Witches in Flight Read Online Free PDF

taught that freedom came from the precision of good
alignment.   Could towel folding be
mindful and neat and not become drudgery?
    Moving with her breath, she spread a towel out on the counter,
lifting one half up and folding it down on the other.   Her fingers missed the just-out-of-the-dryer warmth, so she
leaked a light touch of magic, smiling as the fabric cozied under her hands
again.   Just like warming a
soufflé.
    And then a new thought whispered, and she grinned,
enchanted.   Towel folding had
definitely changed.
    She worked through her pile, reaching for the last towel just as
the music died away.   Perfect
timing—her spellwork probably wouldn’t last very long.
    Elsie scooped up her neat stack and went to stand by the
door.   When the first student
exited, she dropped a towel in his hands, delighted as he brought the soft
fabric to his cheek.
    The next student took a towel—and then stopped, a smile
blooming on her face.   “It’s
warm.”   She buried her fingers and
nodded.   “Thanks.”
    Ten students.   Ten
towels—and ten small moments of grace.  
    Elsie was nearly in tears by the time Nat emerged.   She offered up the last towel, knowing
the magic waned, even now.   She’d
have to find a witch with better spell longevity and get a lesson.
    Nat reached for the towel, face welcoming and slightly confused.   When her fingers touched warmth, the
bewilderment grew.   Wordless, she
glanced around at her class, a few towels still being cuddled, some making
their way to the dirty laundry basket.   Ever so slowly, comprehension dawned on her face.
    Then she looked at Elsie, eyes bright, and held out her
arms.   “Welcome back.”

Chapter 4

    Professor Allard had the kind of look in his eye that had Lizard
squirming before she even got into her seat.   And unfortunately, in a class of eight people, there weren’t
very many places to hide.
    She was feeling delinquent this morning, and wearing the torn
jeans to prove it.   Given what she
expected to happen, that wasn’t stupid—it was an act of self-defense.
    Jeremy, on the other side of the table, gave her a quick thumbs-up
and slid his glasses back on his head—a total sign of nerves.   Lori, sitting beside him, looked as
sick as Lizard felt.   Huh.   Apparently nobody was looking forward
to their poetry going under the bright lights of the advanced poetry seminar
microscope.
    At least the Starry Plough had been dark.
    The guy in charge cleared his throat.   “You can all relax.   What happens at Poetry Slam stays there.”
    Jeremy frowned.   “You aren’t going to say anything?”
    “Only this.”   Professor Allard pinned the three of them down with a glance.   “It takes guts and a bizarre kind of
bravery to empty your soul out on a stage.   Some people do it and their poetry totally sucks, but that
doesn’t take away one nano-weight from their guts.   Sometimes the poetry is sublime.”
    He looked at each of the three of them in turn.   And then flashed a grin.   “Yours didn’t suck.”
    Lizard felt relief whooshing through the two across the
table—and realized that she cared much less than they did.   Her team of judges had already
ruled.  
    And her poetry had never sucked—that much, she also
knew.   Admitting it in public was a
totally different thing from what you knew inside your soul.   The words had always come to her, and
she had always known they were right.
    Jeremy shrugged and wrapped his arm around Lori’s
shoulders.   “It was her poem.”
    “No.”   Professor
Allard shook his head.   “In the
most obvious answer, your art made her words live, and that makes it yours,
too.”   He looked at Lizard.   “But I think you know why Lori’s poem
isn’t just hers anymore.   And why
yours isn’t only yours.”
    She did.   It was
exactly why she’d always kept her words tucked away in a dark corner of her
head.   But there was no freaking
way she was going to spout mystical crap to a