Page 47 of Bring Me Your Midnight

“What do you mean?”

I shake my head and start walking again, but Ivy stops me. “Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“It’s just something he said about duty mattering more than anything else. He said he couldn’t promise me love.”

“Did you ask for that?”

“No, of course not,” I say. “I just asked that he be open to it. I guess I always thought that once we began our courtship, there would be a spark.” I shrug. “I realize how silly that sounds now.”

My mother is far ahead of us, and we start walking again, Ivy’s arm looped through mine once more.

“It isn’t silly. I don’t know how anyone could spend an extended amount of time with you and not fall completely in love. He’ll be a fool for you one day; just give it time.”

I smile at the words, but my stomach is tight, because as much as I want to believe her, I don’t think I do. I squeeze her arm; the weight of her next to me feels good, anchoring me to this world and this magic and this life. She’s trying to protect me, and I’m grateful for it. We all need protection at some point, and I think this is mine.

Because sometimes, in the middle of the night when the Witchery is sleeping, I feel myself slipping away. Slipping away to darker magic and broken rules, to the western shore and a boy who’s sharp and beautiful, like raw crystal pulled from the earth.

And I don’t want to slip away. So I cling to Ivy a little tighter than necessary as we catch up to my mother.

“Ready, girls?” she asks, stopping in front of Ms. Talbot’s dress shop.

“Let’s find a dress,” I reply. My mother nods in approval, then sweeps into Satin & Silk like the autumn breeze down Main Street.

“Hello, Ms. Talbot,” she says. We have the shop to ourselves. Mom set up a private appointment so that she, Ivy, Ms. Talbot, and me would be the only people to see the dress before the ball. It seems a little excessive to me, but I’m happy to go along with it. I’ve been looking forward to the ball my whole life.

Every witch has their own ball the night of their twentieth birthday because it is the individual that makes our coven strong.With each witch who renounces dark magic and commits themself to the new order, we get stronger. We get more stable. We get closer to the life we’re striving for.

And my ball will seal that life with the announcement of my engagement to Landon.

My mother is right: I need the perfect dress.

“Well, Tana, this is very exciting indeed,” Ms. Talbot says as she brings out a pot of tea and three teacups.

We sit down on an ivory tufted sofa that faces a raised platform with a wall of mirrors on the other side. The room is immaculate and bright, and sunlight streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the gilded mirrors glisten.

“What are you looking for, dear?” Ms. Talbot asks, standing in front of me.

My mother begins speaking, but I cut her off. “I’d like something the color of the ocean,” I say. “As if I were born of the sea. Train in the back. No lace or frills. I want to look dramatic. Alluring.”

“Tana, don’t you want something a little brighter? Softer?”

“No.”

My mother takes a sip of her tea. “Very well. That sounds lovely.”

Ms. Talbot claps her hands, then rushes to the back for fabric samples.

My mind wanders as Ivy and my mom begin talking about Ivy’s ball, which will be just a few months after mine. Their conversation is easy and smooth—they get excited about the same things and emphasize the same words. They are both such perfect products of their environment, put together and warm and powerful.

Wolfe is wrong about low magic. He’s wrong that we’re cowards and a disgrace to witches. He thinks we’re weak because he can’t see past his narrow definition of strength.

Strength is shrouding ourselves in a veil of passivity to save the people we love.

Strength is allowing the mainlanders to see our vulnerabilities in order to be accepted.

Strength is swallowing our words when people like Wolfe dare to label us as weak.