Wild is the Witch (9)

She stirs her sauce and tastes it before adding more salt, then hands me a spoon to test it as well.

“Delicious,” I say.

She winks at me. “It’ll do.”

Her long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail that can barely hold the volume of her waves, and her warm, beige skin is dotted with sweat at her hairline. Mom’s footsteps echo through the house as she walks down the stairs, and Sarah pours her a glass of wine and hands it to her as soon as she enters the kitchen.

“Thank you,” my mom says, giving her a grateful look.

I set the table while Sarah plates the food, and Mom turns on some classical music to play in the background. There were many things that Mom changed when we moved here, many habits she broke and traditions she severed, but playing classical music over dinner is one of the things that stayed.

I wonder if it makes her think of Dad.

Sarah and Mom exchange stories about their days, Mom talking about the wolf, Sarah talking about the breakfast café she owns, and I run over the past ten hours in my mind, my thoughts snagging on what Pike said in the office.

She should have been the one to burn.

It’s the only time he has ever sounded mean, truly mean. And it scares me because after everything Mom and I have been through, the last thing we need is a witch-hating intern working for us.

But it’s more than that. I hate the way I held my breath when he spoke, the way I hoped it was nothing, something I’d built up in my mind that didn’t match reality. I hate the way his words stunned me and how, for one awful moment, I thought I might cry.

“Iris?” Mom asks.

I look up from my food. “Sorry, did you say something?”

She sets down her glass and looks at me. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing; it’s not a big deal,” I say, but Mom and Sarah watch me, waiting for me to tell them what I’m thinking. They don’t need magic to know when something’s bothering me, unfortunately. Hiding how I feel has never been a strong suit of mine.

“It’s just something Pike said. About witches. He said they can’t be trusted, but there’s something in the way he said it that worries me. Like it’s really important to him or something.” I leave out the part about Amy because I can’t bring myself to repeat it, to say the words out loud.

Mom pours herself another glass of wine and tops off Sarah’s as well. “A lot of people don’t trust witches.” She says it as if it doesn’t faze her, as if it doesn’t make her angry or upset. “After the way you reacted to the news the other day, he’s probably just saying it to rattle you.”

“Pike says a lot of things to rattle me,” I say. “This was different. He sounded…cold, I guess. Mean. I just don’t know if we should keep an intern around who clearly doesn’t like witches.”

“He’s harmless,” Mom says. “And he’ll never find out anyway. Unless you keep getting worked up over the news broadcasts, that is.” She gives me a pointed look, and her mouth pulls up on one side. “You just don’t like that he gives you a run for your money at work.”

“He does not,” I say, sounding more defensive than I mean.

Sarah bursts out laughing and leans onto her elbows conspiratorially. “Is he the kid in glasses who looks like he belongs in an ad for fair-trade coffee?”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say, but Mom is leaned back in her chair, nodding excitedly at Sarah. “Ew, both of you,” I say. “I’ve never even noticed his looks.”

That’s not entirely true. The first day of his internship, I most certainly did notice the way his thick brown hair looked perfectly mussed up and the way his glasses seemed to bring out the hazel in his eyes. I noticed the smattering of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose and the way the rim of his glasses stood out against his pale skin.

Then he opened his mouth, and it’s been hard for me to remember seeing him as anything other than what he is now: a person I thoroughly dislike.

“Of course you haven’t.”

I set down my glass, and it hits the table harder than I intend. “You guys aren’t taking this seriously enough,” I say. “He could be a real problem for us.”

“Iris, honey, I love how protective you are. I love how you only want what’s best for us. But please believe me when I say you need to relax a little. What happened two years ago, it was tragic and awful, but it wasn’t the norm. Witches aren’t shunned and run out of their homes—we’re as much a part of society as anyone else. I understand why you want to keep that part of us hidden, I really do, but I hate the idea of you living in fear.” Her voice is gentle, and she tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “If it makes you feel better, Pike’s internship is up at the end of the semester, and the only way he’ll ever know you’re a witch is if you want him to.”

“I would never want that.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” she says. She pauses and takes a sip of water before speaking again. “You know, honey, someday there will be someone worthy of keeping your secrets.” She stands up from the table and grabs her plate.

I help Mom with the dishes before making myself a cup of tea and heading to my room, but I feel unsettled. I hate having secrets, and for a while I didn’t think I needed any. In our last town, I didn’t hide who I was. We were friends with our neighbors and had my dad’s boss over for dinners. We went to church potlucks and participated in the high school’s bake sale.