Page 7 of Witchlore
“First is…” Kira frowns down at her list. “Are you overwhelmed with the desire to take your own life today?”
“Jesus!” I glare at Kira.
“Just a yes or no is fine.”
“I’m not answering that.”
Kira gives me a long stare then makes a note on her page.
“Okay, next question,” she says. “On a scale of one to ten, how well are you sleeping, one being not sleeping at all to ten being sleeping eight hours a night?”
“You sleepeight hoursa night?” I stare at her.
“Yeah, of course, it’s recommended.” Kira frowns. Elizabeth never mentioned that Kira had absolutely no sense of humor. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Three.”
No point in lying. It’s also roughly the amount of hours I sleep every night, thanks to the nightmares.
“Three,” she repeats. “Is that because of, like, nightmares?”
I get a weird twinge of anxiety, like the feeling of someone running a finger down the back of my neck. I glare at her ring, at the wide, intricate silver setting, delicate filigree surrounding an orange stone. Some witches have rings that give them hints of empath powers. Old stones that might have once been the kind of conduit that could help a witch read minds are mostly now reduced to intuiting when someone is a bit sad. I’ve overheard Kira telling people that hers is an Amazigh ring from her Moroccan ancestors. The Tavi witches have been in Manchester since the 1800s, but I’ve never heard that their powers included telepathy. For most of my life, I’ve barely worried about the rings of witches. As my father always used to say,What does a shifter have to fear from a conduit when we have magic at our fingertips?But that was all before the summer and Elizabeth’s ring. Before the cave and the spell.
“None of your business,” I say.
“Okay!” Kira is not even slightly deterred. She’s moving on tothe next question. “How optimistic do you feel about life today on a scale of one to ten, one being not optimistic at all and ten being incredibly optimistic?”
“Really?” I huff out a bitter laugh. “You expect me to answer that?”
“One to ten?” Kira prompts.
“How optimistic do you feel?” I demand. “Your so-called best friend died four months ago, how optimistic are you?”
She glares at me. I have the tingling, regretful feeling of crossing a line.
“Shewasmy best friend,” Kira says. “And I’m asking the questions.”
“Then ask them,” I say tersely.
“Fine.” Kira’s voice is equally terse as she turns the page. “Do you have any career plans or options you’d like to discuss with me?”
“I suppose you already know what you want to do,” I say.
“Yeah. I’m going to be a counselor.”
“Shocker.”
Elizabeth told me Kira’s dad is a psychiatrist and her mum is a special ed advisor for witches. She gives me a curt look. I’m a little victorious to see I’ve broken her smiley demeanor.
“What about you?” she says, shifting where she’s sitting. “You could get a job in government security, maybe go into—”
“Don’t say espionage,” I snap.
“—politics,” she says slowly. I glare at her. Witches can be anything openly in the world nowadays. Being a shapeshifter is completely different. The general population have no idea we exist unless they work in certain arms of the government where shapeshifters are known and prized. It’s what my parents didfor years and years; it’s what they expect me to do, too. What I want has never mattered. Kira flushes, like she’s embarrassed, but presses on.
“Well, what do you want to do?” she demands.
I’ve been asked this question kindly only once before. I remember, with a sudden lurch of my stomach, how it felt when Elizabeth would lay her head down on my chest and tell me her plans for the future. Like Kira, she wanted to follow her parents into their version of witch family business and become an academic. When she had spoken about it, painting a glossy, confident picture of the future with her words, it had felt like anything was possible.
