Yael shrieks, then uses the small cup of water I’ve placed on everyone’s desk for this exact reason.

No one is any worse for wear except for the hem of poor Berta’s cape, which drips sadly onto the floor.

Once the chaos has calmed down and all the chairs have been righted, the ruckus starts right up again as Theo in the back row creates a spark of light and holds it too close to their desk, burning a hole right into the wood.

I can’t help but smile at the scene.

The first semester I taught this lesson, no fewer than three students burst into tears. Another went back up to her room, determined to practice, and burnt her curtains to a crisp.

I might feel like barely a teacher, but there is nothing more rewarding as an instructor than communicating to my students, Yes, that giant, awful, incredible, endless power you feel within yourself is real. You did not imagine it. You truly do contain that much.

It’s teaching them what to do with it that remains the hard part.

It’s hard keeping my secret too. The students don’t know yet.

At least I don’t think they’ve figured it out.

If they have noticed that I stopped demonstrating months ago, they haven’t said anything. I read from the textbook and ask students to come up and practice, but it’s been ages since I performed an actual spell myself.

It’s made even worse by me not knowing how to explain it. It’s not that my magic is gone; it’s just… wrong.

It’s unpredictable, it zaps and stings like a live wire. Every day, it feels further out of reach; like a lighter without fuel, it sparks but it doesn’t catch flame. I can feel it, but I can’t make it bend to my will like it used to.

It started slowly. My demonstrations in class didn’t work right, or when I tried to close a door while lying in my bed it would slam instead of gently latch. Ann noticed too. We were rolling out pie crusts in the kitchen together. I tried to float a stick of butter from the butcher block to the ice chest, but halfway across the room, it splattered all over the floor. Maxine magicked a ball of embroidery thread across the sunroom for my latest cross-stitch, but I was unable to stop it and it smacked me directly in the forehead.

At first it was embarrassing. Now I’m starting to panic.

The first few weeks, Florence thought it was nerves. “You’ve been through so much,” she said kindly as I clutched a steaming tea mug in my hands and cried in her office.

But it hasn’t gotten any better.

In fact, it’s getting worse.