All Our Hidden Gifts Caroline O’donoghue (books for 7th graders .txt) 📖

myself into thinking I could do both, and that maybe I let you down in the process.”

“But I never minded. I was free to do whatever I wanted with Lily. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“I know.” She smiles weakly. “I know. But sometimes I regret not being around a bit more. For you, in particular. But still. You can’t regret-proof your own life, can you?”

I don’t know what is suddenly compelling her to be so open with me. These are not conversations we normally have. Eskimos might have fifty different words for snow; we have zero words for expressing how we feel about each other.

“They always say you should have no regrets,” I say, weakly. “That thing the French say.”

“Je ne regrette rien,” she says softly. “I regret nothing. It’s a stupid saying.”

“Is it?”

“We all treat people badly sometimes and if you’re an even remotely empathetic or flawed person, you should feel regrets. The important thing is to learn from it and go on to treat people better.”

I curl an even tighter fist into my bandaged hand.

“What if the thing you did is too bad?” I ask. “What if the person never forgives you?”

Mum looks at me very steadily. “Sometimes it isn’t about getting people to forgive you,” she says simply. “Sometimes you have to do the best with whatever they’re prepared to let you have.”

And under the blanket, in my good hand, I hold the little brass river key as hard as I can.

I fall asleep in the dead woman’s coat and I dream of nothing at all. I wake up in the middle of the night anyway, the words of a rhyme half falling out of my mouth.

“Snow to rain, and rain to river;

We won’t be fooled again.

River to sea; and sea to sky;

What’s now will not be then.”

The cut on my hand is open again. The bandage has disappeared. I bring a wine bottle candle into the bathroom, every part of my body shivering in the black, cold house. I have taken for granted, I think, the amount of tiny red lights in any room: the orange square above a power button, the red-cherry pimple light on the boiler, the charging light on the electric toothbrush. The little signs in a house that tell you everything is working the way it should be.

The water runs warm and brown for a few seconds, like river water.

This house is not working as it should be.

I am alone. Like my house is a ship floating out to sea, and I’m the sole survivor.

I start reading The Beginner’s Guide to Spellcraft while sitting on the edge of the bathtub, my feet in two inches of warm water.

White candles, the book states, are best for protection, peace, truth and purity.

I flick around. The book is big on candles and herbs, and is particularly fond of phrases such as: … like any you would find in your garden, or larder!

Rosemary has a strong female energy, and is good for banishing negativity, protection. Find it growing rogue in any garden!

Camomile is good for a pleasant sleep, and is now popular in many teas found in the supermarket!

To mend a rocky relationship, cast a simple honey spell! Any honey will do!

There’s something peaceful about this cosy, motherly form of magic. I read the spells, which feel too complicated and a little embarrassing, but after every one, Alwyn leaves the same footnote.

Remember, she writes. Magic is an art, as well as a science. Find the magic that feels true to you.

I do not know what time it is when I go down to the kitchen. My phone went dead hours ago, and the only clock in the house is the now-dark oven display. My wine bottle candle has almost burned down, so I grab a handful of fresh ones from the pull-out cupboard below where the cutlery is kept.

In the cupboard with the dry foods there are spice jars; in the fridge there’s honey. I pull stuff at random and desperately chuck them into one of the million canvas tote bags that Mum is always bringing home from academic conferences.

Back in the upstairs bathroom, I shake rosemary, sage and a tablespoon of honey into the bath. Star anise for protection against bad dreams; a basil leaf to ward off evil spirits. I add them wildly, desperately, until the tub is thick with herbs and the bathwater has cooled down so much it’s almost ice.

What now? Do I get … in the bath?

I close my eyes and try to follow some sort of instinct. Magic is an art, as well as a science.

No. You never hear of witches getting inside cauldrons.

I look in the book and find instructions for a protection circle. It tells me to mark each side with candles: yellow for Air in the east, red for Fire in the south, blue for Water in the west and green for Earth in the north. I only have my white ones. Instead, I take a red lipstick for Fire, a yellow shower-gel bottle for Air, a blue toothbrush for Water and a green sheet mask packet for Earth.

The whole thing looks crazy, but it’s too late for caring about crazy now.

I soak bath towels in the water, wind them into ropes and make a circle on the floor.

I sit in the middle of the circle, and from my tote bag, pull out a knife, and a candle. I start jankily carving into the pure white stick, the wax gathering in heaps like peeled chocolate. It is not a pretty process. But slowly, the letters start to form, like a four-year-old taking her first stab at writing. I am methodical, butchering the candle slowly and without grace.

Dig, slash, carve.

Dig, slash, carve.

“L”

She was left-handed.

“I”

She was left-handed but she taught herself how to write with her right.

“L”

She was left-handed but she taught herself how to write with her right. She thought she would need it some day.

“Y”

She was left-handed but she taught herself how to write with her right. She