Chapter 3
O ur house is built around the trunk of a towering willow tree, along with three other homes. The platform is surrounded by a curtain of delicate leaves and thin, waxy branches drooping over the connecting bridges. It should feel like we are afforded more privacy than most, but I cannot help but view it as a cage. I push my way through the branches and stride over to my front door.
Inside, the candles have been extinguished, apart from one. It burns low, casting the room in deep shadow. In one corner sits our rudimentary kitchen—a single large cauldron atop a wood burner and a bucket of cold water for dishes. The other two corners are taken up by my father and I’s sleep sacks, each bundled with thin blankets. The humidity of Mossgarde means we are rarely cold, except in the very deep of winter when the village receives a week of frost .
A fine mesh stretches across our windows, like all the buildings here, except Aunt Meena’s home. She told me once of a time when all the homes and shops and stalls were enchanted—to keep the insects away, to keep from sinking into the swamp, to keep the wood from rotting away. Now, the platforms creak and moan underfoot, and the water rises slowly every year. Some enchantments remain, but it has been a long time since Mossgarde was truly a home for witches.
I close the front door softly behind me and strain my eyes to search the shadows. My father’s corner is deep in gloom. The blanket is piled too vaguely for me to know if he is there or not. I hold my breath and creep towards my own corner.
“You punched my friend.”
My father’s voice rattles through the darkness, coarse with drink. I release my breath in a sigh and continue on, not looking at him.
“No,” I say, sinking to the floor and tugging my blanket over me. “I hit him with a book.”
“Is that an improvement?”
“Well, I did not hurt my fist, so yes, I would say so.”
He only grunts in response. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I throw a glance at his corner. I make out the outline of his form slumped against the wall. The air is thick with the stench of ale and unwashed clothes. I tuck myself tight against my corner, fighting to put as much space between us as possible. My books, stacked high against the wall, encase me in a protective semi-circle as I pull my blanket up high on my body.
“I can get the fee back,” my father says suddenly.
I freeze. Our usual routine after an argument is to pretend as if nothing happened. We do not acknowledge nor apologise, especially not him, lest the argument spark anew. I say nothing and wait.
“I just…I need some time.”
I make a noncommittal noise.
“The guards are cheats.” He scoffs and I shoot up so quickly, my spine clicks. “They rig the dice—”
“You have lost my money to the guards ?” I screech. “You owe money to the crown?”
“Not the crown, only his guards.”
“That is the crown. Where do you think their coin goes? Who, pray tell, do you think they bring our taxes to every morn, along with what little food we have?” My ophid thrums, taut and tense. My hands clench into fists.
“I did not think—”
“No, you did not think at all, you loathsome sack of croca shit.”
The floor rattles as my father thumps his fist off the wooden boards.
“You do not speak to me that way!” he thunders .
“That was my money !” I scream back.
Where he had been shrouded in shadows before, he is now alight in the purple glow of my au’mana. My books float in mid-air, the cauldron rattles violently against the floor, and my father’s blanket is ripped from him. The house is awash in witch magic. I feel all of it in my grasp, each pot and pan, each nail in the floorboard.
My father falls silent, his mouth twisted in a snarl, dark eyebrows heavy over his eyes. We stare at each other, the threat of my au’mana thick around us.
He has taken everything.
I clench my teeth, tears threatening to spill. I am ready to tear this home apart. What else do I have?
My father’s face drops, a glimmer of fear in his eyes.
But I have Aunt Meena.
Her soft smile, her spiced tea scent, her firm hand on my shoulder, guiding me forward. You will study , she told me. And you will leave this place.
I cry out in frustration, dropping my au’mana and plummeting us back into darkness. The books, pots and everything else fall with a symphony of heavy thuds. How can I leave if the guards arrest me for destroying our house?
With an angry groan, I turn away and curl into a ball, pulling my blanket over me. Rage simmers like hot water over my skin, my heart thumping against my ribcage. I squeeze my eyes shut. My father sits silently, neither of us saying a word.
“It is our anniversary,” my father mumbles so quietly I nearly do not hear him. My ears prick but I do not open my eyes.
When I do not reply, he heaves a weary sigh and I hear the knock of wood as he tips his head back against the wall.
“Thirty years…” he rasps. The sorrow in his voice lands like a boulder on my chest, nearly quashing my anger. “I have never met a woman with so much fire in her soul. The Saints themselves placed a spark in her the day she was born, I am sure of it.”
Something close to grief tugs at my heart, like a child pulling at their mother’s hand.
“Auntie often says I remind her of mother,” I offer quietly. “I have her temperament.”
My father barks in laughter but there is no humour in it.
“You? You are nothing like her. She was…passionate.”
“I have passion.”
“You have poison!” he spits. I flinch at his words as if they land like physical blows. “You have been angry since the day you were born. Your wrath is the thing that killed her.”
“She died from blood loss,” I bite out. “You were the one who was supposed to take care of her. If you must blame anyone, blame yourself. ”
“Saintless bitch.”
“Wretched piece of shit,” I fire back.
My father scoffs and picks up a bottle. When he realises it is empty, he growls and throws it back down. Not hard enough to break it but enough to send a spike of fear through my chest.
“The Saints have cursed me with you.” He jabs a finger at me.
Fear curdles into anger. I choke out a scornful noise from the back of my throat at the gall of this man.
“Oh? I am your curse?” Disdain curls my lip. “Is that why you have stolen my coin and prevented me from leaving? You must enjoy this so-called torture I inflict upon you merely by existing. Is that right?”
He falls silent. Ale and resentment radiate from him, so thick it makes my skin prickle. I lay down with a huff, pulling the covers over.
“Keep your foolish thoughts behind your teeth and allow me some sleep,” I say finally. My heart hammers like a hummingbird and I take a long breath to steady it.
The house succumbs to quiet, punctuated only by the sounds of the swamp. I almost think he has fallen asleep but then I hear him stumble to his feet. I brace myself, waiting for him to come over but instead, the front door slams shut. Whatever my father has chosen to do under cover of darkness has nothing to do with me. I shut my eyes and dream of the day I can leave.