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Directly across from me is a witch with raven-black hair, thin downturned lips, and shrewd eyes. I think I’ve spoken to her before, there’s something vaguely familiar about her features, but her identity lies just beyond my reach…

She looks up from her notes and squints at me. After a moment, her frown deepens. “You again?”

With that question, I swear the entire mood of the room shifts from inviting to tense.

I swallow delicately. “Yes, me,” I say hoarsely before clearing my throat. I’m frightened this interview is now doomed before it’s even begun.

The witch who spoke returns her attention to the papers in front of her. She licks her finger and flips through them. “I was under the impression we were interviewing a different applicant,” she says.

What am I supposed to say to that? Sorry I’m not someone else?

Short of shape-shifting into another person, I don’t think I can appease her.

Another witch, one with a hooked nose and wiry gray hair, says gently, “Selene Bowers, it’s lovely to meet you. Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself and why you’d like to join Henbane Coven?”

This is it. My chance.

I take a deep breath, and I dive in.

For thirty minutes, I answer various questions about my abilities, my background, and my magical interests. Most of the witches nod encouragingly. The only notable exception to this is that hawk-eyed witch who looks at me like I’m a spell gone bad. It’s all I can do to answer the questions I get without letting her intimidate me into silence.

“It’s been a dream of mine to be a part of Henbane Coven for as long as I can remember.”

“How longcanyou remember?” says the witch in front of me.

I squeeze my hands together, a wisp of pale orange magic slipping from between them. I’ve danced around this topic in my previous responses, not quite sure how to handle it.

“It…depends,” I say now. “But my memory in no way affects my determination or my abilities,” I say.

“But it would,” she counters. “It would affect your ability. Spellcasting costs you your memories, correct?”

There it is, out in the open.

I tighten my jaw. “Yes, but—”

She flips through the papers in front of her before pulling one out and placing it on top of the others. “The medical records you released suggest that, and I quote, ‘It is believed that the patient’s memory loss is a magic-based disease with no known equivalent and no known cure. It appears to be a progressive disease. Prognosis: terminal.’”

The silence that follows her words is somehow very, very loud. I can hear my own breath leaving my lungs. More magic has slipped out of me, rising from my hands like a wisp of smoke.

“So,” she continues, “every bit of power you use chips away at your mind, am I correct?”

After a moment’s hesitation, I give her a halting nod.

“And with every use of your magic, your brain deteriorates.”

“It doesn’tdeteriorate,” I protest, annoyed by that word. I lose memories, not functionality.

Now the witch’s expression softens, but it’s pity I see on her face. I hate that, more than anything else. I hate it so much, it’s hard to breathe.

“At Henbane Coven,” she says, “we don’t simply embrace all manner of disabilities—we hold those witches in particularly high regard.”

She’s not lying. There’s a reason some of the most powerful witches have been blind, and the first recorded witch in Europe to fly a broom—Hildegard Von Goethe—did so because she had limited mobility.

“But at Henbane Coven,” she continues, “you will be asked to rigorously perform magic. If your magic use is directly related to your memory loss, then being here will undoubtedly speed up your…condition. How can we, in good conscience, ask that of you?”

I swallow. It’s a fair question. It makes me feel panicked and desperate, but it’s fair all the same.

I glance down at my hands. I’ve had to think over this very thing so many times. Do I walk away from magic simply because using it will one day kill me?