Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“You have however long Headmistress Nightworthy thinks you need,” Avery corrected. “That’s why some students graduate early and some have been here for years.”
I couldn’t imagine being stuck in high school for years and I said so.
“Don’t worry, Princess Latimer.” Avery chucked me under the chin. “You’ll be here exactly as long as you need to—just like we all are. Now you’d better get to class before the bell chimes again. The Other Studies teachers around here are way stricter than the ones teaching the Norm classes.”
Then he strolled off down the hall in a leisurely manner whistling to himself and apparently in no hurry to get to his own next class, despite his warning to me. I watched him for a moment, feeling like I had made a friend—or at least an extremely amusing acquaintance. His self-deprecating humor was hilarious—but I had to wonder if he was hiding some kind of hurt beneath it. Clearly he wasn’t nearly as close to his father as he was to his mother.
Well, at least he still had a mother. I sighed, still feeling a little envious…a little sad.
Mom, I miss you so much sometimes. I wish I could call you and tell you about the crazy day I’m having!
But the crazy day wasn’t over yet.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the wooden door bound in silver and entered the Elementary Casting classroom.
The Elementary Casting teacher introduced herself as “Ms. Yasmeen” and she had carrot red hair, a beaky nose, and a stick-thin figure swathed in a crushed red velvet cocktail dress. The dress seemed like a rather eccentric choice to teach class in and the color clashed horribly with her hair but she didn’t appear to give a damn.
“Everyone have a seat, have a seat,” she directed in a loud, clear voice that reminded me of a bugle call.
I was about to sit in one of the chairs—which were arranged in a circle to leave the middle of the large room empty—when she crooked one skinny finger at me and motioned me to her desk in the corner of the room.
“Miss Latimer,” she said, looking me up and down. “Am I to understand that you are a direct descendant of Corinne Latimer, founder of the Windermere Coven?”
Windermere Coven? Where had I heard that name before? Suddenly I remembered—wasn’t it the coven Nancy Rattcliff had bragged her mother was the head of?
“Um…I don’t know,” I admitted, feeling abysmally stupid. “I mean, I know my one of my ancestors was named Corinne but I don’t really know anything else about her.”
“Hmm…” She tapped a purple gel pen against her teeth thoughtfully. “I see you have been kept ignorant of your heritage,” she said at last. “Might I recommend that you look into taking a History of Local Magic class? It would be especially beneficial to someone with your family background.”
“I’ll try,” I said cautiously, remembering that I hadn’t even been able to get myself into AP English that morning—which seemed about a thousand years ago now.
She nodded. “All right. Find a seat—class is about to begin.”
I found a seat in the middle of two girls who appeared to be eleven and twelve respectively and Ms. Yasmeen came to stand in the center of the circled chairs and began.
“Now, as we all know, magic is about manifesting,” she said. “And what is manifesting? Anyone?”
The eleven-year old beside me raised her hand promptly.
“Yes, Miss Canes?” Ms. Yasmeen raised one carrot-red eyebrow at her.
“Manifesting is making things happen or appear by magical means rather than by physical effort,” the little girl recited.
“Very good.” Ms. Yasmeen nodded. “And for many witches—most of them, in fact—a big part of manifesting or ‘flaming up’ is being able to tap into the inherent magical power inside them. That is where this class comes in. This semester, I will teach you how to find the core of magic within you and bring it out by various means. Now, raise your hands, any of you who have ever called the Circle before.”
About a dozen hands went up, including the girl who had defined “manifesting” correctly.
I, of course, had to keep my hands folded in my lap. I was beginning to feel like an idiot—an old idiot, at least compared to my classmates—which wasn’t a feeling I was used to. I had been in all college fast-track courses since middle school—it was weird and wrong-feeling to be in a class where I knew absolutely none of the course material.
“Very good. Miss Terren, Miss Dulcimer, Miss Prudence, and Miss Gothell,” Ms. Yasmeen said pointing to four of the girls. “Please place yourselves in the center of the room. No, I do not care which corner you call as long as you call it correctly,” she said when two of the girls asked about their places. “Are you ready? Good—then we can begin.”