Part 1
"So when did you know?"
The girl's voice cuts through the crackle of the fire. She's still awake, still watxhing me like I'm a story she hasn't finished reading.
"Know what?" I ask, though I already know what she means.
"That you were...different. That you had magic?"
I smile, slow and dry.
"Oh, I didn't know. Not at first. But Agatha did. And the cottage certainly noticed."
She leans forward, eager.
"What happened?"
"What always happens when you magic wakes up," I blunty reply. "Accidents"
I was five when the kettle exploded.
One moment it was whistling gently on the hearth, and the next it was shrieking like a banshee and spraying water across the rafters. Agatha didn't flinch. She just muttered a ward under her breath and caught the shards midair with a flick of her fingers.
I, on the other hand, burst into tears.
"It screamed at me," I sobbed, pointing at the scorthed kettle hook.
Agatha raised an eyebrow. "It boiled. That's what kettles do."
"But it sceamed!"
She crouched beside me, her knees cracking like old old. "Magic doesn't always come with trumpets and moonlight, girl. Sometimes ir's just a kettle that doesn't like being ignored."
That was the first time. But not the last.
By six, I'd shattered three windows, set the broom on fire (twice), and accidently turned Agatha's cat into a very confused hedgehog. The cat never forgave me. The hedgehog, oddly, did.
Agatha never yelled. She didn't coddle either. She just watched, often while tapping her fingers on the table and waited to see if the chick would fly or fall.
"Magic," she told me one morning as I tried to unstick my fingers from a jar of honey that had fused to the table. "Is like a wild dog. Feed it wrong, and it bites. Starve it, and it howls. But train it..."
She snapped her fingers. The jar popped free. "...and it'll guard your throat instead of tearing it out."
I nodded solemnly, honey dripping from my chin.
"So she tauhgt you?" the girl asks.
"She taught me how not to die," I reply. "The rest I had to learn the hard way."
"And the accidents stopped?"
I laugh. "No. They just got bigger."
The next accidnet came two days later.
I was supposed to be sweeping the hearth. Instead, I was arguing with the broom.
"It keeps moving," I snapped, glaring at bristles as they twitched away from my grip. "It doesn't like me."
"Then charm it," Agatha called from the pantry. "Or threaten it. Just get the ashes out before supper."
I muttred something unkind under my breath. It jerked sideways, smacked into the cauldron, and sent a jar of powdered sage tumbling off the shelf.
The jar didn't break. It exploded.
A cloud of green dust filled the room, coating everything-walls, windows, the cat (who yowled and vanished) and Aagatha, who emerged from the pantry with a face like thunder and eyebrows full of herbs.
"Circe."
"I didn't mean to-"
"Intentions don't matter when the cottage smells like a bloody apothecary!"
She waved a hand, and the dust vanished into a gust of wind that rattled the shutters. I stood frozen, broom in hand, cheeks burning.
That night, the stew tasted faintly of sage and shame.
The next morning, I tried to help with laundry. I thought I could dry the sheets faster with a little heat . Just a flicker. Just a whisper of flame.
The clothesline caught fire.
Agatha didn't say a word. She stared at the smoking remains of her best linen and exhaled slowly through her nose.
"I was trying to help," I said.
"You were trying to show off."
"I wasn't-"
"You're not a dragon, girl. You don't need to breath fire every time you're frustrated."
I clenched my fists. "Maybe if you actually taught me something instead of just yelling-"
The table cracked down the middle.
Silence.
Agatha's eyes narrowed. "Out! Now!"
I stormed outside, heart pounding, hands still warm with the echo of magic. The wind hissed through the trees like it was laughing at me.
"You had a temper," the girl says softly.
"Still do," I mutter. "Back then it burned hotter than my magic. And Agatha...she was running out of patience.
Part 2
The forest didn't care that I was angry. It creaked and whispered like it always did, the wind threading through the branches like it was humming a tune only it understood.
I sat on a mossy rock and glared at nothing.
"She doesn't get it," I muttured. "She never gets it."
A twig snapped by. I flinched, half-expecting Agatha to appeat from the shadows like she always did when I thought I was alone. But it was a squirrel, chittering at me like I 'd disturbed its afternoon.
I sighed and picked up a stick, dragging through the dirt. Sparks danced at my fingertips- tiny, flickering that fizzled out before they could catch.
I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.
Instead, I whispered a spell under my breath. Just a small one. Just enough to make the stick glow.
It burst into flame.
I yelped and dropped it, watching it smolder in the leaves. My heart pounded. My hands shook.
I wasn't trying to burn anything. I just wanted to feel like I do something right.
Behind me, the wind shifted. I didn't turn around.
"I told you not to speak to me," Agatha said, her voice quiet but sharp.
"I didn't," I muttured.
She stepped closer. "You're sulking."
"I'm thinking!"
"Same thing, when you're this age."
I didn't answer. I didn't have to. The silence between us said enough.
Agatha turned and walked back toward the cottage, her shawl trailing behind her like a shadow. She didn't look back.
I sat there, fists clenched, teeth grinding. The forest pressed in around me, too quiet, too still.
"She doesn't care," I muttured. "She never cared"
The words came out sharp, bitter. I didn't mean them. Not really. But they felt good to say.
"She justs me to be to be quiet. To be small. To be safe."
A gust of wind stirred the leaves. The trees seemed to lean in, listening.
"She doesn't teach me anthing real. Just chores and riddles and rules. Always rules."
My voice rose with every word. My hands trembled. Sparks danced at my fingertips again-hotter this time. Hungrier.
"She doesn't want me to be strong. She wants me to hers."
The moss beneath me blackened. The shimmered with heat.
The ground cracked.
A ring of scorched earth spread outward from where I sat. The trees groaned. Birds scattered. The wind howled- not like before, but it was afraid.
I stood, breathing hard, magic pulsing through me like wildfire. My eyes burned. My skin buzzed.
Then I heard the door creak open.
Agatha stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "If you're going to set the forest on fire, at least have the decency to do it where I can see it."
I turn on her, voice sharp.
"Why did you even take me in if all you were going to do was hate me?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I don't hate you."
"You act like you do!"
"I act like someone who tired of cleaning up after a child who thinks magic is a toy!"
"I didn't ask for this!" I shouted. "I didn't ask to be left on your doorstep like some cursed thing!"
"No, she said, stepping forward. "But you were. And I took you in. I fed you. I protected you. I taught you what I could-"
"You taught me nothing! You hoard your spells like secrets and expect me to just sweep floors and smile!"
"Because you're not ready!"
"I'll never be ready if you keep treating me like I'm broken!"
The wind howled. Sparks flared at my fingertips. The trees bent inward, as if bracing for a storm.
Agatha's voice dropped, low and cold. "You think I'm hard on you? You think I'm cruel? The world outside this forest will eat you alive, Circe. It won't care about your feelings. It won't care that you're powerful. It will fear you. And it will burn you for it."
I stared at her, breathing hard, magic crackling in the air between us.
"I'm not afraid of them," I said.
"You should be."
Silence.
Then, quietly, Agatha turned and walked back inside.
I stood there, trembling, the heat in my chest slowly fading into something hollow. The trees no longer whispered. The wind no longer stirred.
I was alone.
Part 3
I didn't speak to her that night.
I barely looked at her when I came back inside, face flushed, hands still tingling with the aftershock of magic. She didn't say anything either. Just handed me a bowl of stew and went back to her chair by the fire.
I didn't finish the stew.
Instead, I climbed the stairs to the attic room and slammed the door behind me.
The room was small—bare floorboards, a narrow bed, a crooked window that looked out over the trees. It smelled of old books and dried herbs. It had always felt safe.
Tonight, it felt like a cage.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, palms open, breathing hard.
"Focus," I whispered. "Control it. You can control it."
I closed my eyes and reached inward, the way Agatha had shown me once—just once—when I was younger. I found the spark. The heat. The storm.
I tried to shape it.
The candle on the windowsill flared, then shattered. Wax splattered across the wall. The air grew thick and hot. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
"Calm," I hissed. "Calm, damn you—"
The floorboards cracked beneath me. The bedframe groaned. My books flew from the shelf in a sudden gust of wind that had no source.
I screamed—not in fear, but in fury—and the mirror on the wall exploded.
Downstairs, I heard footsteps. Then a knock.
"Circe?" Agatha's voice, low and cautious. "Are you hurt?"
I didn't answer.
Another knock. Firmer this time. "Open the door."
"No."
Silence.
Then, softer: "Please."
I stared at the broken glass, the scorched floor, the flickering shadows that danced across the walls like they were mocking me.
"I can't do it," I whispered.
"You can," she said through the door. "But not alone."
The candle flickered low.
My hands had stopped glowing. My breath came in shallow pulls. Every muscle in my body ached like I'd been wrung out and left to dry.
I lay curled on the floor, cheek pressed to the warm wood, eyes half-lidded. The tears had dried. The magic had quieted. But I felt hollow—like I'd poured too much of myself into the fire and hadn't kept enough to stand.
I didn't hear the door open.
I only noticed when the light shifted and a shadow fell across me.
Agatha stood in the doorway, her shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, her face unreadable.
She stepped inside slowly, her boots crunching over broken glass and scattered pages. Her eyes swept the room—the scorched floorboards, the cracked mirror, the faint scorch marks on the ceiling—and finally settled on me.
I didn't move. I didn't have the strength.
She crouched beside me, knees creaking, and placed a hand on my forehead.
"You're burning up," she muttered. "Fool girl."
I closed my eyes. "I was trying to control it."
"You were trying to conquer it," she said. "There's a difference."
Silence.
Then, softer: "You'll kill yourself if you keep pushing like this."
I didn't answer. I didn't have to.
She sighed and stood. "Come on. Let's get you off the floor."
I felt her arms slide under mine—stronger than they looked—and she lifted me gently, guiding me toward the bed. I didn't resist. I couldn't.
She pulled the blanket over me and turned to leave.
"Agatha?" I murmured.
She paused.
"I'm sorry."
She didn't turn around. But I saw her shoulders shift.
"Rest," she said. "We'll try again tomorrow."
And then she was gone, leaving the door open just a crack.