Midnight's Gift

Late September air carried the scent of dying leaves and wood smoke through the open window of the cramped attic apartment. Jasmine hunched over her makeshift altar—really just a corner of her kitchen table—hands trembling as she measured dried lavender into a brass mortar. The petition spell. She had to master the petition spell. Three weeks until the Autumn Equinox ceremony. Three weeks until she either joined the Thornwood Coven or remained alone, cut off from the magical community that had always felt just beyond her reach.

"Clockwise," she whispered to herself, grinding the pestle in careful circles. "Always clockwise for drawing in. Moonwater, three drops. No—was it five?" She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall Priestess Marcella's instructions from last month's gathering. Her stomach churned. She couldn't even remember the basics.

The mortar slipped from her fingers and clattered against the table, scattering lavender across her open grimoire. Jasmine pressed her palms against her eyes, fighting the hot sting of tears. Who was she kidding? She wasn't witch material. She could barely light a candle without the flame guttering out. Her divination readings came out muddled. Her protection charms fell apart within days. And now, with the ceremony looming, she was supposed to perform a flawless petition spell in front of the entire coven—a spell to call her familiar and prove she was worthy of initiation.

"I can't do this," she said to the empty room. The words felt like stones dropping into still water, rippling outward, becoming truth.

She didn't notice the shadow on the fire escape.

Midnight had been watching the girl for three days.

From his perch on the rusted iron rails outside her window, he could see everything: the way she hunched her shoulders as if apologizing for taking up space, how her hands fluttered nervously over her spell components, the defeat that clouded her eyes when magic refused to answer her call. She was young—barely more than a kit herself—with dark skin and darker eyes, her hair twisted into two thick braids that fell over her shoulders. She wore oversized sweaters that swallowed her frame and kept her curtains drawn even during the day.

She was afraid. Afraid of being seen. Afraid of failing. Afraid of her own power.

Midnight knew that fear. He'd seen it before, centuries ago, in a girl named Margery who'd hidden her gifts from witch hunters. Again in Helena, who'd survived the burning times by pretending to be less than she was. Once more in Yuki, who'd fled her village rather than face her family's impossible expectations.

He'd loved them all. Served them all. Buried them all.

Now, at one thousand years old, with nine lives spent and nine lives renewed, with memories stretching back through centuries of candlelight and moonlight and firelight, Midnight recognized the particular flavor of this girl's magic. It tasted like Helena's—that peculiar blend of earth and storm, green growing things and the ozone-sharp scent before lightning strikes. Wild magic, barely contained, hungry for direction.

This one needed him. Whether she knew it yet or not.

The girl—Jasmine, he'd heard her call herself during her muttered self-recriminations—swept the spilled lavender into her palm and dumped it back into the mortar with a sigh that seemed to come from her bones. She began again, her lips moving as she counted drops of water, her fingers clumsy with anxiety.

Midnight made his decision.

He dropped from the fire escape with the silence of shadow and slipped through the gap in her window. His paws made no sound on her worn wooden floor. From beneath the table, he studied the way her magic pooled around her like morning mist—present but undirected, powerful but unfocused. Yes. Definitely Helena's flavor. A wild witch who needed grounding.

He would bring her gifts. Not all at once—that would startle her. Cats knew the art of patience, of slowly building trust. He would leave her tokens, one by one, and judge her worthiness through her response.

Midnight slipped back out the window as silently as he'd entered, leaving only the faintest whisper of his presence: a single black hair on her altar, gleaming like silk in the lamplight.

Jasmine found the first stone the next morning.

She'd been up until three AM, attempting the petition spell over and over until her voice was hoarse and her hands cramped. She'd finally collapsed into bed, dreams churning with images of standing before the coven, her mouth opening to speak the incantation, and nothing—nothing—coming out.

When she stumbled into her kitchen, desperate for coffee, she nearly stepped on it: a smooth, golden-brown stone sitting in the exact center of her floor, catching the weak morning light. Tiger's eye. She'd recognize it anywhere—the chatoyant bands that rippled across its surface like a cat's iris, the way it seemed to hold an inner fire.

Jasmine picked it up, frowning. She didn't own any tiger's eye. She'd priced it once at the metaphysical shop downtown but couldn't justify the expense when she could barely afford groceries. And yet here it was, warm against her palm, as if it had been waiting just for her.

She turned in a slow circle, examining her apartment. The door was locked, the window closed. Nothing else was disturbed. No sign of entry. No explanation.

"Weird," she whispered, but she slipped the stone into her pocket before beginning her morning practice.

That night, her petition spell went slightly better. The candle flame burned steady instead of flickering. Her voice didn't shake quite as much when she spoke the words. She even managed to grind her herbs clockwise without losing count.

Small progress. But progress nonetheless.

The second stone appeared three days later.

This time, Jasmine found it on her altar, nestled between two white candles like an offering. Carnelian—deep orange-red, translucent at the edges, solid and warm as a coal. She held it up to the window, and light poured through it, painting red-gold shadows across her palm.

Two stones. Two impossibilities.

"Okay," she said to the empty air. "This is officially strange."

But she didn't throw them away. Instead, she placed them on her altar, arranging them carefully on either side of her grimoire. That night, when she attempted her petition spell, words flowed more easily. Her hands stayed steady as she mixed her components. When she called to the quarters, she felt—just for a moment—an answering presence in the east. Wind stirred her hair though all her windows were closed.

Magic. Real magic, responding to her call.

She could do this. Maybe. Possibly.

If the stones kept coming.

Midnight brought her the green aventurine on a Tuesday, leaving it on her windowsill where morning sun could find it. He brought her the citrine on Thursday, placing it directly in her grimoire, marking the page where she'd copied out the petition spell in her careful, cramped handwriting. Each stone a gift. Each gift a promise: You are worthy. Your magic is real. You are not alone.

From his various perches—the fire escape, the roof, the thick branch of the oak tree outside her building—he watched her transform. Slowly, like spring arriving after a hard winter, she began to unfold. Her shoulders straightened. Her hands steadied. When she practiced her spells, her voice grew stronger, resonating with the power she'd kept locked away.

The stones helped, yes. Tiger's eye for courage and clear-seeing. Carnelian for creative fire and confidence. Green aventurine for luck and new beginnings. Citrine for success and joy. Ancient magic, earth magic, the kind that didn't rely on perfect words or exact gestures but on belief—in oneself, in the unseen, in the possibility of transformation.

But more than the stones, Midnight knew, it was the gift itself that mattered. Someone—something—believed in her enough to leave offerings. Someone was watching over her. She was not alone in her struggle.

He left the final stone, a piece of clear quartz he'd carried for two centuries, on the night before the ceremony. Quartz for clarity, for amplification, for taking all that scattered nervous energy and focusing it like light through a lens.

And then he waited.

The Autumn Equinox arrived with unseasonable warmth and clear skies. Jasmine dressed in her best black dress—thrifted, slightly too large, but clean—and gathered her supplies with hands that only trembled a little. The stones sat on her altar, five points of power she'd arranged in a circle around her candle. She'd carried them with her all week, feeling their weight in her pockets, drawing comfort from their solid presence.

Someone was helping her. She didn't know who or why, but someone had chosen her, had seen her struggling and decided she was worth helping.

The thought alone made her breathe easier.

The ceremony took place in Thornwood Park, in a clearing deep enough that no curious strangers would stumble across them. Fourteen women stood in a circle, witches of all ages wearing robes or ritual garb or, in one case, jeans and a t-shirt declaring "Witch, Please." Jasmine recognized faces from the monthly gatherings she'd attended—Priestess Marcella, with her silver hair bound in an intricate crown braid and eyes sharp as flint; young Brit, barely older than Jasmine, who'd made her initiation look effortless; Grandmother Ruth, who traced her witchcraft through an unbroken line of grandmothers stretching back centuries.

"Tonight," Marcella intoned, her voice carrying across the clearing, "we welcome those who would join our circle. Three petitioners stand before us. Each must prove their connection to the craft. Each must call their familiar, demonstrate their bond with the spirits that walk between worlds. Jasmine, daughter of no coven, you may begin."

Jasmine's heart hammered against her ribs. Daughter of no coven. The words stung, even though they were technically true. She'd never had a teacher, never trained properly. Everything she knew came from books and internet forums and trial and error.

She stepped into the center of the circle, hyper-aware of fourteen pairs of eyes watching her. Her hands shook as she set up her altar—a square of black cloth, a white candle, her mortar and pestle, the five stones arranged in careful pattern. She'd practiced this a hundred times, but now, under scrutiny, her mind went blank.

What came first? The incantation? The offering? The—

A soft weight brushed against her ankle.

Jasmine looked down and froze.

A cat stood beside her. Not just any cat—the largest black cat she'd ever seen, with glossy fur that seemed to absorb light and eyes like molten gold. He looked up at her, and in that gaze she saw centuries. Patience. Wisdom. Recognition.

"You," she breathed. "You're the one—the stones—"

The cat—Midnight, somehow she knew his name without being told—chirped once and wound himself between her feet, purring loud enough that she felt the vibration through the soles of her shoes.

He'd chosen her. This ancient, powerful familiar had been watching her, testing her, bringing her gifts to build her confidence. And now he was here, in front of everyone, claiming her as his witch.

Hot tears pricked Jasmine's eyes, but these weren't tears of fear or inadequacy. These were tears of relief, of recognition, of finally coming home.

She knelt, and Midnight climbed into her lap, settling himself with the contentment of a creature who'd found exactly what he was looking for. His purr intensified, a rumbling motor of approval.

"I call upon the spirits," Jasmine said, and her voice didn't shake. "I call upon the elements. I petition the old powers to witness this bond." The words came easily now, flowing from some deep place she'd always known existed but never trusted. "I name this familiar Midnight, guardian and guide, companion through all seasons. I pledge myself to the craft, to learning, to growing in wisdom and power. I am Jasmine, witch of Thornwood, and this is my familiar."

Light flared around them—not from the candle, but from the stones, all five glowing with an inner luminescence that seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. Tiger's eye blazed gold. Carnelian burned orange-red like embers. Aventurine shimmered green as new leaves. Citrine shone bright yellow as summer sun. Clear quartz caught all the colors and reflected them back, a prism of power.

The circle of witches gasped. Marcella's eyes widened. Even Grandmother Ruth, who claimed to have seen everything, leaned forward in astonishment.

"Well," Marcella said, a smile breaking across her face like sunrise. "That's certainly a petition spell. Welcome to Thornwood Coven, Jasmine. Your initiation is complete."

The other two petitioners performed their ceremonies—one successfully, one not—but Jasmine barely registered them. She sat in the circle with Midnight in her lap, his purr a constant rumble against her chest, and felt the weight of failure lift from her shoulders.

She'd done it. Barely, perhaps—she still had so much to learn, so far to go—but she'd done it. She'd been chosen. By the coven. By Midnight. By magic itself.

Later, after the ceremony ended and the other witches had gone home, Jasmine sat on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing with Midnight beside her. The moon was rising, fat and golden, painting everything in honey-colored light. The temperature had dropped with sunset, autumn reasserting itself, and she pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, then faded—the city reminding them it was still there, just beyond the trees. Closer, leaves rustled in the breeze, and an owl called from the darkness.

"You knew," she said softly, scratching behind his ears. His fur was silk-soft under her fingertips, still warm from where he'd been pressed against her during the ceremony. "You knew I could do it. Even when I didn't."

Midnight's purr deepened, and he butted his head against her hand. Yes. I knew. I've known witches like you before. Wild witches. Scared witches. Powerful witches who needed someone to believe in them first.

She couldn't hear his thoughts—not yet, perhaps not ever—but she understood anyway. The language between witch and familiar went deeper than words.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For the stones. For choosing me. For... for not giving up."

Midnight climbed into her lap, circling once, twice, three times before settling with his head tucked against her stomach. His purr vibrated through her entire body, a sound like distant thunder, like the earth's heartbeat, like a thousand years of magic condensed into one perfect, purring moment.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Jasmine felt safe. Seen. Enough.

The moon climbed higher, painting silver across the grass. Autumn wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of earth and possibility and the faint woodsmoke from someone's backyard fire. And in a clearing in Thornwood Park, a young witch and her ancient familiar sat together under the stars, beginning a story that would last—if they were lucky, if they were careful, if the magic held—for many years to come.

Midnight purred and purred and purred, and Jasmine finally, finally believed that she was going to be okay.