Emma Hinds

“Every witch I’ve ever met says I’m too powerful, I’m too much, I’m not safe,” I say. “Not safe to be anyone’s friend, to study with anyone, to be trusted.”

To be loved by anyone, I add silently, kicking my Doc Martens against the wall of the canal. When I’ve got control of my grief, soaring through my chest like a bird with feathers made of sorrow, I go on.

“Maybe if I could actually shift it would be different, but my power doesn’t make me feel safer,” I admit, not letting my voice rise above a whisper, too ashamed to speak loudly. “Mostly, I just feel … fucking lonely.”

Bastian doesn’t say anything for a while. I wonder if I spoke too quietly for him to hear. A goose flaps its wings and slides into the water, gently paddling upstream. Then he speaks.

“We could study together,” he says.

He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but a statement. It’s funny, because in it I hear something different. You don’t have to be alone is what I hear. I’ve not felt that in a while now, like someone believes I’m safe to be around. That someone wants my company. Bastian might treat witchcraft differently to any witch I’ve ever met, but he’s here and he’s not afraid of me.

“Yeah, okay,” I say.”
― Emma Hinds, Witchlore

“We are the bird, we are the river, we are the tempest, we are our own music, all the time, always singing.”
― Emma Hinds, Witchlore