Paris, France, one year ago… 

Schala walked down a stone path in downtown Paris, her eyes on the ground before her. She silently counted her steps while her mind was aflutter with thoughts. Words spread across the cobblestone ground like parchment paper, and her eyes danced, reading the letters like a novel she’d memorized. 

1,444… 1,445, 1,445… 

The clacking of her heeled boots against the cobblestones served as her metronome, and the counting became an unexpected rhythm. She had to make her appointment, or she’d get an earful and a tanned hind. 

Schala never knew the name of her affliction, not at first. Many people in the Sorcery Society dealt with it on their own terms, but they rarely spoke about it, not even in confidence. 

Her first panic attack came during her sister’s first big party when they were both ten. The sheer amount of people made her feel like suffocating, and it didn’t take long for her to feel like she was falling into a deep, black pit. 

Schala could never confide in her parents to understand. Who could understand an affliction people rarely talked about? To her Mathilde – especially to her - it felt like she was trying to make excuses for herself. The sudden panic, the rubbing, the deconstruction around her… How could that be an excuse? 

If anything, it felt like her parents had hidden things from her and Remilia. Schala felt it the most out of the two. 

She unconsciously stepped around people going about their lives. Buildings of stone and mortar encroached upon her the further she walked, and she idly rubbed her gloved hands. 

The consultant’s office wasn’t far now. It’d take precisely 2,542 steps to get there, and Schala was on step 1,458. She did her best to walk expediently, avoiding eye contact with those she passed. She walked right through their shadow and appeared in their peripheral. 

“I don’t make excuses, mother,” Schala uttered under her breath. “It’s not something I can just wish away. That’s the only reason I’m going to this lady – proof.” 

The events of fifteen minutes replayed in her mind; every detail recreated vividly. Schala wanted to make sure she didn’t miss anything or interpret things wrong. It was an argument, another futile attempt to convey her feelings to Mathilde. 

“It’s not something I can control, mother,” Schala repeated.  

She wished Remilia was here to calm her down. Remilia always knew exactly when she needed help, and it was thanks to their thorned rose tattoos, a direct link to each other’s emotions. But Mathilde told Remilia to stay behind. It was Schala’s session to suffer through. 

“My brain goes from as calm as a creek to spinning like a hurricane in a blink. I’m stuck in a race I’m not prepared for, begging for the judges to disqualify me. I’m begging my mind. I’m begging for answers.” 

She felt herself walk on autopilot, drifting in and out of memories as her feet moved toward her destination until she felt herself stop. 

Schala looked around. She was in a warm room with earthy colors, a well-crocheted quilt draping the windows. A woman with pulled-back dreadlocks sat across from Schala, her eyes a brilliant sterling silver to the point where they looked as transparent as mirrors. Her nails shared the same color, Schala noticed; the woman’s fingers scribbled quickly in a notepad that disappeared once she stopped. Her quill pen remained in her grasp, and she laid her writing hand on top of her free one. 

Schala hated when she’d reach places and not realize it until mid-conversation. As if the world refused to acknowledge her arrival until the most inopportune time. 

Schala sat, her face plain, unreadable. The woman across from her, the Reader (as the Sorcery Society called her; they were unsure of her name) observed Schala’s slight movements and breathing patterns. 

The Reader had a sort of crown on her head, holding back her hair through a loop. She wore a corset with a sleeveless shirt, a choker with a pearl situated in its center, and a necklace laced with small skulls leading down to an animal’s skull that Schala couldn’t recognize. 

“It’s a monkey’s skull,” the Reader answered. “My best friend from long ago in Africa.” 

“Oh. I wasn’t about to ask that—” 

“But you reacted to my neckline and focused on my necklace. So I answered your question,” she replied quickly. 

Schala sighed. “That doesn’t get annoying? Knowing what people are saying or thinking by watching them?” 

The Reader looked nonplussed for a split second. “Not really? Wow, no one’s really asked me that before. Usually, they’d try to hide their emotions more, but it doesn’t work that way. As for me, it’s not annoying. It teaches me a lot about people. They’ll fight tooth and nail to hide themselves from prying eyes, to avoid being caught.” 

Schala leaned forward slightly. “What am I hiding?” 

“Resentment.” The Reader answered as quickly as Schala spoke.  

She leaned forward to mimic Schala’s position; Schala could see an intricate tattoo adorning the skin between her breasts, and she pondered how far it went and how detailed it was. 

“Down my navel, my thighs, and around my back.” 

“Okay, stop that,” Schala said. 

The Reader chuckled. “In all my years, I’ve never met such a precocious seventeen-year-old. Your mind is amazing,” she said with a smile. 

Schala looked down. “Thank you. You’d be the first one to acknowledge that, being so—so—” 

“Old?” The Reader answered. 

Schala nodded. “Yeah.” 

“You don’t get to live as long as I have without learning not to be offended by half the things people nowadays do. The grays in my hair, that’s God’s graffiti.” 

Schala smiled and nodded more confidently. 

“Tell me about what your mother said earlier.” 

Schala sighed. She switched voices, heightened her pitch, and responded, “You’re too young to be overthinking so much. If you’d focus on what’s important, like your obligations to the family and clan, then you won’t have time to be thinking so hard.” 

The voice was stern, aloof, and fastidious, a not-so-flattering mockup of her mother’s retorts to Schala’s pleas. 

“For a race of people blessed with such amazing gifts and longevity, we sure do propagate generational traumas and ignore problems. It’s why I do what I do,” the Reader said. 

“It feels like pages in a book swiping without warning,” Schala informed. “More and more chapters open in my mind without my permission.” 

“Tell me how she reacted to your brother? Has she at all?” 

Schala grew quiet. The Reader knew she treaded on sacred ground. The latter waited for her patient to respond. 

Schala drew in breath sharply. “It’s been three years since she said anything.” 

“It’s been three years since that day, but your description of it is fresh. The wound hasn’t healed.” 

“I tried to fix it,” Schala said simply, her eyes wandering to the ground. “I tried to change things. The same way I fixed my hands.” 

The Reader’s face grew concerned and direct. “Is that when you promised?” 

Schala nodded. 

“You may have promised your sister you wouldn’t use that magic, but I think the real reason you refuse to use it is deeper than that; it’s based in your fear of what would happen.” The Reader took a quick note, set aside her notepad, and leaned forward to meet Schala’s gaze. 

The Reader continued, “What if your refusal to use that magic, and your mother’s lack of acknowledgement comes from the trauma of seeing your brother…” 

“I don’t want to say it. I don’t.” 

The Reader nodded. “Fine. We won’t. I understand; I don’t want to pry. But denial can be a powerful inhibitor among our community. Acceptance of reality as it is; that’s the first step out of your trauma. The simplest solution would be embracing life and go for what you want. Our world has so much to offer. Maybe it’s time you start thinking about what that could mean for you and your sister.” 

Schala let a small smile creep across her lips. The Reader smiled and sat back in her chair. 

“Some magic’s beyond our understanding, Schala. Until we learn to accept that, we can never move forward.” 

Schala scoffed softly. “I guess I haven’t learned how to do that yet. Remilia has, but I haven’t.” 

The Reader stood and sat next to Schala on the couch. “We all grow in our own time. We have our own journeys to embark on. Take your time on your path and use the time wisely. It’s your life, your choice. Choose how you want to live it.” 

Schala nodded, a small smile ever present. “Thank you, Reader. Wow, it feels weird saying that out loud. But thanks. I appreciate it. Just talking things out, it gave me a new outlook on things.” 

“And it only took one session. No wasted money here.” 

Schala laughed. “Yep. None of my parents’ money wasted.”