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"Witches whose magic doesn’t show itself right away. Witches who don’t grow up knowing what they are."

The word hits me differently this time.

Witches.

Not hypothetical witches.

Me. He's saying I'm a witch.

I fold my arms because suddenly I need them held against my body.

"And Evelyn just drives around checking on late-blooming witches?"

"No."

"Wonderful."

"Maren."

"What?"

"Your magic didn’t just wake up."

My skin prickles.

Gage glances at the flowers again.

"It came in hard. Fast. Things around you are reacting to it. Lights. Objects. Plants."

"Pumpkins."

His mouth twitches.

"This is not the time to enjoy the pumpkins."

"I’m not."

"You absolutely are."

"A little," he says.

I point at him.

He sobers.

"Evelyn came because uncontrolled magic can attract attention."

That sentence settles somewhere ugly in my stomach.

"What kind of attention?"

His eyes flick briefly toward Evelyn.

There it is again.

Whatever it is they both know that I don’t.

Anger pushes through the fear.