Witch Born(40)

Drenelle matched her movement. Her hand shot out, catching Senna’s crescent pendant. She tipped the stone to catch the light coming from one of the windows. “When and where did you get this?”

Senna snatched her necklace back. “I bought it at the Gonstower market years ago.”

The woman’s gaze never left the necklace. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was the real one.”

Senna’s anger was replaced with confusion. “Real one?”

Drenelle’s gaze bored into the pendant. “Amber is the most powerful of stones. Wind and sunlight hardens the living blood of trees—plants—and earth turns it to stone. Thus all Four Sisters are part of amber. Only a handful of Witches—the smallest of handfuls—could manipulate it to function like a potion. The knowledge of how it is done was lost long ago.”

Drenelle’s fingers trembled as if itching to examine Senna’s pendant. “There are only five women who succeeded in making a Song Pendant. I’ve searched for decades and would give anything to own one, to unravel the mystery of how they were made.” She laughed, but it sounded forced. “It’s a very convincing replica. But of course, you couldn’t have bought the genuine one at a cheap market. Besides, this particular Song Pendant came as a pair.”

Senna had to resist the urge to cover her pendant with her hand. What Drenelle didn’t know was Joshen had the other half under his shirt while he chased a bat around her house. Senna smiled tightly. No doubt she wore a Song Pendant, and Drenelle would find a way to take it if she knew. “I hope you find one.” Of your own.

Senna started toward the others she could hear milling just beyond her sight. She felt Drenelle’s eyes boring into her back. “Don’t you want to know what it was called?”

Senna pasted an innocent look on her face and turned around. “What what was called?”

Drenelle’s eyes tightened. She looked pointedly at the pendant around Senna’s neck. “It was the Lilette Stone. And it allowed whoever wore it to find the person wearing its mate.”

The Lilette Stone. Senna’s mouth nearly fell open, but she kept herself in check. If she showed any reaction, Drenelle would grow suspicious. Suspicion would lead to questions. Questions would lead to testing the stone. And then Senna would lose her pendant.

She wasn’t going to give it up. Not after the Witch Hunter, Wardof, had used it to track her down and nearly kill her. If anyone had paid for this pendant, it was her. “I just thought it was pretty.”

That seemed to convince Drenelle. The Head grunted. “Yes, well, it’s nearly full dark. Get to the Ring of Power. It’s the eve of the chesli harvest.”

Senna backed away. “Yes, Head Drenelle.” She pivoted, then jogged toward the clearing, her heart thumping painfully in her chest.





12. Chesli Harvest





The vines of the chesli plants twined partway up the trees. Only visible on a moonless night, the flower’s fuzzy, pollen-scattered centers glowed golden. Moths and insects of a hundred varieties flitted anxiously from one flower to the next, lugging glowing pollen that dusted the air like a thousand falling stars. Witches surrounded Senna and Mistin, their skin smudged and streaked with glimmering bits.

“Why are we doing this?” Mistin asked.

Sometimes Senna forgot Mistin was even newer to Haven than she was. “Because the chesli only blooms for a few nights a year, during mid-summer’s dark phase of the moon. Their pollen increases a potion’s shelf life exponentially without altering the potion’s properties—it’s a catalyst.”

With a wince, Mistin rolled her shoulders. “Why can’t we gather it during the day?”

Senna sighed. “Because the flowers close during the day.”

“We could pry them open,” Mistin grumbled.

“They’re too delicate. It would kill them and there’d be no seed, and therefore no flowers next year.” Senna gathered pollen by brushing a fuzzy cloth inside the flower. After the cloth was full, she shook it off inside a glass jar and went back for more. “Did I ever thank you for warning me?”

Mistin smiled a little. “You’re welcome.”

Soft trails of light following them, moths competed with Senna for the flowers as they bumped dumbly from one to the next. Her hands were brushed by wings that added their soft powder to her skin. To Senna’s surprise, she heard the flower’s music. They were calling for the moths, songs that seemed to paint the night with colors of light. The melody was so gentle and full of longing, she forgot about her own heartache and hummed along.