetness singing through your veins; that infinitely gratifying feeling of the casting’s shape falling into place, impressing itself upon the parchment of the world like a wax seal.
The swan began to stir, ever so slowly, twitching its icy head from side to side in awkward, brittle movements.
“Whoaaaa,” Morty exhaled, breathing out a little laugh of pure delight. “Fuck me, there it is. It’s actually working.”
“It is,” I assured him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “But don’t lose focus. Keep at it.”
The swan’s tentative movements gained elegance as Morty found more purchase, a deeper confidence in his own casting. Then, the bird stretched that sinuous neck toward us, lifting its wings in a gentle flutter. Extending its head as far as it could reach, to peck the icy, avian equivalent of a kiss onto my cheek.