Diary of the White Witch: A Witches of East End Prequel by Melissa de la Cruz Page B

April 21
Amtrak Train, Empire Route, Syracuse–New York City
    Margaret, a bright, promising library science major with one too many tattoos, drove me to the Amtrak station this morning. The poor girl’s eyes turned as pink as the shock running through her raven hair, then brimmed with tears when we said good-bye. I gave her a hug, then thegentlest little push away from me, as if to say, Go forward, be brave—you can do this, kiddo! “Don’t forget to retrieve my bike at the cottage,” I reminded her. “It’s yours.” She smiled and quickly turned away, and no sooner had she done so, a lump formed in my throat, and tears sprang in my eyes as well. I should be used to this—they all graduate, after all.
    With a heavy heart, I walked down the platform, my heels clicking with a hollow sound, my suitcase swerving behind me, just as I homed in on a distress signal. Something wasn’t right, and I could feel darkness lurking. Then I saw the hubbub further down the platform. I stopped and watched, wiping my tears, pushing a loose strand of hair into my bun.
    A woman had collapsed on the platform. She lay still as blood dripped from her nose. I lunged forward. My heart leapt. I wanted to help. I knew I could—I wasn’t Joanna, but like all witches I had some talents in this arena. My body tingled, a surge of magic building inside me, wanting to burst forth, but I couldn’t allow it. Paramedics pushed past me. A crowd had gathered. The magic fizzled out and died inside me; I’d locked it back up in its cage. Even to help someone in distress is forbidden by the Restriction. The medics appeared to have it under control anyway.
    I kept walking, just another mortal like the rest, just another quiet, ordinary girl—“mousy,” one might even say—with my hair in a bun, wearing a tan trench and plain navy suit, looking for a car with an empty window seat. An Amtrak worker appeared from nowhere, blocking my way, telling me to get in the last car. There was an odd glint in his eye, as if he were deriving pleasure from being bossy. “Well, okay, then,” I said, making a face as I passed him.
    By the time I plopped into my seat, I felt drained and achy. I kicked off my shoes, wriggled my toes, feeling the suppressed magic like a physical ache. Magic. I miss it with every bone. I miss it like a hunger. I’ve often wondered if what I used to feel when I was able topractice magic freely is tantamount to what people experience when they fall in love. I wouldn’t know. But when I read about love in poems and novels, it sounds very similar. Except with magic there is only happiness, euphoria—never pain.
    The train has left the station. The seats beside and across from me are empty. There is scarcely a passenger in this car. Maybe that Amtrak guy was being nice, and I’m the one in a nasty mood. A few rows ahead, I spy the back of a man’s head. He stared at me and smiled when I boarded the train—jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, square jaw, clean-shaven, cleft chin, and an air that says I know I’m so very handsome . Freya told me all about men like this. Ick. Why did he stare? Why did he smile like that? I found it disturbing. Across the aisle is a teenager listening to his iPod from beneath his wool cap, staring out the window as he bobs his head. I can hear the repetitive beat from the earbuds. Behind me, a mother tells her child to shush, but the boy continues to ask her every few minutes how long it will take to get to NYC. “And how long now, Mommy?”
    I call Freya and leave a message that I’m en route and will call as soon as I’m in a taxi on the way to her place. Before I slip the phone back into my pocket, I make sure the ringer is on in case she calls back. Then I watch the scenery unfold—verdant rolling hills, pink and white blossoms, a mare and her foal taking its first tremulous steps in a field by a barn.
    Oscar has flown ahead. My familiar doesn’t like trains and prefers his independence. When I