After her chores, Faline slipped out to navigate the heavily wooded trail to the well, long since abandoned after the settlement moved closer to the creek for access to water. The morning mist clung to the ground, and somewhere a crow called out—once, twice, then silence.

When she reached the stone enclosure, a quick glance revealed nothing.

Grandmama’s voice materialized out of the trees. “You weren’t followed, were you?”

Faline whipped around to find the old woman standing next to a large oak tree, so still she might have been part of it. “No, I don’t think so.”

Grandmama pursed her lips and stepped forward, studying the path behind Faline with sharp eyes. After a long moment, she nodded. “Good. Follow me.”

They walked a short distance into the dense woods before emerging in a grove of hickory trees. The place felt different somehow—quieter, as if the sounds of the world didn’t quite reach here. The morning light filtered through the canopy in slanted beams, and the air smelled of damp earth and something else, something old.

“This is far enough,” Grandmama said. “Sit over there.” She pointed to a pair of stumps in the center of the clearing.

Faline sat, and Grandmama soon joined her. The old woman moved stiffly, breathing harder than the short walk should have required.

“Are you well, Grandmama?”

“No.” The answer was blunt. “I am dying, child. Slowly, but inevitably. The Red Robes saw to that. What little magic remains in me burns through my life force now instead of drawing from the world around me.” She met Faline’s eyes. “That’s why we don’t have time for gentleness. Why I must be harsh. Do you understand?”

Faline nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure she did.

“Good.” Grandmama held out her hand, palm up. “Give me your hand, palm up.”

Faline did as she was asked.

With her free hand, Grandmama reached into her robes and retrieved something—a long thorn, wickedly sharp. Before Faline could react, she brought her hand down. The thorn pierced Faline’s palm.

Pain erupted. She cried out and tried to pull away, but Grandmama had a firm grip. Her eyes closed, and she began chanting in a language that sounded ancient and wrong, like stones grinding together: “Ex oona alteri. Ex oona alteri. Ex oona alteri.”

“Let me go,” Faline shrieked.

A jolt ran along her outstretched arm and hit her chest. For a moment, she felt Grandmama’s presence inside her—not just physically, but in her, like a cold wind blowing through an open door. She gasped for breath as lightheadedness descended. She kept her wits, but only barely.

Then it stopped. Grandmama let go, leaving a trail of blood across the palm of Faline’s hand. The young girl pulled the thorn free, but the wound throbbed incessantly. Tears ran down her face. “Why, Grandmama, why?”

The old woman wiped the blood off her hand onto her robes, and Faline noticed her own hand bore a matching wound. “Because there isn’t time for the slow way. I need to begin the transference now, while I still have the strength.” She looked quite satisfied with herself despite the pain etched on her face. “Ex oona alteri—from one to another. I’ve passed a piece of my essence into you. Just a small piece. We’ll do more as the lessons continue.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to. Not yet.” Grandmama leaned back, breathing hard. “No more silly questions. It is time to learn. What do you know about magic?”

Her mind was fuzzy. Faline blinked while trying to form a reply. “Uh, that it is evil.”

“No, child,” Grandmama said in a conspiratorial tone. “That is what the ignorant want you to believe, for they fear what they don’t understand. Understand this—magic connects us to the Creator, and the Old Ways are how we channel this gift for our own purposes. Magic is neither good nor evil. It simply is. Like fire, like water. It can warm or burn. Heal or harm. The choice is ours.”

“I still don’t understand,” Faline answered, cupping her wounded hand.

Grandmama gave an exasperated sigh.

A stinging slap caught the young girl off guard and yanked her mind into clarity.

“You’re just as witless as the rest of them. Look at my finger.”

Faline stared, her cheek burning.

“Ignis,” Grandmama said, and a flame erupted from the fingertip.

Despite herself, Faline yelped. “How did you do that?”

Grandmama blew out the flame, then winced and clutched her chest. The spell had cost her. “I did it using the Old Ways,” the old woman said after catching her breath. “Put your finger out.”

Faline did so. “Repeat what I said.”

“Ignis.” But nothing happened.

“Focus on seeing a flame and try again.”

She did, but still, nothing happened.

“Try again.”

Four times, Faline tried without success. Perhaps she didn’t have the ability after all. Perhaps the puddle had been a mistake, a lucky accident.

“Try again.”

“There’s no—” A sharp slap rang out in the clearing, and Faline tumbled off the stump. Her eyes were blurry, her nose was running, and she sat upright, tasting blood. “Why did you hit me?”

No sooner had she said this than the old woman grabbed a handful of hair and dragged her back onto the stump. Faline cried out, but Grandmama’s grip was unyielding.

“Try again, witless worm,” Grandmama hissed. “The magic is in you. I felt it when I did the spell. But you’re letting fear block it. You’re letting their words—your mother’s words—convince you that you’re powerless.”

“I can’t,” Faline sobbed.

Grandmama leaned into the young girl’s face, her breath hot and smelling of herbs and decay. “You will, or I will set your hair on fire. Do you think I’m joking? I have nothing to lose, child. I’m already dying. But you—you could be everything I was meant to be. So you WILL do this, or you WILL burn.”

Her hand moved, and flame appeared on her fingertip, dancing dangerously close to Faline’s hair.

A surge of raw anger pulsed through Faline’s arms, flooding out the fear. This horrible old woman was going to burn her. Was going to hurt her just like Mama hurt her. Just like everyone hurt her.

“IGNIS,” she shrieked.

The front of Grandmama’s robes burst into flames. The old woman yowled, letting go of Faline, and frantically patted her clothing. In seconds, the fire disappeared, but the smell of singed fabric lingered.

Faline looked down at her hands. Flames rose off all her fingers, forming a pyre in each palm. The thrill of the sight was quickly replaced with fear. The fire was hot, burning, consuming—

She dropped to her knees and patted the ground, but the flames wouldn’t go out. Scorch marks appeared everywhere her hands touched.

Grandmama knelt next to her and placed a hand on her back. Despite what had just happened, her voice was almost gentle. “Think of water, and the flames will go away.”

Faline closed her eyes and imagined the puddle from yesterday. The whirlpool. The ice. Cool and calm and still. Smoke rose from her hands, and when she opened them again, the flames were gone.

She stared at her palms, expecting burns, but the skin was unmarked.

“I am sorry, Grandmama. I didn’t mean to light you on fire.”

“Of course you did,” she said, almost laughing, though the laugh turned into a cough. “And you did, too. Which is what I was trying to get through your bony head. You have the ability, but your doubts are blocking it. Anger opened the door. Fear tried to keep it open. But control—” She tapped Faline’s forehead. “Control comes from here. From will. Not from emotion.”

Faline nodded, still shaking.

“Let’s work on something else,” Grandmama announced, though her voice was weaker now. She pointed to the edge of the clearing where a wooden pail sat filled with water. “Bring that here. We’re going to work on other ways to manipulate the elements.”

As Faline fetched the bucket, she noticed Grandmama slumped on her stump, one hand pressed to her chest, breathing hard. The lesson had taken something from her. Something she couldn’t get back.

But when Faline returned, Grandmama straightened, forcing strength into her frame. “Again,” she said. “We practice again. We have so much to do, and so little time.”

They worked until midday, when Grandmama finally collapsed. Faline helped her back to the cabin, supporting the old woman’s weight. As they stumbled through the door, Mama looked up from her mending, her face twisting with disgust.

“What have you been doing?”

“Walking,” Grandmama said before Faline could answer. “Getting my strength back.”

“You look half-dead.”

“I am half-dead. But not quite finished yet.” Grandmama’s eyes found Faline’s, and something passed between them—a secret, a promise. “Not quite.”

* * *

The lessons continued.

Every few days, Faline would slip away to the grove, and every time, Grandmama would cut their palms, chanting “Ex oona alteri” as she pressed their wounds together. Each time, Faline felt that strange sensation—like something flowing from Grandmama into her, cold and ancient and powerful.

And each time, Grandmama looked a little older, a little weaker, a little more used up.

“What are you doing to me?” Faline asked one morning, watching the blood mingle between their palms.

“Giving you what I cannot keep,” Grandmama said. “My knowledge. My power. My very essence. When I die, it will die with me unless I pass it on. This is how the Old Ways survive—from master to student, one generation to the next.”

“Does it hurt you?”

“Yes.” The answer was simple, honest. “But less than watching it disappear would hurt. And far less than what the Red Robes did to me.” She released Faline’s hand. “Now, show me the flame again. Stronger this time.”

Faline focused, spoke the word, and fire erupted from her palm—not just on her fingers now, but engulfing her entire hand. She didn’t feel the burn. She felt the power.

Grandmama smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. “Good. Very good. But we need to move faster. I can feel my time running short.”

* * *

By the time autumn arrived, Faline had learned to manipulate all four elements. Water would pool at her command. Wind would swirl when she whispered the old words. Earth would tremble beneath her feet. And fire—fire came easiest of all, perhaps because anger came easiest of all.

But with each lesson, she noticed changes. Not just in her abilities, but in herself. Sometimes, when she was angry, she’d think things that didn’t feel like her own thoughts. Cruel things. Dark things.

They deserve to suffer, a voice would whisper in her mind when Mama struck her. You could stop her heart with a word.

He’s weak, it would say when Papa turned away from her questions. Unworthy of the gift running through your veins.

She never told Grandmama about the voice. But sometimes, she caught the old woman watching her with a knowing look.

One evening, as Faline practiced making small flames dance between her fingers in the privacy of the stable, she heard footsteps. She extinguished the fire instantly and looked up to find Cade standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Nothing. Just—playing.”

“I saw light. Like a fire.”

“You didn’t see anything.”

But Cade backed away, shaking his head. “You’re like her. Like the witch.” And then he ran.

Faline’s heart sank. She’d been so careful. So careful.

The next day, she overheard Mistress Svenson talking to Mama by the well. “—saying strange things. Says he saw Faline making fire appear from nothing.”

“Children’s imaginations,” Mama said, but her voice was tight.

“Is it? With her living in your house, teaching the girl Creator-knows-what?”

Mama said nothing, but that evening, she grabbed Faline by the hair again. “Have you been doing magic?”

“No, Mama.”

The grip tightened. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not! I swear!”

Mama stared into her eyes for a long moment, then released her. “If I find out you’re lying, I’ll beat you bloody. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama.”

But the seed of suspicion had been planted. Faline saw it in the way the other children looked at her now. In the way their parents pulled them away when she passed. In the way Papa began watching her with something like fear in his eyes.

And through it all, Grandmama grew weaker. Some days she couldn’t even make it to the grove. Faline would find her in her sleeping area, gray-faced and struggling to breathe.

“Not much longer now,” Grandmama would whisper. “A year, maybe two. We need to finish the transference. All of it. Soon.”

“What happens if we don’t finish?”

“Then I die, and my knowledge dies with me. And you remain half-trained, half-empowered. Dangerous to yourself and everyone around you.”

“And if we do finish?” Grandmama’s smile was unsettling. “Then you become what I never could. Whole. Powerful. Free.” She reached out and touched Faline’s face with a trembling hand. “You’ll carry me with you, child. My voice. My knowledge. My fury at what they did to me. And you’ll be strong enough to make sure they never do it to you.”