The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches

by Sangu Mandanna

“We’ve talked about this,” said Jamie mildly. “Murder can’t be your first choice every time you don’t like something.”

Her eyes very round, seven-year-old Altamira said, with perfect gravity, “That was some excellent Mary Poppins shit right there.”

“I care far, far too much about all of you already, and it makes me dangerously happy to be somewhere where I can be myself, but it’s also way too easy for me to be hurt by you, even if you don’t mean to hurt me.”

It’s a leap of faith to love people and let yourself be loved. It’s closing your eyes, stepping off a ledge into nothing, and trusting that you’ll fly rather than fall.

Danger rarely wore a monstrous face and a wielded a pitchfork. No, danger came most often in the form of people like Edward, the nice people whose niceness only went so deep, who saved their niceness for people exactly like them, who believed they were more deserving of power and respect than anyone who was a little bit different.

“You read books! You know Swoony Words must be said! Words like You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Or like My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and—”