Page 17 of Anomalies

The woman by the hearth is wearing the same yellow robes, but she has red hair and skin paler than moonlight.

The third set of eyes belongs to The Dame.

Her robes are silver, the shimmer of the fabric like liquid starlight. She stands gracefully from where she’d been lounging in the leather armchair, approaching the door with an air of elegance that you’d have to just be born with.

The Captain nudges me with his elbow, and I bow. When I straighten, the Dame is assessing me with vibrant navy eyes. “I’ll be…” she mutters. That’s when I notice the golden diadem centered on her forehead, woven into the tendrils of her light brown hair. “Your name?” she asks.

“Lucina.” I keep my chin high. But not too high.

“Hm,” is all the Dame says, then she waves a hand to the woman behind the couch. “This is Laverna, my second. And Ceres, my third.” The red-haired woman by the hearth sticks her nose up as if she smells something foul. “And I’m sure you know who I am,” the Dame says to me, and I nod. Her stare falls on Callan. “Captain,” she says in way of greeting.

“Your Grace,” he replies, bowing stiffly.

“You brought a stranger to Pirn?”

“We found her along the coastline of Streatham. She claims she’s from the commoner lands.” Claims? “But she’s wearing the mark of a witch, and the Banyan granted her access. It deemed her soul clean.”

Clean? My soul? What in the Vita’s name is going on here?

The woman by the hearth moves to stand behind the Dame, scowling as she notes my sodden hair and casual attire. “The commoner lands?” she questions, and I nod.

“And how did you wind up there, if you have that?” the Dame asks, lifting a manicured finger to the silver chain around my neck.

“I was left there as a baby. I’ve had this all my life.” My fingers brush against the pendant, tracing the etched sun along the silver backing. I never really thought anything of it. I liked believing that it belonged to my actual parents—a family heirloom they wanted me to have, but I could never be sure. “The latch is broken,” I tell them. “I can’t take it off.”

The Captain sighs heavily, and my gaze whips up to him. “The latch isn’t broken,” he tells me. “It can only be opened by you or someone from your bloodline. You aren’t supposed to take it off.”

Oh. I thought I just had a really shitty necklace. “Well…” I fidget with my hands, forcing them down at my sides. “I’d like to stay here,” I say to the Dame. “For a little while at least⁠—”

“Lucina, you can’t leave now even if you wanted to,” she says sharply, shooting a pointed look at the Captain. “You know where we live now, and that our kind still exists. We’d have to wipe your brain of us.”

“I can do it at any time, Delia,” Callan retorts.

Delia.

There is a fight in her navy eyes at that name, the gold on her diadem flickering as if she’s controlling how much light reflects on it. She straightens herself and turns back to me. “You’re Sol, Lucina, this is where you belong.” The Dame gestures with a silver-clad arm to the seating area behind her.

“About that…” I start, cautiously finding a seat across from her. “I’m not sure if that’s true⁠—”

“Well, have you Split?” the woman behind the couch asks.

“She doesn’t know what that means,” The Captain says plainly, stealing the words right out of my mouth. I stare as he pulls over a wooden chair and sinks into it, looking back at me with an unapologetic shrug.

“It’s a rite of passage for our kind,” the Dame explains, her starlit robes shifting as she crosses one leg over the other. “It’s a transformation, a turning-point, a rebirth. Your Split manifests as a near-death experience, and it’s meant to challenge you. It finds you when you’re the most vulnerable, and it brings forth the magic that’s been lying dormant within you. Have you experienced anything like that recently?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

What I’d just been through—it’s as near to death as I’ve ever been. But did I really awaken magic? I do feel different, but in a raw and weak kind of way. Like I’ve shed skin, and the inside of me is on the outside now—is that magic? No, surely not.

As if he could see the war raging behind my eyes, the Captain says, “Your Split is your death.” A sudden prick of static in the air has me turning to face him. Had that come from him? The static?

“Meaning?” I ask, lacing my fingers together to keep them from fidgeting.

Callan leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Meaning, you died. Your Split strips you of what you no longer need. It rips you apart. The pieces that don’t fit back together get left behind.” More of that static fills the air. “They die and you’re reborn.”

That must be why I feel this way.

“It’s a test of strength,” the Dame interjects, “and if you pass, you receive the gifts of your ancestors. You inherit their magic, power that is unique to your bloodline.”