Near the tall trees behind the family’s cabin, Faline ignored her Mama’s demand to collect kindling and stood looking into a puddle at her feet. She poked at the water with a stick and watched the ripples radiate outward, remembering how the cooking pot had boiled at her word. Remembering how Grandmama’s spell had made her feel connected to everything.

“What are you doing, child?” came Grandmama’s scratchy voice.

Faline jumped at the old woman’s voice and turned. How had she snuck up on her? It was bad enough that the black-clad, white-haired specter looked like some hideous, wrinkled beast, but to have the crone this close made her hair stand on end.

The old woman’s wiry hand snatched the stick from Faline’s grip. “When I ask a question, I expect an answer.”

“I was just playing with water,” Faline said in a rush and stepped backward.

“Show me.”

Faline pointed at the puddle. “I was making waves.”

The old woman crept closer in her odd, stiff side-to-side walking fashion. She took the stick and held the tip over the surface. “I used to play with water, too, but in my own way.”

Faline had no idea what the old woman was talking about.

“Vortaz,” Grandmama whispered, rotating the stick but not touching the water.

To Faline’s amazement, the liquid began to move as if the tip were touching it. A small whirlpool formed, spinning faster and faster until it looked like a tiny tornado in the puddle.

A smile split Grandmama’s craggy face. “Yes, yes, they haven’t taken that from me. Not all of it. Not yet.” She stopped moving the stick, and the water became placid once more. But her hand trembled from the effort, and she leaned heavily on her cane.

“How did you do that?” Faline asked, genuinely impressed.

“It is the gift. The Old Ways.” She looked down at the girl, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “But each time I use it now, it costs me. The Red Robes bled me nearly dry. What little I have left burns through me like fever.”

“Will I be able to do that?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Few are blessed, and some never get control of it. But you—” She paused, studying Faline intently. “You have more than I expected. More than I could have hoped. If I can teach you before—” She cut herself off, grimacing.

“Before what?”

“Before I run out of time.” Grandmama reached up and took hold of Faline’s chin, then searched her eyes. “Are you afraid of Stregas?”

“No. They are legends made up to scare children.”

“Every legend has an element of truth.” Grandmama released her chin and looked down at the puddle. The stick touched the surface. “Glah-chez,” she said with a grimace.

White spread across the water until it reached the edge, frost crackling as it formed. The old woman took a deep breath, swaying slightly. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool air. “Touch it,” she whispered.

Faline knelt and placed a fingertip on the puddle, but it was hard and cold. Solid ice. She looked up at Grandmama.

“People are mostly water. If a Strega touched your head and said the right words, you would be dead within moments. So if you’re not afraid of them, then you should be.”

Faline slowly stood up as the realization washed over her. Grandmama could have killed her. Could kill anyone. Except—

“But you said your magic is almost gone.”

The old woman’s face lit up with something between pride and bitterness. “Almost. But not quite. Enough to teach. Enough to defend myself if needed.” She stared past Faline, her face falling. “Such fear is useful because it can control and dominate even the witless dung-eaters of this village. For years, they came to me—begging for healing, for charms, for curses on their enemies. They needed me.” She clenched her fist. “But when the Red Robes came, those same people pointed at my door. Told them where to find me. Watched as they dragged me away in chains.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I spent twenty years in their healing houses. Twenty years pouring my gift into nobles who’d eaten themselves sick, soldiers too stupid to dodge a sword, merchants who could afford to cheat death. They chained me to a bed and used me, day after day, until there was almost nothing left.” She looked at Faline with hollow eyes. “Now I live in a hut with my dunderhead son and his harpy wife. For that, I ought to be grateful.”

The old woman took the stick and tapped the ice. “Tah-bay-O.” She winced, and nothing happened. Once again, she tried, face contorting with effort, but still, nothing, except she nearly doubled over this time.

After coming out of it, Faline could hear her whisper, “Death take me; I’m spent.” Then, a deep breath. “No matter, it will melt, eventually.” She handed the stick to Faline. “I must go rest.”

The defeated tone in Grandmama’s voice tugged at her, but curiosity also raised its head. The old woman had just admitted she was running out of magic, running out of time. But she’d also shown Faline something incredible.

Pointing at the puddle, Faline said softly, “Tah-bay-O.”

A cloud of mist enveloped the pool, thick and rolling. When it cleared, nothing remained of the water—not ice, not puddle, just dry earth with a slight depression where the water had been.

A hand seized her arm, grip like iron despite the gnarled fingers.

Grandmama’s craggy voice cut through the air, “Child, what have you done?”

“I just repeated what you said,” Faline admitted while cringing at the claw-like grip on her arm.

The old woman’s other hand grabbed her cheek, forcing her to look up. The wizened eyes stared into hers with such ferocity that Faline shuddered. But beneath the intensity, there was something else—hope.

“You didn’t just evaporate the water. You unmade it. Returned it to nothing.” Her grip loosened slightly. “I couldn’t do that at your age. Couldn’t do it until I’d trained for years.” She looked around frantically. “Good, we were not seen. Speak to no one about this. Do you understand? No one. Not your father. Especially not your mother.”

“But why—”

“Because they’ll kill you,” Grandmama hissed. “Or worse. They’ll give you to the Red Robes, and you’ll spend your life in chains as I did. Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Then keep your mouth shut and your magic hidden.” She let go and shuffled back toward the cabin, moving faster than Faline had seen her move before. “Come to the old well tomorrow at dawn. Alone. And bring nothing but yourself.”

“What are we going to do?”

Grandmama paused, glancing back over her shoulder. A strange smile crossed her face—hungry and fierce and almost young again. “Teach you what you are. Before it’s too late.”

She disappeared into the trees, leaving Faline standing by the vanished puddle, her heart racing. The gift. The Old Ways. Power that could kill with a word.

And Grandmama, dying, desperate to pass something on before she was gone.

No sooner had Grandmama disappeared than Mama appeared from around the cabin. “Where’s my kindling?” Mama barked out in an incessant tone.

Faline backed away as Mama raced over, scowling. She knew what was coming and tried to put some distance between them, grabbing sticks along the way.

Mama seized her braid and yanked hard. The pain was excruciating. “Do what I tell you when I tell you,” she hissed. Then, when Faline was nearly bent sideways, Mama whispered harshly into her ear. “What was that old hag doing out here?”

“Telling me stories,” Faline said, dropping the sticks in her grasp.

“I’m sure she was. Do not listen to her. She is evil. She is a user of dark magic, and it destroyed her. Do you want to end up like that? Broken and dying?”

“But why—” Faline started to say, but Mama’s other hand struck her face in a stinging rebuke.

The hand in her hair twisted and shook her head in a doll-like fashion. “Must I break your neck, or will you do as you’re told?”

“Yes, Mama,” Faline muttered, tears staining her cheeks.

“Finish gathering the kindling and get inside. We need to cook dinner before your father finishes planting the field.”

As Mama stomped away, Faline touched her face where the slap had landed. The sting was already fading, but the anger remained. Mama called it evil. Mama said it would destroy her.

But the magic had felt wonderful. Like being alive for the first time.

And if keeping it secret meant avoiding Mama’s hands, then that was a small price to pay.

* * *

That evening, after dinner, Mama left for the Svensons’. Papa sat in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. Faline took the opportunity to sidle up to him. “Papa?”

“Yes,” he said, never taking his eyes off the flames.

“Why does Momma hate Grandmama so much?”

He sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. “Because with them, compromise is impossible.” Glancing at her, he continued, “Do not come between them. Nothing good will come of it.”

The answer felt empty, rehearsed. “Is Grandmama a Strega?”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, something like fear passed across his face. “Never use that word again.” He waved her away. “Go. I have nothing more to say.”

Once again, Papa had closed himself off to her. He always did this whenever she had questions outside of chores and farming. Rejection reared its head again, but so did bubbling resentment. Questions deserved answers; if he wouldn’t, and Mama couldn’t, that only left one person.

* * *

Grandmama’s face seemed etched by the shadow from the solitary candle burning on the barrel. From a distance, it seemed impossible to determine whether her eyes were open, embedded as they were in darkness. Her humped form sat immobile as a rock in the corner of the stable-turned-sleeping area.

“What do you want, child?”

Faline jumped at the suddenness of the question. But quickly retorted in a low voice. “Answers.”

A soft chuckle came from the aged one. “Tired of their ignorance?”

Faline remained silent, unsure what to say.

“No matter,” Grandmama said. “What do you wish to know?”

“Are you a Strega?”

Again, the chuckle, and a smile spread across Grandmama’s face. “Why do you want to know?”

She wasn’t sure why, but the answer slipped out. “Because if you are, that would mean I am a Strega, too.”

The old woman’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight, though her voice rumbled low and slow: “No, you are not a Strega, and neither am I.”

“Oh,” Faline replied, surprised, having anticipated a different answer. A wave of disappointment crept over her.

“We’re much more than that, little one. Strega is a term used by the wickedly stupid to describe something they don’t, won’t, or can’t understand. I am a sorceress. I studied the Old Ways for thirty years before the Red Robes came. I could heal or harm, create or destroy. I held the power of creation itself in these hands.” She held up her gnarled fingers, studying them in the candlelight. “Until they bled it out of me, drop by drop, year by year.”

The skin on Faline’s arms prickled. “So, what am I?”

“You are my legacy. My second chance.” Grandmama leaned forward, and the candlelight caught her eyes, making them shine with an almost feral intensity. “You are what I would have been if I’d been trained young, if I’d been strong enough to resist when they came for me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Grandmama settled back. “Meet me in the woods tomorrow, near the old well. Make sure you come alone and aren’t seen.”

Faline stared, trying to comprehend everything that had been said.

“I will not repeat myself. Now go.”

She turned away and headed for bed, a strange sensation pulsing through her. For the first time since Grandmama had arrived in the settlement, for the first time in her entire life, the prospect of a new day held some appeal to her.

Behind her, she heard Grandmama whisper something that might have been a prayer or a promise: “Ex oona alteri. From one to another. Before it’s too late.” Faline didn’t understand the words, but they sent a shiver down her spine nonetheless.