The Magic of Shadows

Chapter 4

Helaine's POV

The morning broke with a hazy, dawn hue. There was a sleepy peacefulness to the way the birds called out their greetings to the sun and the dew seemed to cling to the air, the leaves, and the grass. The house was calm, with all of the guests still tucked tight in their beds. It was when loneliness was the most bearable to me because it felt like the world was crafted specifically with solitude in mind.

My toes sank into the damp dirt as I set off across the yard towards my personal paradise, the garden I've lovingly nurtured since I moved in. I have an affinity for air, my magic capable of shaping and manipulating it, but I've always found comfort in being connected to the earth. The coven I was born into had been of the Old Order, where reverence to nature was a part of daily life, not just something practiced during rituals or holidays. The years with my aunt and uncle had made me feel like a fraud when I returned to it, but I had eventually been able to make it part of my daily life again, and that had helped me on my road to healing.

A collection of both raised beds and individual pots, my garden was starting to feel more like walking through a forest. I set down my empty wooden basket, but kept the cloth bag slung around my shoulder, the weight of its contents bouncing against my thigh. Bending over to check on my tomatoes, my mind wandered back to those early days. When my magic had been missing, the well in my soul that contained it too scarred to set it free, I'd felt like I wasn't worthy of that connection anymore. I hadn't done the rites since I came to live with my relatives. Not even the holidays. And now without magic, I had felt like I shouldn't. Almost like a punishment that would never end.

Marc had been the one to help me the most when I was struggling. When he'd learned that I'd been raised in the Old Order, he'd offered to bring me bowls of water, plants, candles, and a fan so I could try to practice one of the full moon rites for the hay moon in my hospital room. A combination of fear entrenched in my soul from years of abuse and shame for not practicing for my own safety had me shaking my head so hard I nearly cried when he brought it up.

Even after they had to go away because it wasn't safe to be around me anymore in those first two years, Marc had written letters, telling me about his own journey with the near spirituality that was connected with magic. The twins had little use for it, most modern witches didn't, but Marc had been raised in the inner city. He knew about his magic, but the only other person with magic he knew was his mother and she had been largely uninterested in their shared gifts, other than to tell him not to let anyone know. No one had bothered to teach him that his ability to make flowers bloom in his hands was because he had an affinity for the earth. No one bothered to tell him that his lingering agitation was because he didn't have enough contact with the element that sang within his soul and the well of magic nestled within it.

When he was saved by the Academy and came to learn more about his power and who he was from the other witches and warlocks around him, he learned about an entire world he'd been held separate from. At first the devotion to the earth had felt like religion and he'd avoided it like the plague, but he'd become drawn to it, nonetheless. It wasn't religion, or really even faith. Not one with gods, anyway. It was more of a reverence to the magic that flows all around us, to the power that keeps the world turning and the grass growing.

Life is magic. It's everywhere and in nearly everything. Some of us are just born with extra magic inside us that we're capable of using.

It had been a long, awkward journey, but through practicing the daily rites, Marc had found himself more centered in his own magic and felt more connected to what had previously been a source of pure frustration in his life. When he started, he felt like an intruder, but had found a sense of calm within it.