Page 1

Chapter

One

SATURNA

Iscream until my throat gives out.

I scream until there’s nothing left in my lungs, until my fingernails dig into my scalp and my whole body shakes with the force of a sound not a soul in this world will ever hear. That’s why I have a scream room. Well, it’s more of a bubble, one I created in the woods that backs onto our property, set between two towering oaks and backed by a thick layer of bramble. No one can hear me, let alone see me lose my mind.

When there’s nothing left inside me and my lungs and throat feel scraped raw, I sit down on the damp ground and put my face in my hands and breathe.

Even witches have bad days, and I’ve had years of them.

Today’s outburst has been long overdue. It’s my first day at Collegia Mortis, the only university for necromancers in the realm, and I’ve been placed directly into second-year studies on the strength of my letters alone. Which means arriving a year late to a classroom full of people who already know each other.

I knew better than to argue with the headmaster (not with a name like Lair Caranthis), and I knew better than to push when I was already being scrutinized. If Caranthis or anyone at Mortis discovers what I really am, I’ll pay for it dearly. At the very least I’ll be expelled, though I’d probably take my family name down with me.

Which brings me to the other issue: my mother. As much as I am looking forward to sleeping in my new dorm room tonight (in a building infamously made of dead people no less), it will be the first time I’ve ever been separated from my mother, and the first time I’ll have to fully entrust someone else to look after her. It will be hard for me to relinquish control.

On the other hand, all I’ve done since my father and sister died has been wish to be free from the responsibility of being her caregiver, to have a life and my freedom back. It’s one of the reasons why I wanted to go to school—and also one of the reasons why I’ve been wracked with guilt and shame for even wanting such an escape.

Hence why the scream bubble has come in handy today. For the last five years I have been torn in two, barely holding myself together. This is my first real step toward the unknown, and I’ve never been so scared.

I let out a heavy, long exhale and step through the wards. They shimmer and crackle lightly as I pass over the ring of crystals I’d laid out on the ground to help anchor the bubble. The birdsong from the woods grows louder without the ward around me and I walk through the hollow and the tall grass that leads to the cottage. On the way I pass by the Great One, a gnarled old oak tree that I feel a special kinship with. I place a hand on her rough trunk and stare up at the moss-laden branches to the leaves that are turning yellow and orange, the first light coming through them thin and gold. I thank her for her wisdom and ask her to grant me strength. My palm warms in response. I’ve always been able to talk to trees and most insects since I was a little girl, but it’s rare for the trees to talk back. This grand old lady has her own ways of responding. It’s enough for now.

By the time I come out of the woods, the sun is higher and Gibson is in the front yard with a bucket in hand, feeding the chickens.

As usual, he doesn’t ask where I’ve been. He’s used to me coming out of those trees all pale-faced, wet-cheeked, and raw-voiced. The only way he ever acknowledges where I go is by putting on the kettle while I’m gone, knowing I’ll want a hot tea with honey, herbs, and lemon when I get back.

“She’s up,” he says, placing the bucket down on the dew-soaked grass. “Been up since the moment you left.”

“Has she eaten?” I ask.

“She had tea,” he says. “But I’m sure her food will be half gone when you get in.”

My mother likes to eat when you’re not watching her. Often she’ll take the food and pocket it for later. She used to do this even in the old days, and my father would blame it on her poor upbringing, calling her his little mouse.

At the thought of my father, I swallow hard and glance past Gibson at the cottage. My parents never really had money, not with my father’s job as a boat builder, but he made sure his family didn’t suffer either. The cottage is a map of that—moss thick in the north-facing seams, patches layered over the seasons from old to older to oldest, the gutter dripping though it hasn’t rained since last week.

For so many years I’ve wanted to walk away from this place, and now that I have the chance, I fear my feet won’t let me do it. Yet I know the longer I stand out here staring as if I’ll never see this place again, the harder it will get. So I go in.

The kettle’s been moved off the stove, steam piping through the spout, the empty tea cup surrounded by tins of tea and a jar of honey. It’s the most that Gibson sets up for me. I think he thinks if he does any more, I might start thinking of him like a father figure.

My mother is in her usual chair by the window, gazing outside with a vacant expression. The mug on the table next to her is probably empty and the plate of toast is half-eaten. Then I notice the lump in her cardigan pocket where she’s probably stashed the remains of her bread to nibble on later.

“Good morning, Mama,” I say to her.

She makes a noise of recognition but doesn’t turn. Instead, she keeps her focus out the window at the greying light on the distant water with a bank of fog beyond that and the long slope of unruly ferns and berry bushes running down to the sea. “Is it raining?” she asks.

“No, it’s just wet with dew,” I tell her, pouring myself tea.

“It’ll rain later,” she says, nodding to herself. “Don’t wear your good shoes.”

“I won’t, Mama,” I reassure her. My only pair of good shoes, low-heeled boots I bartered for with the cobbler in exchange for a healing spell, is exactly what I’m going to wear once I’m in Collegia Mortis. They’re already packed in my trunk along with some of my other finer belongings. I suppose I’m lucky that I’m only a ferry ride away from the school and that I can come back over the coming weeks to fetch the rest of my things.

While the tea steeps, I clear the books from the stool beside her and sit down on it and put my hand over hers. My mother’s fingers are cold, as they always are, but for once she doesn’t snatch her hand away. Her skin feels like paper, the kind you find in an old book, thin and fragile, and it carves out a hollow in my chest. She’s the only family I have left and every day it feels like both her mind and body are moving further away from this world. I’m not sure where she goes, I just hope it’s a gentler place than the one we’re currently in.

I give her hand a gentle squeeze and my gaze goes to the low shelf beside her. Between the tin of sewing needles and buttons, and the flickering candle that smells faintly of cinnamon, is my father’s skull. It’s turned toward the window, gazing out, as is the tradition for the head of the household—a tradition only our kind has, and one that most outside would find utterly morbid. For most witches though, it’s a comfort.