Page 7

“That wasmy 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 heartthumping 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 amyourcurse?” 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.

Chapter 4