The Witch Collector, not realizing what he possesses, sets the vessel in the grass and unsheathes a knife from his boot. Through my tears, I watch as he cuts a strip of his tunic from the hem, returns the knife to its hiding place, and after a dip of the cloth in the water, washes my face with the tenderest touch.
“Shhh. There now, don’t weep. It’s over. You’re safe.” His voice is still so warm, so gentle. It’s the kind of voice a woman could find solace in, a voice that could conquer even the strongest will.
I should pull away from him—from his touch, his aid, his nearness—but my tears flow fiercely, uncontrollably, and the shaking…
I killed so many people.
The Witch Collector strokes my hair away from my face and stares deep into my eyes, anchoring me. “Come to the water with me. We can clean your hands.”
Numb, I nod, and he helps me toward the stream, his arm tucked around my waist, where we kneel next to his abandoned flowers. Already clean, his skin smells crisp and earthy. He must’ve bathed while I slept.
“You exhausted yourself with magick,” he tells me, scrubbing my hands in the lapping waves. “It requires much strength to save a life from the brink of death. I woke at dawn, and you lay collapsed beside me.”
Of all the people to learn my secret, it had to be him. This seemingly kind-natured man that my mind can’t even comprehend is here—alive—much less because ofmydoing.
Those green, soul-searching eyes, rimmed in the darkest lashes, flick up and hold my gaze. “Thank you for what you did. I owe you my life.” He turns back to the stream, still gently washing my hands, but the blood and soot don’t seem to leave.
In a daze, I pull away from the water and stare at my skin. I blink.And blink again. Silver swirls etched with hints of crimson, violet, and gold vine along the backs of my hands, from wrists to fingertips. The sleeves of my dress are tight, but I push them up as much as I can, only to find more intricate details vining up my arms. Startled, I sit back and yank up my skirts. Gods above and below. My legs are covered, too.
Witch’s marks—that I’ve never had before.
Vaguely, I recall noticing them when the Prince of the East came after me. Gold for life magick, red for healing magick, silver for common magick—like the protective magick we build at the wood’s boundary. The violet must be for Sight.
All I can do is stare, disbelieving.
“It was your mother,” the Witch Collector says. “She was far more powerful than anyone knew. She hid your marks, as well as her own, but…” He pauses, and compassion fills his eyes as he takes my cold hand, folding it inside his warmer one. “When she passed, the magick fell apart, and your marks became visible. I watched them appear on the green, Raina.”
My body is so heavy and my mind so sluggish, like my thinking needs to catch up to the moment. Nothing he said makes sense. He called my entire life a lie, my mother the master of deception, and me a fool.
But also…
I yank my hands away. The Witch Collector knows family names, but even those must be difficult to recall. The Owyns. The Bloodgoods. The Foleys. There are hundreds of surnames across the vale. But first names? Of a woman forever overlooked?
How do you know my name?I mimic the words with my mouth as best I can and force the question into an expression as I touch my throat and lips, shaking my head, making sure he understands that I cannot speak.
Did he hear my mother call to me? Hemusthave.
He studies my face before doing the strangest thing: he moves his hands and fingers in the way Mother taught me.
“I have known your name for many years,”he signs.
I scramble to my feet and stumble backward, finallysteadying myself against the oak tree. The Witch Collector rises as well, though slowly, hands lifted in placation.
“It’s all right,” he says and switches back to speaking with his hands.“You have no reason to trust me. You may even hate me. But please do not run. There is nowhere to go anymore.”
My spine goes rigid, and a long moment passes before I can make my hands work.“How…How do you know this language?”
The answer creeps into my mind before he replies. He’s collected dozens of Witch Walkers from our valley over the years, but there’s only one who could’ve taught him how to speak with me so adeptly. Still, I watch fervently as his right hand spells the word.
N-E-P-H-E-L-E.
My thoughts rage, as does the rest of me. The wordliarscreams in my mind. I charge him, shove at his chest, but he doesn’t falter. It feels like I’ve run into a wall. He just looks down at me, one black eyebrow raised like a silent scold.
My anger only grows. I spot his discarded baldric and sword. It’s too far away, so I lunge for the knife sheathed in his boot instead.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he says, twisting out of my reach.
But I begin whaling on him, clawing, filled with a war of emotions I don’t know how to process.
