When the girls regained control of themselves, they were on a quiet sidewalk. Delali had her hands on her knees as she sought her balance. Gabbie was looking around in confusion, her ugly peacoat half on, half off. Maya, remembering that she’d just been wearing pajamas, inspected herself to find she was fully dressed. Fully well-dressed, in her opinion, in items that were definitely not hers: knee-high oxblood boots, a black leather mini skirt, and a white cropped Pyer Moss dress shirt she’d had in a checkout cart for months. She touched her head and felt that her hair was in the scraped-back bun she’d been planning to do when she got home that evening. Her annoyance from earlier started to melt away. This kind of witchcraft she could get behind.
“What the heck,” Gabbie said, shaking her head. “Where are we?”
Delali had already pulled out Alba’s calling card. She pointed at the address on the face of the greystone building. “Alba’s.”
“Oooh,” Gabbie said. “That does make sense.”
Even though her outfit had greatly improved her mood, Maya could only shake her head. This was ridiculous.
Delali started up the steps, and the others followed. She pressed the button for Alba’s apartment, and the response was immediate—too fast to not be magical. The girls looked at each other, then ventured into the building. It was a normal Upper West Side luxury building, old but tastefully refurbished, the small, unattended lobby lined with small black-and-white tiles. The girls piled into the cramped elevator. There were only three apartments and, naturally, Alba’s was the penthouse. When the girls stepped out of the elevator into the roomy, oak-floored hallway outside Alba’s door, Gabbie gaped.
“Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “This apartment is amazeballs.”
“It’s what?” asked Maya.
“Shh.” Delali gestured toward a black-lacquered door, the only door in the hallway. In its center was a gold knocker in the shape of a woman’s face—high cheekbones, broad nose, cat eyes, and lush lips—and a peephole through which Alba was surely watching them. Delali reached to touch the knocker, but before she made contact, the door swung open.
Alba stood on the other side, dressed in an oversized cream-colored turtleneck and floor-grazing palazzo pants. She had the sort of face that only implicitly reflected her age, bearing no wrinkles, creases, or discoloration, yet appearing refined and wise. “Ladies,” she smiled, her voice rich as buttercream. “I’m so glad you were able to make it. Please, come in.”
The apartment was vast and chicly decorated. Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room flooded the space with generous light, and the white walls were adorned at the baseboards with intricate moldings. A hearth fireplace sunk into the wall furthest from the door, hosting a fire that crackled like a soothing nighttime recording. The walls of the living room were dotted with photographs in heavy gold frames, and there was no way to tell whether the people in them were relatives, friends, or complete strangers. Lofty inset shelves ran the height of the wall, carrying hundreds of books alongside trinkets, statues, and plaques. The floors were pristine herringbone.
Gabbie wandered through, mouth slightly open, stopping when she saw a large glass orb on one of the shelves. Purple smoke swirled inside it, dotted with tiny, lifelike stars and constellations. She rushed over to touch it.
“Is this . . . a crystal ball?” she asked, peering at her reflection.
“Yes, it is,” Alba replied, laughing as she closed the door behind the girls. She strode over and took the ball into her hands. As she did, the smoke lightened to a pearlescent white. “This is the one my mother gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s incredible,” said Gabbie.
“Every Seer must have at least one, and this is my favorite.”
Delali took a step toward the bookshelf. “What’s a Seer?”
Alba turned toward her and smiled. “Please, ladies, have a seat.” She led them to a cream-colored couch, before which sat a glass coffee table on an ornate Sarouk rug. On the table, there was a charcuterie spread arranged on a wood cutting board, along with two bottles of bordeaux and four wine glasses.
The girls sank hesitantly into the couch, and Alba sat in a white upholstered chair across from them. “Feel free to eat,” she said. “Would anyone like a glass of wine? No pressure at all to drink.”
The girls nodded, as though the drink were being offered by someone they knew intimately. Maya was surprised by how at ease she felt in Alba’s presence. The idea of being a witch still freaked her out, and of course she’d rather be perusing Coveteur in bed than eating pepperoni in this random woman’s apartment, but she could feel herself beginning to relax in the grand, inviting living room. The anxieties that had plagued her all week started to fall away.
“Is this chocolate fair trade? So awesome,” Gabbie said, her mouth full. She was examining the red wrapper.
“It is.” Alba sat the wine bottle on the table once she’d finished pouring the fourth glass, her own. She sipped it, taking a moment to watch the girls.
Delali almost began to speak, ready to launch into her list of burning questions, but Alba gave her a quieting look.
“First, I want to thank you all for coming today,” Alba said. “I certainly understand how strange this must be for you.” The girls were quiet, listening attentively. “As I mentioned to Delali last week, I believe the three of you are witches.” Alba leaned forward and placed her glass on the coffee table. Delali didn’t remember telling Alba her name, but thought nothing of it. She was a witch, after all. “When I saw you at Miss Lily’s, I recognized it in you immediately. The three of you appeared so clearly to be . . . of our world, if you will.”
“Did you see me refill my drink?” Maya asked.
Alba laughed. “Of course. But I knew before then.”
“Just by looking at us?” Gabbie asked.
“Truthfully, I’d seen you even before that day,” said Alba. “I’d had visions of you, and they led me there. They also led me to you the night of September first, when Maya dropped her phone.”
The girls looked at each other. If Alba knew about that night at The Bar, what else did she know?
“That was a very flashy display of magic, ladies,” Alba said, a maternal smile curving her lips. Her voice was playful, and warm, not scolding. “As was your little light show that night in the park. But I understand, of course. When you’re a young witch, showy magic is certainly the most fun.”
“What do you mean when you say we’re ‘of your world’? Are there more of us? More witches?” Delali’s questions tumbled out.
“Well, of course there are more witches,” said Alba. “Did you think you were the only three in the world? Granted, most of us get our powers and training much earlier in life. I was surprised by your age when I had my first visions of you. Twenty-two is unusual, certainly, but it’s not impossible.” She motioned skyward. “The Mothers can work in mysterious ways.”
“How does someone become a witch?” Gabbie asked in her usual cheerful tone, like she was asking how someone becomes an MTA announcer. “Were we born this way?”
“You were. All witches are born witches. Though when you get to my age”—here, Alba tucked her fingers into her short, blond afro and fluffed it—“your powers can begin to dwindle, come and go as they please.”
“Right,” said Maya. “So, you’ve been using your dwindling powers to stalk us.”
“Maya,” Gabbie scolded.
“What?” she asked, turning to Gabbie. “Is that not what she said?”
“I suppose you could put it like that,” Alba replied. “But my magic led me to you. A witch has no choice in her mentees. I pursued you girls not out of any curiosity or independent interest, but because my visions made it clear that I am to mentor you.”
“How do we even know you’re a witch?” Maya said anxiously. “What authority do you have to decide that we’re witches? How do we know you’re not just a crazy woman? A criminal? A pervert?”
If Alba felt at all slighted by Maya’s accusations, she didn’t show it. “I understand how this could scare you. I want you all to feel free to remove yourselves from this situation if you feel at all uncomfort—”
“No,” Delali interrupted. She wasn’t about to let Maya ruin this. “We’re not uncomfortable. We just want to know more. Like, what does mentorship entail? And how do we get to the witch world? What is the witch world?”
“The Witch Sphere,” Alba corrected, leaning her hands on her knees. “The Sphere is a universe inhabited entirely by witches. It’s a universe of . . . infinite and ineffable enjoyments. There’s no way, really, to communicate the experience of the Sphere other than to explain that ninety percent of witches live there, despite having the option to live wherever they’d like, including here. You’ll be able to transport to the Sphere when you complete your training—all fully-trained witches possess the power to move between worlds. But there are also witches all around you now. Come.” Alba stood and walked up the wide staircase in the foyer, and the girls followed her uncertainly. She led them to a door that opened onto a spacious roof overlooking the city. They shivered in the chilly air, crowding around Alba and following her gaze. Below, they could see a collection of rooftops, and beyond them, the Manhattan skyline outlined in gray. “Look, just there,” Alba said, pointing at an empty rooftop. “What do you see?”
The girls looked at each other.
“Um, nothing,” said Maya. “It’s a roof.”
“To the untrained eye,” Alba answered. “But I see a dinner party.” She laughed to herself. “And a raucous one at that. One long table, dressed in a fine white tablecloth, surrounded by a group of nine. A magnificent spread of food. A tiered chocolate cake. A small speaker—you couldn’t hear it, but they’re playing “Never Too Much” by Luther Vandross. One of the guests keeps getting up to fiddle with the volume. There’s enough wine for nine more attendees. Some of the guests are dancing.” She broke off and turned to face the girls. “It’s pedestrian, I know. But despite the near-perfection of the Sphere, many witches are tempted by the typic world and create communities right before our eyes. Oftentimes we charm ourselves to evade the typic eye. We call it a shroud. It should go without saying that witches are not to disclose the nature of their powers to typics under any circumstances.”
“Typics?” asked Gabbie.
“A typic is a person without powers. A nonwitch,” Alba clarified. “In the case of you girls, it’s just that you don’t quite yet know how to use your powers.”
“And why can’t typics know about witches?” Delali asked.
“Well, look around you, Delali. The typics haven’t done a particularly good job of nurturing their own world. Why would we let them into ours?”
Delali couldn’t argue with that.
“Why do you live here then?” Maya asked. “Instead of in the ‘magical,’ ‘ineffable’ Witch Sphere with the other ninety percent?”
“I do live with the ninety percent,” Alba said sharply.
Gabbie froze. “Sorry,” she said, putting a hand on the shoulder of Maya’s boxy blazer. “She can be sort of . . .” She didn’t know how to say rude without saying, well, rude.
Maya rolled her eyes and shook Gabbie’s arm off—she actually wasn’t trying to be bitchy that time.
Alba quickly regained her old composure and smiled. “Don’t worry, Gabbie. These kinds of questions are to be expected.” She turned back to the roof that hosted the party. “I split my time between the worlds, as many witches on this side do. As you girls could, if you wish.”
“I don’t understand,” Maya said. “What’s so amazing about the Sphere?”
“Well, that’s not something to be understood, Maya. It’s something to be experienced. Though if I am to mentor you, you will, of course, learn about the Sphere in detail before traveling there. If you do wish to travel there, that is. If you’re happy with your lives here, you’re welcome to stay.” This she said knowingly.
There was a long beat of silence, in which it occurred to the girls that the normal response would be to find Alba crazy, to flee her apartment and dismiss everything she’d told them, laughing as they returned to their regular lives. But instead, they felt the desire to climb off Alba’s building and onto the next rooftop, to swipe at the empty air and look for the table they couldn’t see, listen for the dinner party chatter they failed to hear. The girls looked from Alba to each other. Then, as though accepting a dispatch from an alien or a time-traveler, they overcame their feelings of skepticism and fear. They chose to believe her.
“How long will it take for us to learn to use our powers? How long will it take for us to go to the Sphere? Or to see the other witches around us?” Delali asked.
“This is where mentorship factors in.” Alba walked back into the apartment and the girls followed her inside, down the stairs, and into the living room. “All witches are allocated mentors over the course of their lives. Our role is to introduce you to things you hadn’t previously considered, like that dinner party, to teach you basic facts about the Sphere, and to serve as a resource in times of confusion or uncertainty. I don’t imagine your training would take more than fourteen months. But certainly no fewer than twelve. Some witches train for eighteen months. It’s not up to me to decide, however. Every witch is presented with an assessment at the end of her training. A test of sorts. As your mentor, I’m responsible for receiving the assessment instructions in the form of a vision.”
“What does an assessment entail?” Delali asked.
“It could be anything,” Alba answered. “Young witches raised in the Sphere are often made to come to the typic world to create atmospheric magic—to contrive a reunion between two typics who have lost touch, for example, or create rainfall in an area suffering from drought, things of that nature. Witches born to typics and raised in the typic world are usually made to do the inverse—an act of magic that strengthens their relationship with the Sphere. In both of these cases you’ll be able to transport solely for the purposes of the assignment. It can be absolutely anything, but it’s never a small thing. Once you’ve completed your assignment, you’ll have the ability to transport between worlds freely. You’d be able to meet more young witches like yourselves, go to events—”
“Events?” Maya cut in. “Like witch parties?”
Alba smiled. “Yes, like witch parties,” she said. “Among other things.” This seemed to inspire her, and she turned to one of the many bookshelves and retrieved a tall, thin book with a shimmering silver spine. “Take a look for yourself,” she said, handing the book to Maya. Delali and Gabbie leaned in as she opened the cover. It was a photo album, and on the first page was a picture of a young Alba. The same unlined face, but chubby and hopeful. The same blond fro, but longer and livelier. At first, the picture was ordinary and still, and then suddenly Alba, her eyes mirthful and gleaming, turned away, her mouth open in a laugh. A slight breeze caught and dropped the skirt of her long yellow dress. Behind her, other witches mingled at what looked like a garden party, the background lush with greenery and studded with glittering light. Then Alba returned to her starting pose and the loop began again, like a GIF in print. Maya turned the page and Alba again laughed before them, her arm wrapped intimately around the shoulders of a girl who faced something out of frame, just a sliver of her face and an intricate tangle of tiny locs visible. The girls kept flipping, until they came across an image of the entire sprawling, magnificent party.
“I took that one,” Alba said, her tone bordering on wistful.
“Where was this?” Maya asked. In the picture, women she assumed were witches swirled around in bright, confectionery-colored gowns, picking up their drinks and putting them down again as the picture replayed the same few seconds over and over. White tents stood high in the background, and there was a sea of tables covered with decadent spreads of food. Votive candles floated in the air, their flames flickering against the black of the sky.
“That was at an event called the Gathering,” Alba said. “The single most important event in the Witch Sphere. It happens each May.”
“When is it?”
“Can we go?”
“What’s the dress code?”
The girls’ questions overlapped, and Alba held up a hand to stop them. She spared the picture one last look before taking the book from Maya’s hands and snapping it closed. The girls drew back.
“Before we get into any of that, there’s still the matter of mentorship to discuss. Events like the Gathering, or even simple travel to the Sphere, will be out of your reach until your training is complete.” Alba returned the album to its place on the shelf before facing the girls again. “While the Mothers may have chosen me to be your mentor, the relationship cannot be successful if you don’t also choose me. Mentorship is a mutual engagement,” she said. She looked at each of the girls before settling on Maya. “And it doesn’t look like the three of you are in agreement about how you’d like to proceed.”
With that, Alba walked to the front door and wordlessly pulled it open. The three girls looked at each other. It was the first time all night that Alba had spoken about mentorship as if it was anything other than a done deal. And though her voice maintained the syrupy tone that reminded Gabbie of her own teacher voice, the gesture still smarted, and heat rose up in the girls’ faces as though they’d been slapped. But, as they headed to the door, they all knew exactly what decision they wanted to make. They wanted to stay. If not to learn from Alba and be taken under her wing, then just to look at her longer, to spend more time in the unusual energy of her home and get lost in her photo albums, to peer out onto the foggy skyline and imagine dazzling parties on every rooftop. They wanted to know what it meant to be witches, and they knew that Alba was the only person who could tell them.
“I’ll be here,” Alba said, interrupting the girls’ silence. “Every Sunday at this same time. If you three can come to a decision, feel free to return. I’ll welcome you and do my best to teach you everything I know.”
The name of this conversation has been changed to ‘Bad Witches.’
Maya
Gabbie
Delali