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Perhaps she could have made a living assisting people with their challenges by way of magic. If she hadn’t been expressly warned against such practices from her former coven, she might have tried. As it was, she embarked on a lonely, nomadic existence, masking her aura wherever she went to remain undetected by the council. The coven had warned her that the council had representatives stationed across the country, though Obedience had thankfully never encountered one. She supposed that since she was able to hide her identity from fellow Similars, the council members must be capable of doing the same.

But having to use a masking spell to conceal her aura came at a cost—as she wasn’t yet strong enough to cast two spells at once, she couldn’t use magic to procure her own food and lodgings. And she was still very much a beginner when it came to all that, anyway. So, she begged for shelter and stole for her supper. At times, when she sat hunched over a hunk of bread donated by a local benefactor, Obedience experienced a little thrill of delectation imagining what these simple folk would think if they were to learn of the power she possessed. The terrors and the wonders she would soon be capable of, that frail little girl who cried waterless tears on their doorsteps, who vanished the next morning like frost burned away by the sun.

When she grew sick of relying on the charity that never seemed to satiate her gnawing bones, Obedience managed to snatch a violin from a travelling musician’s sack. Her uncle had taught her how to play when she was a child, before his untimely death at sea. She still remembered many of the old shanties and hymns, and as she developed her musical talent, her hat brimmed with coins and her belly filled with food.

Then, while stationed at an inn in Salem nearly four years later with the aim of tracking down an old, forbidden book on witchcraft, Obedience overheard a whispered exchange about two witches who were in active pursuit of immortality in Manhattan.

A spark lit the inside of her heart, staining it rose gold.

She set out that very night, her mother’s carpet bag clenched in her grasp, Modesty’s soul nestled safely beneath her coat. When at last she arrived in Manhattan’s rain-soaked streets, hazy with lamplight, she was informed that the two men had fled.

She was also conveyed the rumor, slathered in copious amounts of disbelief, that they had succeeded.

For months, Obedience searched for the mysterious sorcerers to no avail, as autumn slid into winter, which melted into spring. Until, at long last, she met a witch who claimed to be in contact with them. And while the woman outright refused to provide Obedience with their addresses, she eventually consented to deliver them a single letter.

Obedience waited at a local inn for three weeks and a day.

She never received a reply.

It was no matter; she would find another way to achieve her goal. And if she didn’t, she vowed she would track them down one day, that she would pry the immortality from their souls if she had to. They would deserve it for the sin of refusing to help their fellow witch.

She spent the next few years traveling across New England, never staying in one place for overlong, developing her craft with a tenacity that bordered on obsession. She learned as much as she could from books, and when combined with her innate skill, she was rapidly transforming from caterpillar into chrysalis. And yet, she still had a long way to go to reach the level of power she dreamed of, the kind that would grant her protection from any foe who might threaten her or the sister she was still determined to revive.

For a time, she considered seeking out another coven. But fear of being abandoned again—or, worse, of being handed in to the council members she feared—kept her alone with only herself and the memory of her sister for company.

Then, just after her twenty-fourth birthday, while packing up to leave Providence on route to Quincy, Obedience became privy to a peculiar situation that managed to pique her usually flattened interest.

There was talk of a young servant woman who had caused quite a stir in Seekonk at a dinner party held by a rich merchant family for the new minister and his wife.

There were whispers of eyes as red as the devil’s that leaked obsidian ink.

Whispers of demonic possession. Of wings, dark as night.

Obedience had followed stale breadcrumbs down many unremarkable trails, but she had never heard such a rumor. It was either born from the ravings of a deranged, God-fearing dolt who had downed too much mulled wine, or—less likely but infinitely more thrilling—perhaps there was something more to it.

According to wagging tongues, the girl had been turned out onto the streets and was unable to find work. Well, Obedience could potentially be of some assistance. A girl like that might well be just what she needed. Assuming Obedience was able to confirm the validity of these fantastical claims. She couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself without first being certain that beings like the one described truly existed.

The simplest solution would be to track down the woman and see for herself if the rumors were true. Unfortunately, it looked as though that would be an impossibility, at least for the present; she’d heard rumblings that the council had gone to investigate the girl. Obedience had remained hidden from them for close to a decade. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Luckily, there were other ways to confirm the gossip.

She'd become something of an expert in personal research over the past several years, obtaining any information she required using a carefully measured mix of stealth and animal magnetism. In this instance, she began by gathering details she’d plucked from the gossip like ingredients for a pie.

Red Eyes. Black tears. Wings. Possession.

Obedience was well aware that witches weren’t the only kinds of Similars in the world, but she had never heard of one with wings. She feared it would take several weeks to scrounge up evidence for such a creature’s existence, by which time the servant woman might have died from starvation or have been snatched up by a new employer who didn’t pay heed to such rumors.

But her fears turned out to be unfounded, for barely a week later, she held a dusty record book in her hands like an answered prayer. The book was from a Bostonian church, dated 1682. Documented alongside many less intriguing entries, it included a reference to a small child who was removed from its mother under suspicion of demonic possession or witchcraft after the little girl changed in the middle of a service.

A thrill shot up Obedience’s spine when she spotted the family name printed in faded, minuscule letters: Saltonstall.

How glorious that those long-expired church leaders had kept such fastidious records.

The Saltonstalls, she soon uncovered, left the area soon after with their elder daughters and two-year-old son, the twin of the girl who had been taken.

It was with some difficulty that Obedience was able to track down their subsequent address to a house on the coast, about forty miles northwest from where Obedience herself had grown up. She had a mind to check on the house in person; while perhaps unlikely, it was possible that the home had remained in the family, and that at least one descendant possessed the same gifts as their long-lost relative.

She arrived at daybreak just three days later, hidden behind a canopy of leaves, her eyes locked on the red colonial. As the sun rose to dry the dew beneath her boots, a woman exited the house. Her long auburn hair was loose about her shoulders, a basket of washing cradled in her arms. Her blue aura held the stability of a Similar in control of her power.