Witch Born(7)
“Hold still. It’ll hurt less.”
Senna tried to think of something to distract her, but her thoughts danced out of her head before she could catch them.
She was silent until her mother tied the last stitch. “Finished.”
Senna studied the ugly cuts in her hand, black string sticking out of her flesh. She wondered what a palm reader would make of the new lines crisscrossing her palm. “Do you think he’s dead—the man I stabbed?”
“With a gut wound, probably.”
How much must he have hated her to use his dying breath to threaten her, threaten all the Witches? “Then where is his body?”
“Probably hidden somewhere we’ll never find it. Or maybe they really did escape.”
Senna shivered inside. “Am I a murderer?”
“There’s a difference between defending yourself and killing someone who’s helpless against you.” Her mother smeared some salve onto a bandage and wrapped Senna’s hand. “Keep it still for about a week or you’ll reopen them.”
Staring at the shockingly white bandages, Senna nodded.
As her mother began carefully packing her kit away, she put to words the question that must be on every Witch’s tongue. “How did men get onto the island?”
Senna cradled her hand to her chest. “Someone sang them in.” She’d thought the Witches were past such dangers when she’d imprisoned the Dark Witch in a tree.
The sounds of her mother repacking her kit stilled. “You know what we must do.”
Senna shook her head in an effort to clear the drugs dulling her wits along with the pain. “What do you mean?”
Her mother rested her hand on Senna’s arm. “We must leave.”
Suddenly more awake, Senna sat up. “I’ve finally begun to learn. We can’t leave now!”
Her mother leaned forward. “I can teach you as well as anyone here. And you said it yourself. The man claimed all the Witches would soon be dead. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.”
Senna didn’t exactly have friends here, but Joshen was tied to Haven. The Discipline Heads had made it clear time and again that he was their Guardian, not Senna’s. And she would not leave him. “So we run again? Is that your answer for everything?”
Her mother’s expression tightened. “Senna, sharks and falcons and wolves chase. Deer and mice and sheep run. That’s the way of our world.”
Senna shook her head. “It wasn’t always this way. We haven’t always chosen to act like prey.”
“Those days are far gone.”
“And you’d have us going back to Gonstower, would you? See how long it takes for them to hang one of us?”
Her mother withdrew her hand. “It wouldn’t have to be Gonstower. Just…away.”
Senna remembered the taunts she’d grown up with. The hatred. “No. I won’t live like that. Never again.”
Her mother sagged in her chair. “Dying is easy, Senna. Living is hard.”
Senna started out of the room, her good hand out to steady her from the vertigo caused by the herbs. “No. Choosing to do the right thing, no matter the consequences, is hard.” She swayed into one of the walls, her eyes closed against the spinning.
Her mother carefully draped Senna’s arm across her shoulders. “You’re not going to make it by yourself.”
Senna screwed up her face. “No. I’ve always had to have help from someone.”
“I imagine most of us are like that.” They started up the curling stairs. It was a tight fit, especially because Senna kept stumbling and swaying.
“Well, at least I know what kind of drunk you are—philosophical. Could be worse I suppose.” Her mother grunted with effort.
Senna stiffened. “I’m not drunk!”
Her mother chuckled. “The herbs I gave you were stronger than your grandfather’s whiskey. And they used to mix that with lacquer.”
Senna bumped into the railing. “Grandfather? You never talk about him.”
Her mother braced her feet to steady her daughter. “He made very strong whiskey.”
They’d finally crested the stairs. Senna felt like they should celebrate somehow. “What about Father? Was he your Guardian?”
Sacra shook her head. “He gave it up when we had your sister. Someone had to raise her, and I was too busy.”
It was more than Senna had heard about her father in years. “That makes sense.”
Her mother helped her into the bed. “Good night.”
Senna hitched herself up on her elbow. “But why didn’t he—”
Her mother closed the door to her words.
Senna flopped back onto her bed and quickly forgot her frustration. The patterns the tree’s leaves made against the backdrop of the stars fascinated her—black on black with a scattering of pinpoint light. She was grateful that for once, sleep came on hard and dreamless.