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I look up at the woman across from me. “I’ve had to live with my memory loss for the past three years,” I admit. “Ever since my powers Awoke. And yes, spellcasting eats my memories, and it can make my life very complicated.

“But I cannot live without magic. Surely you understand that,” I say, my gaze sweeping over all the witches sitting across from me. “And there’s so much more to me and my magic than my memory loss.” Like the fact I’m organized as hell. I’m so goddessdamned organized, it would make her head spin. “I would like the chance to show Henbane that side of me. I have a lot to offer.”

By the time I’m finished, my magic has swathed me in its soft sunset glow. I’m wearing all my emotions out in the open, and it’s making me feel uncomfortable and exposed.

The head witch stares at me for several seconds. Eventually, she taps the table, then stands. “Thank you for your time,” she says. Everything about her expression and posture looks solemn and guarded.

Fuck.

Today was supposed to be my day. I spent so many months working toward this. There is no backup plan, except to reapply again in another four months.

I mean to get up, but my ass is rooted to this chair.

“Selene?” the head witch says. “Thank you for your time.” Just the way she says it is supposed to be hint enough. She wants me to leave. The next interviewee might already be waiting out in the hall.

Emotion tightens my throat, and my hands are clasped so tightly, it hurts.

“I contest your rejection,” I say, staring up at the head witch.

She pauses a moment, then lets out an incredulous laugh. “You’re a soothsayer now? You peered into the future and saw your results?”

I didn’t need to, though her biting response is confirmation enough.

Before I can let it get to me, I straighten my spine. “I contest it,” I repeat.

She shakes her head. “That’s not how it works.”

Now I do stand, placing my palms on the desk. “I may not have the best memory, but I am persistent, and I can promise you one thing: Iwillkeep applying and keep coming back here until you reconsider.”

It’s my toxic trait not to give up.

“If I may interrupt,” says one of the other women. It’s the witch with the wiry hair. “You might not remember me, but I am Constance Sternfallow.”

She flashes me a tight smile. “I think you are a fantastic candidate,” she says, “but your application is flawed in a couple of critical places. You need a better magic quest than the one you’ve submitted, and you need a familiar. I know it says that’s optional, but really, we do require it in most cases.”

Constance glances at the other women sitting at the table. One of them gives her a slight nod.

Returning her attention to me, Constance says, “If you can provide those two things—”

“Constance,” the head witch cautions.

“—then, Selene Bowers,” Constance continues, ignoring her, “you will be formally accepted to Henbane Coven.”

CHAPTER2

All magic comes at a cost.

For sorcerers, it’s their conscience. For shape-shifters, it’s their physical form. For me, it’s my memory.

I’m a bit of an oddity among witches. For the vast majority of them, the spell components pay for their magic. And if it doesn’t, the rest comes from their ever-replenishing life force. And while my own power follows the same rules, it also takes a few memories while it’s at it.

It wasn’t always this way for me. I had a normal childhood—well, as normal as one can have when their mother’s a witch and their father’s a mage—but ever since I hit puberty and my magic Awoke, it’s been this way.

I step out of Morgana Hall, staring up at the cloudy sky, excitement and gut-churning anxiety twisting my insides.

I pull out my notebook and flip to the first blank page. As fast as I can, I scribble down the important bits:

August 29