CH219 · Rewrite
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Chapter 219: Older Sister, Younger Sister

“Welcome to the Witch Union!”

The glasses went up. Lucia’s eyes stung again before she could stop them. She raised her own cup, blinked hard, drank. The wine was not what she expected—not the bitterness she associated with the one time she had tasted it in her father’s study, but something light and faintly sweet, like the memory of something better.

She had washed properly for the first time in a month. Clean clothes, borrowed. Bell was settled in the room they’d been given—not a closet, not a corner of a warehouse, but an actual furnished guest room on the castle’s second floor, with a bed large enough for two. Nightingale had said, matter-of-factly, that the Prince hadn’t wanted the sisters separated.

Now the hall held witches of ages and expressions she couldn’t quite sort at first glance: a composed woman who looked like she had read every book in the castle twice, a girl with golden hair currently flying in a slow loop near the ceiling, filling cups from a tilted jug. Black flames ate a haunch of raw goat and left the bowl beneath it untouched. Music rose from nowhere—from a dark-eyed woman who sat with her eyes half-closed, the notes forming themselves around her without instruments.

Nightingale moved through it all with her, naming people. Scroll and Wendy—older, steadier, the kind of anchoring presence that lets a room know it’s safe to relax. Leaves and Echo, who had the warmth of women who choose to be older sisters because they are suited to it. Anna, Soraya, others Lucia’s own age who met her eyes without reservation.

None of them treated her as a stranger.

She had wanted it and not allowed herself to expect it—the way you want things you don’t think you’re allowed to have. To be accepted without condition into a group whose members had every reason to be cautious about new faces. She felt it moving through her, this warmth, pushing back against the long weight of the past month.


Bell was awake when Lucia returned.

She heard the movement from the doorway. Her sister had rolled over in the large bed and was regarding the ceiling with the contemplative expression of someone who has been asleep for a long time and has questions.

“You’re awake.” Lucia was across the room before she finished the sentence. “How do you feel?”

Bell looked like the disease had never happened—no trace of the spots, the fever, the grey cast that had crept into her face on the sick ship. Her eyes were clear.

“Hungry,” she said.

Lucia had already pulled a paper bag from her pocket and opened it. The smell of grilled fish spread into the room—a gift from Nightingale, given during the welcome gathering. Bell ate with the focused concentration of a ten-year-old who has been hungry long enough to mean it.

When some of the hunger was addressed, Bell looked around the room with fresh eyes. “Where are we? The ship didn’t have beds like this.”

“Border Town. Western Territory. We arrived.”

“But I was sick. They let sick people in?”

“The Lord’s witches cured you,” Lucia said. “All of us.” She gave Bell the abbreviated version—the pier, the treatment, the fires and the porridge, the man with the grey hair receiving the crowd’s cheers as if he found it slightly awkward. “And from now on we live here. In the castle.”

Bell sat with this. “Witches?” she finally said. “Like you?”

“Yes. And everyone has been kind to me. Especially Nightingale—” Lucia touched her sister’s forehead, lightly. “She’s the one who gave you a bath.”

“Oh.” Bell absorbed this. Then: “But you always said nobles despise witches. Why would the Lord shelter them?”

Lucia coughed once. “Occasionally there are one or two good people among the nobility.”

Bell accepted this with a skepticism that was polite but visible. She finished the fish and reached for the last piece. “Do you have to work for him? Like the maids at home—sweeping and cooking and attending?”

“I’m a witch,” Lucia said, taking her sister’s face between her palms. “My contribution is my ability. Where did you get the maid idea?”

“Mama.” Bell’s voice went quieter. “She said it’s why she never let Father hire a pretty one.”

Lucia held her sister without answering for a moment. Bell was probably right about what Roland wanted from her—during their conversation, his interest had been directed: the nature of her ability, what it could and couldn’t do. Not the conversation of a man who wanted domestic service. The conversation of a man who had decided her ability was worth something and wanted to understand the shape of it.

And that was the thing that kept Lucia awake long after the candle was out.

Because she was not sure he was right.

She had understood from the witches who passed through Valencia that abilities divided into types—combat and noncombat. She had never been able to claim either category clearly. Her restoration—if that was even the right word—didn’t work on living things, which eliminated the most obvious combat application. As a non-combat ability it was difficult to see what it produced: she could turn finished objects back into their ingredients, inconsistently, with no guarantee of which components she’d get.

She had turned her father’s straw paper back into grass on the day she awakened, in the middle of the living room, and her parents had looked at the pile on the floor and then at her. They had scolded her quietly and then warned her, repeatedly and carefully, to never let anyone see. Her father had bought her a God’s Stone of Retaliation—she had worn it for two years while memorizing how to look devout.

The other witches she had briefly met were not encouraging. Useless, they’d said, not cruelly, just factually. Can’t fight, can’t support, can’t build. She had tried to agree without quite giving up.

If Roland found her useless after closer examination—if the careful interest in his eyes tonight was followed by the more familiar disappointment—she didn’t know what happened then.

Bell’s breathing evened out. Her sister was asleep again, sated and unconscious with the uncomplicated grace of ten-year-olds everywhere.

Lucia lay in the dark beside her, waiting for morning.

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