Free Crystal Caves by Kristine Grayson Page A

Emotions are Brittany’s job. Thinking is Tiffany’s. I didn’t connect with either before coming here. And I’m going to have to do it all on my own now.
    I haven’t moved. My feet are chilled and my shoulders hurt. I look down. I’ve forgotten my shoes in Mother’s office, not that it matters. Some member of the staff will bring the shoes to my room when no one thinks I’m here.
    I hate to say it, but Megan’s right: I have no idea what my function in life is. I’m not smart, I’m not emotional, and I’m really not pretty. I was powerful, but The Powers That Be took that away from me, which—if I’m really honest with myself—makes me really, really, really mad.
    I hadn’t realized just how important my magic was to me until they took it all away.
    Screw it. I’m not waiting until the winter holidays. Mother doesn’t want me, there’s no reason to keep seeing Megan, and I don’t belong here. So, I’m going to go home.
    Somehow.
    I raise my right arm and sweep it in front of my body, doing what the magical always do when they need emergency assistance. I cast the best spell I can, and say, “To The Fates!”
    My voice echoes in the large room. I’ve never spoken that loudly in here before.
    I bring my right arm down in its arc again, and say, “To The Fates!” again, thinking hard about that stupid library where my sisters and I acted as Interim Fates. Generally, the arm movement and the thinking should be enough.
    Even when their magic is temporarily disabled, the magical can always call the Fates. I think of it like someone else’s iPhone. Even when the phone is password-protected, I can still use the thing to dial 911. (Yes, I know what 911 is. Everyone made sure of that before I arrived here, like they expected me to have an emergency from the get-go.)
    But my magical smart phone isn’t working. I’m still standing barefoot on the thick pile carpet in my bedroom at Mother’s.
    So I arc both arms, think really really hard, and say, in Ancient Greek, “To The Fates!!!!!!”
    And nothing, I mean, nothing happens.
    I sink onto the bed as a realization hits me. The Powers That Be didn’t just disable my magic. They removed it completely. I can’t get to the Fates any more than Mother can. She’ll be able to when she goes through menopause and her magic flares up—and won’t that be a shock to Miss I-Had-Hallucinations-The-Day-You-Were-Born?—but she can’t contact the Fates now, any more than Owen or E or Veronica at school can.
    The shaking has returned. I haven’t just been abandoned by my mother (repeatedly, apparently. This is some kind of trend for her). I’ve also been abandoned by my magic.
    I grab my purse and pull out my phone. I have fifteen texts from M, V, & A about something school related. I don’t care. With luck, I’ll never have to see them again.
    I open the phone, type in my password, and dial Megan. She said I can do that in case of emergency. And won’t she be pleased that I’m in touch with her again?
    She answers the phone without saying hello. Instead, she says, “Crystal, are you all right? I’m sensing distress.”
    I’ll distress you , I almost snap, but that’s to cover the urge to sob into the phone about Mother. I’m not going to say anything about that either.
    But apparently, Megan’s empathy-magic works across long distances, because I know she’s not here. She’s either in the Midwest or Oregon or Los Angeles. She left New York after our appointment time ended.
    “I can’t reach the Fates,” I say, because I’m not going to dignify that distress thing with an actual answer.
    “Why do you need to reach the Fates?” she asks in a shocked tone.
    “I want them to reverse the decision of the Powers That Be,” I say. “I want to go home.”
    Megan doesn’t sigh, and she doesn’t explain to me in that too-patient voice she sometimes uses that I’m not supposed to go home until the winter holidays.
    Instead, she says, “The Fates will