Micah leaned over the tapestry. The top panel featured a group of people in white robes, collars, and iron crowns dancing in a field. A vast green country spread out beyond them, with a sun that shone over a distant city. The next panel was only a ship at sea, and the next, a wolf standing over a woman in the snow.
“The uglier side of our history,” Viv said, tapping the wolf. “This was Zev’s ancestor, the one who killed a witch as an offering to the gods and brought the curse down on his descendants. But there’s more. This is the witch coven that remained—see the one with blond hair? That’s my ancestor. They helped build the Compound. They shaped the tunnels that connect everyone’s cave houses and spelled the earth to make crops grow without sunlight.”
Micah stared at the panel depicting a woman kneeling in a field of vegetables. “Is this something you do now, blessing the crops?”
“No. They must have cast a powerful magic, because the soil’s still good,” Viv said. “But there were always witches in the Compound. Their spells weren’t passed down all the time, though, because magic skips a generation now and then. Witch magic is tied to our bodies, you see. It grows in us, like a plant. If you use too much, you dig at the roots and put your own life at risk. You have to cultivate it, tend it.”
The panel at the bottom of the tapestry was clearly Vivian, dancing between lines of people. Her hair was flowing in a breeze, and Sasha was holding her hand on one side, a woman Micah didn’t recognize on the other. She looked happy.
“The person who made this must have loved you,” Micah said, looking at the dancing figures.
“Sasha’s people love everyone.” Viv was smiling to herself.
“Why don’t you have this hanging up?”
“Because it’s mine, and it’s personal.” Viv touched one of the white-clad witches at the top of the tapestry. “It’s my legacy. Our legacy.”
Micah looked up at her. “I don’t understand.”
“You need magic to heat the water in the bath,” Viv said. “And this morning I was so tired I could barely walk, but eating the food you made was like waking up new. You’re a witch, Micah.”
Micah drew back. “What?”
“You have magic.” Viv held his gaze. “Maybe it takes a different form with you than it does with me. I heal, but it’s difficult. I could never make a spell like the one you made this morning.”
“That wasn’t a spell. It was atart.”
“Balderdash.”
Micah held his hands together to keep them from trembling. “I… I thought I started a fire, before. When I was alone. It sparked in a bed of wet leaves.”
Viv leaned forward. “Because you’re a witch.”
“Oh gods.” Micah looked down at his shaking hands. “There really was something wrong with me.”
Viv’s voice went hard. “What?”
“All that time.” Micah ran a hand through his ragged hair. “My mother was right. Everyone was right. There was something wrong with me.”
“Magic isn’t a disease.”
“How do you know?” Micah asked wildly. “Look at the witches on the tapestry. Exiled, dead… there aren’t any witches in my part of Lukos anymore. Maybe magic isn’t a plant that grows in you—maybe it’s a weed that chokes you.”
“It’s not.” Viv stood, chin raised. “I’m a witch, and I’m not broken.”
“But if it’s magic, I canfixit!”
Micah hadn’t realized his voice was raised until he heard it echoing off the stone walls, a strained, desperate chorus.Fix it. Fix it.
His mother had been desperate to fix him most of his life, even though other kids weren’t forced to be social if they didn’t want to be. And because she was always pushing him, and he was always jittery and scared, people noticed.
Then there was Niki, a submissive who had given Micah cider when his parents’ pyres were lit and had taken his hand shyly behind the woodshed. Micah could still remember the disgusted look on Niki’s face when he shoved a glass flower Micah had given him back into Micah’s hands. They were sixteen, and Micah had thought he was in love, lying awake all night thinking of Niki’s smile and callused fingers. But he knew then, as he stood at the edge of the fire pit where other members of the village were starting to fall silent, that he’d been very, very wrong.
Niki had told him to stop sending him flowers and notes, raising his voice so everyone at the fire could hear, and Micah realized that Niki was embarrassed to be seen with him. Micah wasn’t someone a submissive like Niki would want to present to their family.
Dragan tried to intervene, but it was too late. Everyone had seen it. So Micah ran. He fled into the mountains, where no one was going to call him broken, and stayed there with his book and his kiln. But he’d brought them all with him: every negative voice, every pitying look, every frustrated sigh when he said something wrong or couldn’t bring himself to say anything at all.
“Micah.”
