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“Ugh, it’s no use!” Luz groaned. “We’re never gonna figure out a way to make a portal work.”
Willow frowned, watching Luz pace back and forth across the clubhouse floor. Normally, Luz was the one who was brimming with enthusiasm and ready to try new ideas. But lately she’d gotten restless. Agitated.
“We can’t give up yet! We’ll find a way,” Amity said, trying valiantly for certainty but not quite making the mark.
Luz stopped pacing. “How? Without Titan’s blood, we don’t have power. We can’t—”
“Actually,” Hunter cut in, drawing out every syllable, “there might be another way.”
Willow glanced at him. He was grinning with his tooth gap on full display, brows arched, absolutely dripping with Golden Guard confidence.
Flapjack twittered softly on his shoulder. They all looked at Hunter expectantly.
“And? Care to share with the class?” Gus put down whatever human doohickey he’d been playing with. “Dude, we’ve talked about the dramatic pause thing. I mean, I of all people appreciate the power of some good theatrics, but you really don’t need to make a whole production of it every time you have an idea. Just spit it out.”
Hunter’s grin slipped into a pout. “Fine,” he said, sweeping his forelock out of his face.
His hair had grown shockingly fast since they’d arrived. After just a few weeks, the back was long and scraggly. Willow had to wonder how he’d managed to keep it so short and neat before. At this rate, he must’ve had to pay daily visits to the castle’s barber.
He’d pulled it back in a tiny blond tuft at the back of his neck. She couldn’t decide whether it was stupid or cute. (Both, probably.)
“Okay, so, we know we need Titan’s blood to power the door,” Hunter said. “And obviously we can’t get any here. But what if we could use a substitute?”
Luz’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of substitute?”
“Well, I’ve read a lot about how the Titan’s magic powers the Boiling Isles. Every natural ecosystem, every living thing that grows on the Titan’s corpse is infused with its magic. If we can get something that’s been growing on the Isles, there might be enough Titan magic in it to power the door.”
“But how are we supposed to get something from the Isles without a door?” Vee piped up.
“That’s where the captain comes in.”
Willow blinked. “Me? How exactly am I supposed to do that?”
“You can use your plant magic to recreate a plant that’s native to the Isles!” Hunter said. “Of course, it would be best to use an actual plant from the Isles, but after centuries of native growth on the Titan, the magic should be part of the plant’s genetic structure. So if Willow is able to create a plant with her own magic that’s a close enough match to the native plant—to the point that it has the same genome—we just might have what we need.”
“Hmm,” Gus said. “Sounds like a long shot.”
“Right, but what do we have to lose by trying? Besides, if anyone can do this, it’s Willow, right?” Hunter turned to her. “What do you say, Captain? Worth a shot?”
Everyone was staring at her now. Gus, Amity, and Vee looked pretty convinced by Hunter’s presentation. Even Luz looked mildly hopeful. And Hunter was waiting patiently for her answer, no trace of doubt on his face.
“Um,” she said.
I can do this. I can do this.
Willow took a deep breath and stood, shoulders squared. “Yeah. Let’s give it a go.”
Hunter beamed at her. “Cool. Well, um, we probably want to pick a plant that we know grows close to a confirmed deposit of Titan’s blood. That way the magical connection will be stronger. Any ideas?”
“What about Eclipse Lake?” Amity suggested. “The blood is gone now, but at least we know it used to be there.”
“Good idea. Do we know what kinds of plants grow there?” Hunter asked.
Willow frowned, trying to remember back to her botany class. “Well, I know that there are starfire lilies in that area. They’re really old and pretty rare, but they’re really useful for potions, because if you pluck the petals they leak this kinda sticky blue stuff that’s supposed to amplify the effects or whatever potion you’re making.”
Luz’s head snapped up. “Like Titan’s blood.”
“Sort of.”
“That sounds perfect,” Hunter said. “Do you think you can conjure one?”
Willow bit her lip. “Um, we dissected them once in class. I think … yeah, I can do it. I just have to remember the pattern.”
“Take your time,” Hunter said.
Willow closed her eyes. In her mind, all plants had a pattern—a signature unique to every species. When she held it in her mind she could feel it in her fingers, her palms, a tingling up her arms and to her chest, the source of all her magic. It was a pull, a question, a call to bring the plant to life. Like if she asked with enough certainty, it would answer with leaves and stems and blossoms at her feet.
Tentora razor plants had a spiky pattern, sharp and angular. Gemmaranda bushes were cloudy and dreamlike. And starfire lilies—she squeezed her eyes shut tighter, remembering—they were like a shower of sparks.
“Ready,” she murmured.
She raised a finger, holding the pattern in her mind. Then, carefully, she drew a spell circle. It glowed in the air, and when it faded, an enormous lily burst through a crack in the floorboards.
“Nice work, Willow!” Gus said. “Does it look like the real thing?”
Willow inspected it. A supple black stem. Large, sharp-edged leaves. And dark blue petals, with flecks of luminescent orange scattered across the surface like glowing embers.
“Yeah,” she said. “It looks right to me.”
“Okay, so, do we just … pick it up?” Luz crouched down by the flower. “Maybe we coat the edges of the door in the blue stuff?”
“Let’s try that,” Hunter said. “Captain, wanna do the honors, since this is your handiwork?”
“Sure.”
Willow plucked a petal to release the liquid, and the lily let out a cry. Everyone jumped.
“Titan, what was that?” Gus shouted. “Willow, did that thing just scream at us?”
“Oh! Sorry. Forgot to tell you about that little side effect. They’re a little bit vain, and going bald is not exactly their favorite.” She winced as she plucked another petal, letting the liquid spill over her fingers. “Sorry, little friend! This is really important, I promise.”
When her hands were properly dripping in starfire juice, she stood and walked to the door. Everyone followed her out of the clubhouse, watching as she ran her fingers along the doorframe, staining it midnight blue.
They all stared through the open door, waiting with bated breath. The seconds ticked by. No light. No sign of magic. Not even a spark.
“Well,” Gus said finally, “I’m gonna take that as a no.”
He said it lightly, casually, like it was a joke, but Willow knew Gus well enough to recognize the disappointment in his voice. Behind her, Luz let out a weary sigh, and Willow felt her own heart sink inside her chest.
She’d gotten too used to being hailed as the best plant witch at Hexside. She’d forgotten what it felt like to fail like this. And somehow, this felt even worse than Professor Hermonculus humiliating her in class. He didn’t matter to her anymore. He was cruel and callous and he’d always been wrong about her.
No … this time, away from her dads, trapped under glass, crushing her friends’ last seed of hope—all with plant magic, the one thing she was supposed to be good at …
This time felt much worse.
A hand came to rest on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” Amity said. “We’ll figure something else out. Thanks for trying, Willow.”
She offered a small, encouraging smile. Something about it made old fire spark inside Willow’s blood. She knew Amity wasn’t like that anymore, that she wasn’t trying to be condescending, that she was just trying to be nice, but it made Willow remember things she’d rather forget. Those early days when they’d first started hanging out again, back when Amity went out of her way to compliment Willow for every small, unimpressive bit of magic. When she’d heap on encouragements every time she made a small slip-up—even when she didn’t slip up. Back when Amity still saw her as Half-a-Witch Willow, something small and weak she had to protect. Someone who wore failures on her shoulders like a cloak. Someone who couldn’t help anyone, even herself.
Willow forced a smile. “Would you guys excuse me for a minute? I’ve gotta go, um, check on the garden. I’ll be right back.”
She strode past Hunter, refusing to look him in the eye. She couldn’t bear to see whatever brand of disappointment she would find there.
The summer air was sticky, and the sun beat down on her bare shoulders. She really should go water the garden—it hadn’t rained this week—but instead she found herself venturing further into the woods. Gardening always made her feel better when she was stressed or sad, but it didn’t help with this kind of mood. Her hands had balled into bloodstained fists, shaking at her sides. She didn’t trust them to be gentle right now.
In the cover of the trees, Willow paced back and forth across the undergrowth. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and it felt like her veins were stretching under her skin, magic coursing through every bloodpath in her body.
She forced herself to stop moving and close her eyes, sucking in a deep breath. She counted the seconds on her fingers, just like her dads had taught her.
Her eyes snapped open. Dad. Papa.
Where were they now?
A familiar ache seized in her chest. There was nothing she could do to help them. No way to protect them, or even know if they were okay. She couldn’t even help her friends here, couldn’t find a way back home, couldn’t do … anything.
A lump formed in her throat, and hot tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away furiously, remembering at the last second not to touch her face with her sticky fingers. She wouldn’t cry over this. She had to be strong. For Gus, and Hunter, and Amity, and Luz. For her dads. For everyone.
But she didn’t feel strong today. She felt lost, and weak, and broken, and that made her angry—angry at herself for failing again, angry at Belos for hurting people, just … angry.
A groan slipped through her teeth as she paced through the trees again. She still remembered the time when Luz and Amity had entered her mindscape and seen all the burning inside of her. She thought she was done with burning now. But sleeping embers have a way of sparking back into life. Like buried seeds that burst through shell and soil to clamor toward the sun.
Her mindscape was a forest, but Willow had always thought of herself as a garden. She had a multitude of scattered seeds inside her. Some she cultivated carefully (compassion, patience, loyalty, confidence—all the things she wanted to be). And some she ignored, hoping they would never sprout. Those seeds scared her. She didn’t want to know what they could be if they grew.
But some of them grew anyway, without her permission, for years and years, because “out of sight” never really was “out of mind.” She hated that about herself—that underneath all the layers of bud and blossom that she painstakingly grew from her own tears and sweat, bitter seeds slept beneath her soil. They woke unbidden, taking stealthy root inside her heart, creeping upward to choke out every goodness she had fought so hard to keep alive. Anger, fear, hopelessness—they were all like thorny vines that tangled in her ribs and twined around her veins, relentless weeds that crawled through every space and corner and filled her blood like poison, like—
“Captain?”
Willow flinched, pulled back to the reality of the forest around her—the creaking trunks, the fluttering leaves, the rich smell of dirt and moss. And an alarming tightness around her feet. She glanced down to see a thick knot of vines wrapped around her ankles, thorns pressed against her skin.
It had been a long time since that had happened to her.
“Captain?” Hunter asked again.
“What?” she snapped—harsher than she meant to. She kept her back to him, face burning. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the vines.
Hunter hesitated. “Um, we decided to take a break. Camila’s making something called lemon … laminate, I think? Some kind of human drink. If you want some.”
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The starfire juice had dried a little, but it still made her fingers stick together. She took in a slow, deep breath. “No, thanks.”
“Um, are you sure? Luz says it’s—”
“Hunter, please go.”
A pause. “Captain, are you okay?”
Finally, she broke. She spun around, breaking the vines around her ankles. “Why do you still call me that? We only got to play flyer derby together one time. I’m not your captain anymore.”
Hunter blinked, magenta eyes wide. “Of course you are.”
“Why?”
“Because … because I’d follow you anywhere. Captain.”
Hunter held her gaze. His cheeks were flushed, but he stood tall, shoulders squared, like he was ready to follow her into battle right this second. It was the stance of the Golden Guard. A proud soldier who wasn’t afraid of anything.
But Willow had seen Hunter when he was afraid. And lonely. And unsure. She’d seen him happy too—having conversations with Flapjack that she couldn’t really follow, nerding out over some weird human thing with Gus, laughing at Luz’s Principal Bump impression.
It was hard to remember sometimes that not so long ago, he’d been the leader of the Emperor’s Coven. Now, instead of a white cloak and a golden mask, he wore a brightly colored shirt with a pattern of weird squiggles and shapes. (What had Luz called it again? “Bowling alley carpet.”) He looked strangely out of place against the muted forest backdrop, but somehow, he’d always seemed to belong in this place much more than Willow ever did.
Still, he wanted to get back home, and he’d been counting on her back there. Hunter was smart. He studied a lot. He cared a lot. He offered more ideas than anyone else. And he’d seemed so hopeful about this one. And somehow that fact made her failure even worse. Of everyone there, why did it cut the deepest to know that she’d let Hunter down?
Willow sighed. “You shouldn’t follow me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This isn’t a flyer derby match. It’s—it’s real life, and it’s complicated, and it’s scary, and if we lose then …” She swallowed. “You just—you shouldn’t put so much faith in me. I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m just gonna screw it up, like I always do. Like I just did.”
Hunter was quiet for a moment. “Is this about what happened with the door? It wasn’t your fault. We all knew it was a slim shot.”
“No—I mean, yes, but it’s more that that! I just …” Willow sank onto a mossy log. “I’m so tired, Hunter. I’m so tired of being half a witch.”
He didn’t answer for a long time, until she wondered whether he had left. But when she glanced up, he was still standing there, head bowed, with his face hidden in shadow.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry for making you feel like that. I—I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you, especially when I knew it probably wouldn’t work, and—”
“It’s not you,” Willow said quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Neither did you,” he said. “It seems like you conjured that lily perfectly. The only reason it didn’t work was that it was never going to work. It wasn’t a proper substitute for Titan’s blood. I mean, it was just a stupid theory. You can’t blame yourself for not being able to bend the laws of magic.”
“It wasn’t a stupid theory,” Willow said. “Just an untested one.”
Hunter let out a breath. “And now we know it doesn’t work.”
“Right. Now we know.”
Hunter perched on the log beside her and stared down at his shoes (the weird rubber slip-ons with holes in them—his “clowndals,” according to Amity).
“I still think about it all the time, you know,” he said. “That day.”
His voice was such a timid, quiet thing—so unlike his usual eager chatter. His brows were drawn, shoulders sloped, eyes glued to the forest floor, his whole stance colored with remorse.
“What day?” she asked.
“The day we met. When I kidnapped you all for the Emperor’s Coven, and I thought you would be happy, but then you said … you said the same thing. That you’re just half a witch.” He squeezed his eyes shut, like even the thought itself was painful. “I felt awful. I couldn’t believe I had made you of all people feel so … small. I know what that feels like. And I promised myself then that I would never make you feel that way again.”
“You didn’t.”
He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Then why are you saying it now?”
“Because … I know that people look up to me now. Gus. Luz. Even Amity, I think.” She glanced his way but didn’t dare to include him in the list (although, if she was honest, she was pretty sure he should be the first one—a thought that made her feel strange and proud and nervous all at once).
“And I guess sometimes I’m just scared,” she went on. “Scared that underneath everything, I’m still just Half-a-Witch Willow. That I’m just pretending I’m someone different, and everyone’s gonna figure it out. That I’m gonna fail them, because I’m not strong enough to protect them, and I was lying by promising that I could.”
She took a shaking breath. “And I can’t fail. I have to be strong, so we can all get back home. So we can save our families. So we can save the Isles.” She shook her head. “I’ve been slacking off lately. I should be training more. If I’d been training maybe I’d be stronger. And sharper. My magic would be better. Maybe I could’ve conjured up a better lily. One that actually would’ve worked like you said.”
“It was never going to work. Even with a real lily from the lake.”
“Well, we don’t know that. I probably got something wrong. Maybe if I’d—”
“Cap—Willow.”
She fell silent, eyes drawn to the shape of his profile, smattered with gold that filtered down through the leaves.
Hunter breathed in. “I’ve been in the Emperor’s Coven for as long as I can remember. With the best and brightest and strongest witches on the Boiling Isles. But until that day at Hexside, I had never met a witch like you.”
Willow's heartbeat stumbled. She wasn’t sure whether it was what he said or the fact that it was Hunter who said it.
“Your magic is like nothing I’ve ever seen,” he continued, talking faster as he went. “You’re as good as some of the coven heads—and they’ve had years more experience than you! But—but what makes you a great witch is more than just your magic. It’s, like … your”—he paused, apparently struggling for words—“your heart? I don’t know; I’ve known a lot of talented witches whose magic was impressive technically but it just lacked … something. It felt kind of empty, I guess? But yours is never like that.”
He still hadn’t looked at her, but his hands had sprung to life, like they were weaving a subtle magic of their own as he spoke to the trees around them.
“Obviously I can’t do magic,” Hunter said, “but I’ve studied about it a lot. And one thing I learned is that inner magic always has an emotional core. And the quality of the magic depends on where it comes from. And yours … yours always comes from this place of compassion and care and protection. I think that’s why it’s so strong. You’re a powerful witch not just because you’re good at magic but because you’re a good person.”
His voice was slowing down now, softening to match the murmuring trees, and his hands came to rest on knees, gripping the hem of his shorts. “You’re kind, and smart, and brave, and strong. And—and when you don’t feel brave you’re still strong. And when you don’t feel strong you’re still … you’re still … Willow.”
At last, he turned to her, holding her gaze with a look in his eyes that made something stir deep in her chest.
“You’re Willow,” he repeated, softly, almost reverently, like it meant something, like her name was an answer to the most important question. And somehow, she got it.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Hunter groaned.
“Ugh, I don’t know how to say what I mean,” he said. “That was—sorry, that was probably stupid. I—I want to make you understand, but I just—”
“I understand.” Willow paused. “Thank you.”
A blush spread from his cheeks to his ears. “A-anytime,” he said.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The longer she watched him, the more the stirring in her chest grew stronger—like the flowers of her garden were just waking up, unfurling their petals to greet the sun.
She turned her gaze back to the trees.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” she said quietly. “Sometimes I just get … angry. And I have a hard time controlling it.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched for a reaction. She’d just admitted something she didn’t like to admit to anyone, even herself. Those bitter seeds and thorny vines she wished that she could kill.
But Hunter didn’t even move, and when he spoke, his voice was calm. “It's okay. Everyone gets angry.”
She turned back to him. “That’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t treat my friends that way.”
“Well, maybe, sometimes, you just need to … let it out?”
She blinked. “Huh?”
“You have a lot of reasons to be angry,” Hunter said. “You can’t hold it in all the time, right? So if you ever need to be angry … you can be angry at me. It’s okay.” He offered a gentle smile, a loose strand of hair lifting in the breeze.
“Hunter, I’m not mad at you.”
“No, I know! I’m just saying that you can be mad at me. If you need to. If you need somewhere to let it go. I can take it. Promise. I’ve taken worse.”
Her eyes roved over the notch in his ear, the scar on his face, the bags under his eyes—still present after weeks of rest. He had taken a lot. Too much. But he came through it all like this—still hopeful, still trusting, still so willing to place his faith in her.
Somehow she could sense the way she looked to him. He could still see them, she was sure (the weeds and bitter seeds), but that’s not what mattered to him. He saw the whole garden. He saw her.
Willow cleared her throat, ignoring the goosebumps that sprang up on her arms. “I don’t think that will work.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t feel angry when I look at you. I can’t let it go, because when you show up, it’s gone.”
“Oh. Well. That’s—that’s good, I guess.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “Isn’t it?”
She smiled. “Yeah, it is. Thanks, Hunter. For helping me feel like myself again.”
He smiled back, cheeks still dusted in pink. “Cool. Happy to help.”
She couldn’t help but stare at the gap between his teeth; his sharply bent nose; his thick, dark brows that somehow didn’t match his hair at all. All these little things that by themselves might seem imperfect. But when you put them all together, it was Hunter. And Hunter was … Hunter was …
She shook her head, trying not to notice the heat in her cheeks and the fluttering in her stomach. “I think you said there was some, uh, limmy-nad? I want to try some.”
“Yeah. Um, sure.”
They both stood, and she walked quickly in the direction of the house.
“Wait!”
He grabbed her hand but dropped it, cheeks blazing, as soon as she turned around. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
“Y-yeah?” she asked.
He sucked in a breath and addressed a patch of mushrooms at their feet. “Um, I just wanted to tell you that … I know you’re kind of carrying a lot right now, and you—you don’t have to do it by yourself. I learned that, when I ran away. I thought I’d have to be on my own. But—but you and Gus—you saved me. All of you. If it weren’t for you, I’d be—I’d …”
His brow scrunched, and he shook his head.
Willow didn’t want to think about it either.
“The point is, we may not get to play flyer derby anymore, but we’re still a team, right? We’re gonna do this together. All of us.” He straightened, and suddenly that proud soldier was back, looking her squarely in the eye. “You’re not my captain because you know what you’re doing. You’re my captain because you know who you are. And if you ever forget, I’ll be here to remind you. Okay?”
It should’ve been hard to take him seriously in this outfit, with half his scraggly hair falling out of that tiny ponytail, but all his words were bleeding with sincerity. She felt them sink into her skin and bolster up her bones—make her stand a little taller, feel a little stronger. There was a song inside her ribcage and a sun behind her eyes, and she felt her garden blooming, loud and lush and wild.
“Thanks, Hunter,” she whispered.
When they got back to the house, the others seemed to be in good spirits, despite their recent failure. While they talked and laughed at the kitchen table, Willow went to the sink and scrubbed her hands, watching the blue seep out until her skin was clean again.
“Captain?” Hunter appeared at her elbow, holding two glasses of yellow juice. “I brought you some, uh, lemonade.”
“Thanks.” She took one and clinked it against the edge of his. “Cheers!”
“Huh? Oh. Um, cheers.”
They both took a sip. The drink was acidic and sugary, leaving a tangy aftertaste on her tongue.
“Oh, it’s sweeter than I thought!” Hunter wrinkled his nose. “And also … sour?”
His face twisted, eyebrows scrunching, and it was such a ridiculous, over-the-top Hunter face that she had to laugh.
“Hey, don’t judge,” she teased. “You started out as kind of sour yourself when we first met.”
He flushed. “Right.”
“But don’t worry.” She raised her glass to her lips again, hiding her smile behind its rim. “I knew you’d turn out sweet.”
He blinked down at her, liked he’d been temporarily stunned, and then a smile stole across his blushing face.
“Willow, come look at this video.” Gus snickered. “This cat looks just like Hunter.”
Hunter’s head snapped toward the table, where the others were crowded around Luz’s phone. “What? No, it doesn’t.”
“How would you know?” Gus said. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“Let me see.” Hunter lunged toward the table, nearly spilling his drink, while Luz held the phone out of his reach. Willow lingered back for just a minute, laughing softly while she watched.
(As it turned out, the cat did look a lot like Hunter.)
(It was pretty cute, honestly.)
That night, Willow plopped her new scrapbook on the kitchen table, opening to the first page. Camila had given it to her the other day, to fill with all the photos she’d been taking. She sorted through the pile, filing away each memory.
There were … a lot more photos of Hunter than she remembered.
“Hey.”
Willow jumped, swiveling around to find Hunter himself, clutching a potted flower in his hands.
“Hunter! Um, hi!” She quickly swept the photos into a stack, realizing too late that the one one top was a potentially incriminating picture of him attempting to twirl spaghetti on his fork.
“I, uh—I brought you this.” He held up the flower—the starfire lily, newly planted in a terra cotta pot. “I noticed that its petals had regrown, and I thought you should keep it.”
She grinned. “You brought me a flower? How sweet. Now I’m embarrassed. I should’ve brought one for you too.”
His face reddened. “No! I’m, um—technically this is already yours, so I’m just … returning it to you. I just didn’t think the middle of the clubhouse floor was the safest spot for it. But I knew you’d take good care of it.”
Willow stared. “You … you were worried about the lily?”
“Um, well, I just know that you like plants a lot. I mean, of course—you’re a plant witch. Like, the best there is. And, I don’t know, I just thought you’d probably want to look after it. Since its petals came back, you know?”
“That’s—yeah. That’s really thoughtful of you. Thanks.” She took the pot from him and placed it on the table.
“I hope I didn’t hurt it,” he said. “I tried to be extra careful when I was digging it up. Like you taught me in the garden the other day. I didn’t want to make it cry again.”
She smiled. “You did a good job. It seems pretty happy to me.”
“Um, good.” He smiled back nervously. “I’m glad.”
Willow ran a thumb along the smooth edge of a newly born petal. “I totally forgot that their petals regrow. Pretty cool, huh?”
Hunter nodded. “When I saw that they’d come back, I remembered that I’ve read about these flowers before. I used to do a lot of research about potions and stuff, to help my—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Anyway, when the petals regrow, the starfire juice replenishes too. And its stronger every time. The lily may be vain, but it’s really resilient. It’ll regrow every time it’s plucked. It’s very coveted by potioneers, because if you have one it can keep producing starfire juice for years.”
“Wow,” Willow said. “I don’t remember learning about that in class. That’s pretty amazing.”
“Yeah! Apparently they’re also very difficult to conjure, which is partially why they’re in such high demand. Not many witches have the magical skill to summon one that actually has the same properties as a real one. Except for you, I guess.”
He flashed her a smile, and something fluttered in her stomach.
“We don’t know if this one even works with potions. Maybe it just looks pretty.” She turned back to the flower to hide her face. “And you are very pretty! Your petals grew back so nicely,” she cooed down at it.
“Well, you managed to make one that has starfire juice,” he pointed out. “And that regrows its petals.”
“That doesn’t mean it works in potions.” She glanced up from the lily with a smile. “We’d have to test it to be sure, wouldn’t we? Just like your theory.”
“I don’t have to test it to know you did it right. You—you’re an amazing witch, Willow.” He rubbed the back of his neck, ears pink, and Willow felt heat rise to her cheeks.
“I think—I think you’re kind of like a starfire lily,” he said in a rush. “’Cause hard things have happened to you, but you always come back stronger. And you make all of us stronger too. Amplify our effects … or whatever. ’Cause you’re the captain, and you make the team better.”
Willow’s face felt like it was glowing now, and so did her chest. Hunter finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, and she blinked back at him, at a loss for what to say.
You make me feel stronger too, Hunter.
“Thanks,” she said at last. “That means a lot.”
His fingers found the hem of his oversized pajama shirt, fiddling with the fabric. “Also, um, just so you know … it’s okay to cry when your petals are plucked. It’s—it’s not vain. It sucks. Even if you come back stronger, it’s okay to feel hurt first. Or—or angry. Or lost.”
She stared at him, heart pounding, feeling, once again, that he was seeing straight through her—to the vines and trees and blossoms, to the weeds and bitter seeds. He saw it, she knew. He saw it all.
“Sorry!” he said quickly, waving his hands in front of his face. “Was that—? That was weird. Or, like, I didn’t mean—I was just—”
“No,” she said, “it was really nice.”
Without thinking, she stepped closer, and she could almost hear his heartbeat pick up (or maybe that was just an echo of her own).
Hunter cleared his throat. “Well, Gus and I were gonna watch a movie. If you want to join.”
“I was gonna work on this.” She gestured to the scrapbook. “Maybe next time?”
“Sure. Of course.” For a second he just stood there, arms hanging limply at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do next. Then he blinked into motion with a jerk. “Uh, bye!”
He was halfway to the stairs when she stopped him. “Hunter.”
He turned back. “Yeah?”
She let the pattern fill her mind—blinding beams and blooming spots and gentle dappled gold.
Her spell circle glowed in the air, and a flower fell into Hunter’s hands.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A thank-you,” she said. “For the lily. And for helping me today.”
“Oh.” He stared down at it, gripping the stem in his fist. “What kind is it?”
“It’s called a sunflower. It’s from the human realm. It, um, kind of reminds me of you.”
He looked up. “It does? Why?”
Her fingers were tingling, and she wasn’t sure if it was residual magic or something else.
“I don’t know. It’s bright. And happy.” She paused. “It makes me smile.”
He blinked, lips parting to give her a glimpse of the gap between his teeth. Then he smiled softly, bright and warm to match the flower in his hands. “Me too.”
“Hunter!” Gus called up the stairs. “Are you coming? The movie’s getting cold, dude.”
“That doesn’t—what does that even mean?” Hunter called back.
“It means get your butt down here or I’m gonna find out what happened to Shrek and Fiona without you!”
“No—wait! I’ll be right there!” Hunter stumbled toward the stairs. “Um, good night, Captain! Thanks for the sunflower.”
“Night, Hunter.”
Willow sank onto a chair at the table, listening to the sounds of the movie drifting up from the basement. She pulled the scrapbook toward her and ran a hand over its smooth, empty pages.
They’d been busy in the human realm for these last few weeks. When they weren’t working on the portal door, they were exploring their new world, trying to make memories to distract them from home. Already Willow had dozens of photos, enough to fill half the scrapbook, probably. But where to start?
She picked up the photo on the top of the stack—the one of Hunter gracelessly eating a bowl of spaghetti. She laughed softly. Maybe not this one (but it was definitely a keeper).
The next one was a group shot, all of them standing in front of the newly refurbished clubhouse. Hunter stood at her side, with Flapjack on his shoulder, wearing a smile so bright that it rivaled the sun.
Carefully, Willow taped the photo into the scrapbook. Not too shabby! she wrote underneath.
She flipped through the book of stickers Camila had gotten her, and one of them caught her eye. A smiling sunflower, lifting a leaf like it was waving hello. She peeled it off and stuck it in the scrapbook, right next to Hunter.
Beside her, a leftover drop of starfire juice was clinging to the lily’s stem. Willow wiped it up with a finger and then pressed it to the scrapbook next to the sticker, stamping the paper with a blue fingerprint.
“To remember today,” she told the lily. “You have to remember the hard things too. Because the hard stuff leads to the good stuff, you know?”
She stared at the tip of her finger, stained once again with blue. “It was nice, to talk with him like that,” she whispered. “I hope we get to talk like that again.”
When they got home—when all of this was over—she hoped they’d get to play flyer derby. She hoped she’d get to be the captain again. (It was nice that at least to Hunter, she still was.)
One day, she decided, they’d leave practice together and have a long talk, like they did today, and she’d repay the favor and tell him everything that made him wonderful.
But for now, it was nice to talk like that here, with sap-sticky hands and thorn-bitten ankles and a heartbeat that wouldn’t stand still. It would be nice to talk like that, she thought, no matter where they were.
Willow glued another photo to the page.
One day they would all make it home. But until then, she was here with a scrapbook, so she would fill it up with long talks, and lemonade, and starfire lilies.