Page 153 of Queen of Nothing

But the thought tugs at me, and I ask, “Doesn’t that make me a krum?”

Father’s frown is improper. His mouth tugs down at the corner—and I decide, right now, that I get my pouting from him.

But the look is gone in a blink.

And he looks at me with urgency in his watery eyes. “No, you are not a krum. You were drained, yes, but you are a Craven, and you very much were born a witch.”

I think that makes a krum.

But then, Father says, “A witch is not a krum with power. A krum is not a witch without power. We are fundamentally different. Our blood is different—”

“Mine isn’t.”

Father’s lashes shut on the hurt.

He shakes his head, just slightly.

“I did not give up on you.” He opens his eyes, and tears glisten them. His voice wavers with urgency, like he needs me to hear this, to know it. “There was a girl. A newborn halfbreed.”

“Who?”

“I do not know her name. I know the name of her mother. Mila.”

“Nonna’s servant?”

The krum girl.

Father’s mouth twists, and he nods once. “She came from the city. A city your uncle Aldo visited regularly on his breaks from the academy. It was so long ago. Mila would have been younger than he was. Considerably younger. But that did not stop him from abandoning her once he got her pregnant.”

The distaste overwhelms the hurt in Father. His dislike of Aldo darkens his eyes and hardens his face.

He scoffs, bitter. “Nor did it mean Aldo would help the girl terminate the pregnancy he was very much responsible for. So Mila travelled to your Nonna’s door, and she asked for help. The timing… The timing was godly, it seemed.”

The question is in my frowned face.

Still I ask, “How?”

“Mila made a deal.” Father’s hands rub together, a nervous tell. “In exchange for a piece of your nonna’s will, an upfront payment, and lifetime help with her child, Mila offers us the newborn for a second ritual.”

My face slackens, lips parting with growing horror piercing through the numbness—

But Father answers that quickly, “Not the life of the newborn. We wanted her magic. The idea was to transfer Aldo’s magic from the halfbreed babe into you. It was family magic, a print from your Mother’s side, so it made sense that it would be a print that would suit you. And… you were so ill,” he says, and his voice breaks, like he might weep, and he turns his cheek to me. “The first ritual took too much from you. And we could not stop it. Oliver was poorly, then he was not. But you became even sicker.

“The second ritual failed. The newborn did not survive it. And you… you showed no magic. Nothing in your blood. Not poorly anymore, but no power.”

I take a moment to process it all—and Father is quiet, allowing me to absorb it.

And I think of the way Mila looks at me sometimes, lingers a stare.

I think of Mother’s hatred of her.

And it all seems so much uglier now that I know my family killed Mila’s baby.

I ask, soft, “Did Mila blame Mother?”

Father lifts a questioning look to me.

I explain, “Mother doesn’t like her very much.”