Harper stood beneath the tree she had turned to stone, guilt churning through her stomach. It was a cloudy fall afternoon, but the sun still shone brightly enough to illuminate the stiff, unmoving branches. It was red-brown stone all the way from the top of the tree’s gnarled branches to the place where the trunk sank into the soil.
She knew exactly why Augusta Hawthorne had arranged for her to come here for her first training session. It was meant to destabilize her, to give Augusta justification for whatever she was about to put Harper through. Harper was determined not to let it get to her.
“You’re late.” Augusta appeared in the Hawthorne house’s back doorway, her lips pursed into an annoyed grimace. Her mastiffs loped into position behind her a moment later. They were bigger than Harper remembered; on two legs, they would easily have been taller than she was. Another show of force. Another not-so-subtle reminder that while Harper had successfully stood up to Augusta and Juniper, neither of these women were pleased about it. “I said three thirty.”
Harper pulled her phone out of her pocket. It was 3:31. Annoyance built in her throat, but she forced it down. She would not let Augusta rattle her—not visibly, anyway.
“It won’t happen again,” she said smoothly.
Augusta inclined her head in a sharp nod. “Good.” She wore black from head to toe, her hands ensconced in their usual leather gloves. A trench coat fell to her ankles, the tails flapping slightly in the breeze as she made her way across the lawn, her dogs trailing behind her. Harper had known Augusta Hawthorne her entire life, but that was not enough to overcome the sheer presence she exuded. Something about her demanded focus. Harper had thought for ages that it was a Hawthorne thing, but when she’d seen it in her siblings after they passed their rituals, she’d realized the truth.
It was a founder thing. They all knew how to be watched—something Harper had yet to learn.
“Before we begin,” Augusta said, locking eyes with her, “there are a few things we must cover. Firstly, I’m well aware you do not trust me. I do not expect you to, not yet. But I do require your respect. Can you do that?”
Harper’s throat was tight, but she nodded. There was no world in which she would ever trust Augusta Hawthorne, but she’d always respected her. Even when she’d hated her.
“Good.” Augusta’s voice was as chilly and brisk as a fall breeze. “Secondly, I want you to be aware of what we’re facing here. Four Paths is in a time of turmoil right now, and the town needs all of our strength to steady it after what happened with the Church of the Four Deities—we’re still feeling those aftershocks. Something strange occurred the night before you agreed to train with us, at the place where the Church attempted their ritual.”
She drew out her phone and showed Harper a series of photos. Harper stared, frowning, at the iridescent liquid oozing through the lines of the founders’ symbol, the deep grooves in the dirt.
The night before she’d agreed to train with them. That was the night Violet had been out late.
“Do you know what that is?” she asked Augusta.
Augusta shook her head. “Something new,” she said sharply. “Something dangerous. Which means there’s no more time to waste.”
At first, Harper just exercised. Stretches, which Augusta modified for Harper’s residual limb; lunges, a quick jog around the yard. Harper was sweating and glad she’d worn workout clothes by the time they were done. After forty-five minutes of physical labor, Harper chugged most of a bottle of water, then sank to her knees beneath the tree she’d turned into a statue, panting. The branches above her head shone in the light of the setting sun.
“Now that we’ve dealt with the basics”—Augusta’s boots appeared a foot away from Harper’s knees, crunching across the desiccated autumn leaves—“let’s discuss your powers.”
Harper tipped up her head. Augusta’s face was impassive, but Harper wondered if her mind was full of the same memories Harper was now replaying. The night Harper had gripped her arm and tried to turn her to stone. The night she’d fallen into the lake. The night her life as she knew it had changed forever.
“All right,” Harper said, starting to get to her feet, but to her surprise Augusta shook her head.
“No, I’ll join you.” She lowered herself into the leaves, crossed her black leather boots, and placed her gloved hands primly on her knees. Harper wasn’t sure she’d ever actually been eye to eye with Augusta Hawthorne before. She’d expected the woman’s gaze to be even more piercing up close, but it was softer instead. The setting sun deepened the crow’s feet around her eyes, set her feathery blond pixie cut ablaze, and it occurred to Harper that this woman had watched this town crumble in her grasp, that she held the very weight of the forest itself on her shoulders.
“What happens when you turn something to stone?” Augusta said mildly. “Describe your technique.”
Harper hesitated. “It’s like… I push,” she said, extending her palm. “And it sort of flows from there.”
“Localized in the hand, naturally,” Augusta said, her brow furrowing. “Sounds as if the power comes when you call, so what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know when to stop.” The words tumbled out of her, shameful and soft. Harper had always thought she’d excel as a founder if only she had powers, that the meticulous control she’d put into her weapons training would be easily applicable. She’d even judged Isaac for his inability to keep his powers in check. But now she was out of control, just like him.
Maybe she would have learned if Augusta had given her a chance instead of cutting her off. Maybe fewer people would have died in the Gray. The knowledge of how unfair it was surged through Harper’s chest, and she knew that Violet would have let it take her over, stood up and stormed out.
But Harper wasn’t Violet. She knew Augusta had wronged her—and she knew, just as well, that she could not change the Hawthornes’ betrayal. But it didn’t mean there was nothing to learn from the sheriff. So again she stayed silent, and to her surprise, Augusta’s face creased not with derision, but sympathy.
“I had the same problem when I first came into my powers,” she said, almost gently.
“Really?” Harper asked, surprised.
“It is extremely unpleasant,” Augusta continued, rather stiffly, as if the very words made her uncomfortable, “to feel as if you are merely a vessel instead of the one in control.”
Harper’s surprise deepened. She hated being used. She’d hated it when her father had done it, when Augusta and Juniper had tried to do it. But most of all, she hated that the power she had waited her entire life to have felt like it was just using her, too.
“Yes,” she said, trying not to show how much it meant to her that someone else felt that way, too. “It is. So how do I stop it?”
“Well, the difficult thing is that you are a vessel. All of us are. That is what our rituals do—they make us proper receptacles for power. Which means you must learn how to tame it before it tames you. You’re good with a sword, yes?”
Harper nodded. “Very good, thank you.”
Augusta’s lips twitched. If Harper hadn’t known better, she’d have said the older woman was amused.