Page 67

Idonea drew her hands back, palms tingling. The air still shimmered faintly as her pupils normalised.

Kitsa smiled. “You’ll learn. Pride scares it off.”

Idonea curled her nails into her palms, hoping to hide them away. Her fingers were warm, but at the western edge of the garden sat a wrongness.

She turned her head. There was a patch of soil near the fence post two paces across, where the warmth didn't reach. The plants there were dead. Not winter-dormant, but dead. Their leaves had blackened where they touched the cold patch, and the soil itself looked dry.

"What is that?"

Kitsa followed her gaze. Her smile dimmed.

"It came this winter. The first frost. I don't know why."

"You've tried to mend it?"

"Three times. The Current won't go into that patch. It bends around it." She turned back to her own bed of herbs and wouldn't look at the cold patch again. "I don't bring the younger witches here anymore."

Kitsa shook her head. “Try again."

Idonea opened herself further. The Current flowed through her, light gliding along her nerves, whispering through her blood.

Everything clamoured around her. And then, something off-key. A faint discord beneath the harmony.

“Easy,” Kitsa murmured. “Don’t pull. Listen.”

Idonea forced herself to breathe, to release. The Current steadied. When she opened her eyes, the rosemary shimmered faintly, its leaves trembling as if exhaling.

“See?” Kitsa said. “It answers.”

Idonea’s pulse still raced. “What if it doesn’t?”

Kitsa’s grin didn’t falter. “Then it takes what it’s owed.”

Idonea drew her hands back, breaking contact with the soil. The Current still shimmered through her blood.

Kitsa watched her with that too-wide smile. “You did well.”

They continued to work in rhythm, tending soil, harvesting herbs that hummed with strange life. Idonea matched Kitsa’s pace, her movements stiff at first, then more fluid as it drew her in.

“I’ll miss this place,” Kitsa said after a long silence.

Idonea glanced over. “Why?”

Kitsa plucked a sprig of rosemary and rolled it between her palms. “A few months, and I’m gone. I'll be twenty.”

Idonea frowned. “Where will you go?”

Kitsa shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The Order doesn’t like roots. They prefer branches.”

The words struck deep inside Idonea.

Before she could answer, Lysander’s voice cut through the silence. “Enough. You’ve had your lesson.”

Kitsa stretched and beamed. “Time for lunch anyway.”

Idonea wiped her hands clean against her skirt. As she followed Lysander back up the path, her palms still tingled. Every sound pressed in; the crunch of snow, the whisper of wind, the slow rhythm of his boots beside hers. Kitsa trailed behind, humming.

They all went to the hall. The scent of roasted rabbit and hearth-smoke met them at the door. The warmth of the crowd was loud, but she couldn’t shake the chill that still settled in her chest.