But I have knowledge. And power—my Empath ability. I could be helping others instead of hiding. I could be making a difference instead of playing chess and reading about atime of the past that only exists in the minds of the oldest in our society.
Lachlan’s soft snores fill the room as his brows twitch. Out of habit, I free my power to check that he’s not having a nightmare. Only excited, impatient emotions drift from him, and I chuckle to myself as I slip from bed and crack the door, allowing a sliver of light from the hallway to illuminate my book. My parents are in their bedroom by now, and the house will be quiet until morning.
I settle back on my bed, the history volume heavy in my lap. For now, this is my rebellion—learning what the Syndicate doesn’t want known. Preserving the memory of freedoms lost. My chest squeezes.
One day, perhaps, I’ll find a way to do more.
But for tonight, I read by the thin line of light, absorbing the knowledge of when women walked freely under open skies. I turn each page with care, mindful of my father’s warning.
There’s a small, gleeful resistance in these actions—in learning what I’m not supposed to know. Developing the mind they would have stunted, and honing abilities they would have suppressed.
The words blur as my eyes grow heavy. I fight the drowsiness, determined to finish at least one more chapter before sleep steals my mind away. But eventually the book slips to rest against my chest, and I drift into dreams of a place where my existence isn’t a capital crime. Where I can walk beside my brother in the sunlight instead of hiding in his shadow.
In my dreams, I’m free. And that will have to be enough until I can find a way to make those dreams a reality.
CHAPTER TWO
CASSIA
The thick paste of the wooden bowl shifts from a muddy brown to a pale green as I stir slowly. The transformation happens in streaks, and my eyes lock in on the ribbons of color swirling as I introduce sage oil drop by drop. The scent fills my small workspace—a corner of my bedroom—earthy and sharp, with the underlying sweetness of the birchweed sap I’d ask mother to collect from our garden last week.
“Almost there,” I mutter to my invisible audience, reaching for the powdered sealwort root.
My fingertips brush the small clay jar, its texture grainy against my skin. It slides to the edge of the table, stopping just to the side of me. Precision matters most in these final steps. Too much sealwort and the mixture becomes rigid and cracks; too little and it slides off the skin like oil in water. I’ve failed in both directions more times than I care to count.
Frustrating, but inevitable.
I tip the smallest pinch of the fine powder onto my palm, gently blowing half of it into the mixture. I don’t want to risk overdoing it…again. The paste bubbles faintly, tiny air pockets rising to the surface and bursting in slow motion, indicating that if I cease movement for a moment, the mixture will begin boiling. I continue stirring, counting under my breath. One hundred clockwise rotations, then the same in reverse, breaking any pockets that form.
This is my nineteenth attempt at creating a wound sealant—a transparent second skin that would encourage the perfect environment for healing. I’ve read accounts of similar things in old medical texts, descriptions of liquid bandages that protected injuries while allowing them to breathe. If I could replicate it, even crudely, it would aid my mother when she cuts herself in the kitchen. Or Lachlan when he returns from his travels with scraped knuckles and mysterious bruises.
It could mean something beyond these walls.
The paste thickens as I work, clinging to the wooden spoon. I hum, tampering the flutter in my stomach. That’s promising. The last batch was too liquidy, dripping down wounds instead of sealing them. Adding another pinch of sealwort, I hold my breath as it’s stirred in, praying to the stars this is finally it.
A soft knock at my door breaks the hardness of my gaze, though I remain still and continue to stir.
“Cassia?” My mother’s voice, gentle but insistent.
“Come in,” I answer, not looking her way as the handle twists. The mixture is at a critical stage—the ideal balance between each of my previous failures. Maybe this is the one.
The door creaks open, and I catch my mother’s reflection in the small mirror propped against the wall. She’s always had a calming presence about her. It settles my nerves without any effort on her part, even when I’m severely stressed over something as small as the dish in front of me. Her eyes scan my face before drifting to the bowl, a familiar mix of curiosity and concern in her expression.
“Still working on your healing paste?” she asks, shifting tostand next to me. Notes of my favorite meal fall from her linen skirt, coated in the essence of warm bread.
Salmon. Not a meal we often get the privilege of, and is usually only reserved for particular occasions. I don’t question her, though, instead focusing on my answer while she works up the courage to tell me whatever is creasing the skin on her forehead.
I nod, giving the mixture one final stir before setting the spoon aside. “I think I’ve almost got it this time.”
She makes a soft humming sound, her way of expressing approval without saying it outright. Living in secrecy teaches you to speak in body language and expressions—I could have an entire conversation with each person in my family without ever uttering a word.
A rare privilege to experience, some would say.
“What’s the new ingredient?” She leans closer, crinkling her nose as her eyes study my work.
“Sealwort. Ground it finer than before.” I tap the tiny jar with my fingernail. “The last batch was too liquidy, so I think the powder will help it set without hardening completely, if dosed in micro-increments.” She smiles at that, her hand finding my shoulder and squeezing gently. I lean into her touch, accepting the way in which she prefers to express her love.
“I need you to clean up soon,” she says, her voice dropping lower as she clears her throat. “Your father’s boss is coming for dinner tonight.”
