Events of the chapter: Young Circe Shepard, the daughter of a farming family on Mindoir, walks the tightrope of being a newly discovered "biotic" in a world that is not ready for it.

Author's notes: I am so very proud of this chapter. I think it encompasses everything I wanted to capture about Shepard's backstory and more. I hope you enjoy it too! We'll be back to the main story next update. Thanks for reading đź’ś

CW: brief mention of animal harm


INTERLUDE

Seeds

Circe licks her lips. The log under her feet is narrow and slippery, but her leaps are nimble, and she possesses every confidence that she can keep herself from falling. The fen is her natural habitat, after all; scampering amongst its edges and snaking waters comes as easily as breathing.

At the edge of the creek, she squats and stares down at her brand new trainers, the sodden ground staining their white laces a stubborn gray. She frowns. Her mother will scold her endlessly when she gets home. It'll be trouble enough to show her the big, fat "61" slapped across her latest math test, but spoiled shoes will be the death knell of playtime. The prospect of seeing the angry red line between her mother's brows deepen further conjures a new kind of dread in her. She can't let fear rule, however, not if she's going to enjoy the time between then and now. She scribbles over the image in her mind and continues her search for the perfect skipping stone.

The stick in her fist is long and knobby. She likes the feel of it in her hand, the way the knurls press into her palm. Pretending the stick is a wand, she waves it about like she is a sorcerer casting for magical guidance. Her eyes scan the water. The current moves so slowly that it could lull her to sleep, but a sudden glint catches her attention, and she inches forward to inspect it. A ripple bumps up against the outflow. That's when she sees it: a lilotu, with its dark, emerald skin and its long, stalked eyes peeking just above the surface, sitting so still that she nearly mistakes it for a rock in the creek bed.

Circe's heart begins to pound. She remembers the first and only time she ever caught one. Afraid to squeeze too tight, she'd held it with care for the briefest moment before the amphibian leapt away, only a slimy coating of mucus left in her hands. She lunged after it again with outstretched arms. Up it jumped, but the poor creature burst mid-air as if it were an overstretched water balloon thrown on a hot day. How she'd cried in terror! How she'd wailed and soaked her shirt through with tears. How guilty she had felt for killing the creature without even touching it.

That was nearly two years ago now: all the appointments and doctors and consultations, the strange devices peppering her skin like so many swollen bug bites, the freezing prick of needles in her arms. Her parents warned her not to tell anyone, and they barred her from using her strange new abilities around the wrong people. But it turned out the "wrong people" meant any people, really. Despite the breadth of their restrictions, she obeyed them to the letter in the months that followed, too scared and shocked to do otherwise.

In the beginning, she discovered she could not always control when it came. The tingle in her hands signaling danger. How many times had she excused herself during class? There was always the latent fear she might be taken away like Gran'da had warned on the day they'd named her "biotic".

But there are times she enjoys the feeling of mastery it gives her. The thrumming energy is sharp and warm like the tip of a flame. It is the feeling that there is something special about her that no one can ever take away.

Circe continues to stare at the lilotu, which is now is now halfway out of the water. It warbles and licks its eyeball with its coiled tongue as if to taunt her, and she sticks her tongue out in return—a ritual to ward away the memory of the one she doesn't want to remember.

The creature slips back into the creek, and she takes that as her cue to go home. Why give Mom another reason to chastise her? Skipping stones will have to wait until later—if there is a later. Dusting off her pants and coat as best she can, she checks herself over for any hitchhiking bugs or seed heads. The shoes, unfortunately, are beyond hope. She picks up her school bag and traipses toward the grain field, crossing her fingers that Damien will, once again, save her from the storm that is her mother.


"Circe Nora Shepard! Late again! Get yourself in here now, please."

Circe's mother is standing in the doorway of their prefab, working her long, dark hair into a plait at the nape of her neck. Her figure cuts a rawboned shape, and in her ivory tunic she's a dagger of a woman—delicate, double-edged, piercing. She looks down at her daughter at the bottom of the stairs and sighs.

"Really? Your brand new shoes?"

"But Mom, I—"

Her mother shakes her head. "Come on, get on inside, miss. You've got work to do." She tucks a few stray locks away and slicks her hands across the sides of her head. "And wash those filthy hands. You'd think we were raising pigs on this farm."

"Pigs?" she wonders out loud. She's certain she's seen them in one of her grandad's old picture books.

When her mother withdraws into the prefab, Circe scrubs her feet on the door mat that says "Dallinger". Its once bold letters are now faded to gray, the tops of the l's shaved shorter by well-worn work boots and children's shoes lousy with mud. She enters the common room, removes her shoes, and shuts the door behind her.

"Did you say pigs? Earth animals! Smart things. Fat. And tasty to boot!" Gran'da's laugh rattles from his armchair by the window.

"Pop…"

Bounding over with a spring in her step, Circe sloughs off her bag and throws her arms around Gran'da. He smells of musty silt and hard peppermint candies imported from Earth. When she lets go, he grins and pats her cheek before she runs off.

"Where's Damien?" Mom asks as she scoops up her daughter's satchel. "He ought to be home by now." She hangs it on a hook above the console and scours the console's drawer.

"Ah, I forgot to tell you. John asked him to drop by Philmont's, see if he couldn't pick up some new sensors for the combine. That doddering VI can't tell up from down."

"Oh for f—" She slams the drawer shut and bites her lip when she sees Circe staring from the adjoining kitchen.

Circe has heard the word fuck enough times to know it is not a polite word. She wonders why Mom is using it at all. Is she mad at Dad or Damien? The cupboard creaks as she swings it open. She scans the shelves for her favorite biscuits while continuing to eavesdrop from behind the cupboard door.

"I wish he'd stop mucking with it. There was nothing wrong to begin with. It'd still be working if he hadn't tried to alter the programming. I had the steering aligned perfectly. Perfectly!" Mom bleats like a child. "Foolishness."

Circe peers around to see Gran'da gripping the arms of his chair and jutting his lip out. "Come now, Hera, show the man a little more respect. He didn't graduate top of his class fer nothin'! You ought to be thankful to have a clever husband. Most men in this settlement are about as useful as a sack of doorknobs."

Mom snaps, "And what am I, chopped liver?"

Climbing the counter to reach the top shelf, Circe's brow crinkles. Is a sack of doorknobs a bad thing? And what does chopped liver have to do with doorknobs?

"Now, now, I didn't say that, darling. John just has a different kinda smarts." Gran'da stifles a cough near the back of his throat. "Mind you, taking that job aboard the salvage vessel didn't do you any favors. If only you'd stuck to something stable, like your brother."

"Oh yes, that again," her mother says sarcastically. "Your oh-so-dutiful son? The one who left without a word? Who left you high and dry for his rich, petulant wife? That son?"

"He sends money enough."

"Margot sends money."

Gran'da scoffs. "I'll have no more of this talk. Your mother—rest her soul—wouldn't want to hear you speak ill of your own flesh and blood."

"Fine," says Mom, grudgingly. The subject of Uncle Lex never fails to bring out the worst in her.

Having carefully arranged her jammy biscuits in a perfect cross, Circe brings the plate to the kitchen table where her mother busies herself folding a pile of clean cloth napkins. She snaps the wrinkles out with a practiced brandish. Crack! Mom is angry; she doesn't need to say anything for Circe to know. Hoping against hope that Mom will forget about the math test, she avoids her gaze and takes a tentative bite of biscuit, then another, much bigger one.

"So,"—her mother blurts out—"how'd you do on your math test?"

Startled, Circe looks up, crumbs spilling from her lips like so many grains of sand.

"Weren't you supposed to get that back today?"

"M-maff?" she mumbles around a mouthful.

"Yes, your last math test."

"Mmm…" She gulps down the dry bite still sitting on her tongue.

"That bad, huh?" Her mother raises an eyebrow. "Hand it over, please," she says, gesturing with impatient fingers.

Swinging her legs around the chair, Circe moves with all the urgency of a blade of grass. She drags her feet to the common room, unzips her bag, and brings the datapad back to the table, dangling it between her finger and thumb as if it's diseased.

Her mother tugs it away. The corners of her mouth crease in starched lines as she reviews the results, but she refrains from frowning outright. "Oh, Circ…this just won't do. I see you're going to need more review. "

Where the young girl had expected a tempest, there was only a drizzle. She feels comfortable letting her guard down. "But it's just so boring!" she whines. "It all goes wobbly in my head,"

"Remember what I told you? You need to develop good habits now, while you're still young. It'll be no use later when the Earthers and military brats leave you behind."

"I don't know why you're so hard on her," grumbles Gran'da. "The poor girl's only eight."

"You want her to get stuck on this far flung rock? There's nothing here but farms as far as the eye can see," her mother says, shaking the datapad.

Gran'da's woolly eyebrows inch closer to one another. "And what's wrong with that? Perfectly respectable living. We've done just fine, haven't we?"

Mom sets the datapad down on the table and lets out the smallest of sighs. Her demeanor changes. Turns a little sad, Circe thinks, though she doesn't quite understand why.

"Really now, don't go putting nonsense in her head."

"It's not nonsense, Pop. She's perfectly capable." Her mother turns to her with an imploring gaze. "Aren't you, miss?"

Mom's eyes are round as round can be, and they remind Circe of a cow. She's never seen a cow in person before, but in pictures they have great big eyes and long eyelashes just like Mom's, only her mother's eyes are hazel, and they aren't nearly as sweet or innocent. They're more like glass marbles—streaked and tempered.

She takes a moment to consider her mother's question."Yes," she finally answers. "I am." This much she knows, even if times tables and fractions elude her from time to time. The smile softening Mom's stern face is evidence enough that she isn't the only one who believes it.


After she's done her snack, Gran'da takes his usual afternoon nap, and Mom pours over the farm's operating expenses. Circe does homework in the solitude of her bedroom. Twisting a lock of hair her around her finger, she tugs it hard, and the prickling in her scalp grants a temporary distraction from frustration. Problem #5 is staring at her with disdain. It mocks her with its clumsy denominators. She stares back. If she stares long enough, maybe she can burn a hole right through it. Is laser vision a biotic thing? No, she discovers, her eyes are just tired.

She gazes upon her walls lined with posters of nebulae and star clusters, at her drawings of cargo ships and shuttlecraft rendered in thick, blue pencil. She drew them after Dad took her to the trade port one afternoon, after she'd pleaded with him to let her join his usual rounds. It didn't take much persuading, fortunately: Dad was keen to share the family business, and Mom was keen to have her out of her hair for a few hours.

Going for a ramble with Damien on Sundays to catch craw beetles was nothing compared to the thrill of watching spacecraft take off. She'd seen them from afar of course, but that was the first time she'd been so close that she could smell the ozone, could feel the hot jets of air scud past her plump cheeks. The idea of space travel enchants her. When she thinks of space, she thinks of Mom's stories, and Mom's stories make her think of Gran'da's books: the ones about ships and pirates, water-dwelling monsters, and real life explorers that sailed Earth's untamed seas. Space is a sort of sea, she thinks, only with no water and a lot bigger.

Before long, she forgets about her homework and is lost in a daydream about stowing away. She'll need a roomy bag to pack her favorite snacks, and a change of clothes for when she arrives. Maybe some comics and an extra power pack to keep herself entertained. Oh, and a quick note for Mom and Dad so they won't worry. Are there toilets in the cargo hold? What if she gets caught sneaking about? She considers the alternatives and makes a sour face. The disgusting reality of waste is enough to make her dismiss the fantasy all together and get on with her work.

Mom comes to to check on her a couple of times to make sure she's focused on the task at hand. To Circe's annoyance, she glances over her daughter's shoulder and tuts to herself, but she doesn't say anything useful beyond "Try that one again."

An eternity passes—what she imagines a day on Venus must feel like—before she is finished. Floating from her desk to the bed, she flops to the mattress and stretches her gangly limbs until they snap back like rubber bands gone slack. The growing pains are hurting more than usual. The desperate need to move, to jump and run, overcomes her, and she springs from the bed ready to take on the world.

In the kitchen, a puff of air spews from Mom's pursed lips as she glowers at the family's shared computer. The glare of its display limns the rutted bags under her eyes. Numbers must be bad again. Proceed with caution, Circe tells herself. She wears her best smile as she waits patiently for her mother's attention.

Her mom rubs her forehead as she looks up at her daughter through heavy eyelids. "Yes? What is it, love?"

"I'm all done homework, Mom. Can I go play now?" she says, doing her best to hold back her anxiousness.

Mom narrows her eyes. "All of it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She glances at the display again and takes a deep breath."Okay. But check in with your gran'da when you come home, okay? And don't go too far. I'm off to the lab to check on our grain samples. I'll be back before dinner. Got it?"

"Got it!" Circe grins and skids toward the door.


Her rubber boots squelch as she takes long, sinking steps through the mud. There's something so liberating about mud. She likes the way it oozes around things, the way she can slide around on it like it's ice. And the brackish sucking sound is so satisfying that for once she is glad for her mother's nagging. Before she'd flown from the door, her mother had insisted that she wear her boots on account of the clouds gathering in an ominous ring above the valley. But the rain has not materialized, and what better thing is there to do in boots but stomp around?

When she's well beyond the edge of her family's farm, she crosses the waterlogged clod of the fen and into a grove of merrams so thick that they swallow her whole. Their long, silver leaves blow like paper ribbons in the breeze. They usher her further in, and in the near distance, the distinct hooting of children bounces off the trees' enormous trunks. Morgan and Boggie have already arrived.

"What took you so long!" booms Boggie from somewhere above.

Circe looks up to see her closest neighbor with his stocky legs wrapped around a flimsy branch.

"I had to finish my homework first!" she yells back.

"Booooo!" he hollers and shifts his hands to gain more purchase on the branch. Its slender length totters under his hanging weight. Circe winces, thankful that her feet are planted solidly on the ground; at least one of them can run for help if anything happens.

"We thought your mom wasn't gonna let you play outside. You know, 'cause of the math test and all," says Morgan, nestled in the crook of two thick branches. The twiggy girl slinks across one and hangs upside down by her knees. "I got a 98. My dad says I get to go to the Celestia Vale concert 'cause my grades are so good. Can you believe it? I get see her live!" she squeals, and her long, tawny hair ripples as she shakes her head in excitement.

Circe considers squishing Morgan's cheeks together, if only to stop her gloating. How had she heard about her grade, anyhow? Embarrassed, she puts on a carefree smile. "Nah, my mom doesn't care," she says, crossing her arms and cocking her hip. "She says there's always next time. My mom's real nice."

Morgan scoffs. Boggie gives Circe a sideways glance. Or at least it looks like a sideways glance—it's hard to tell when he's upside down and his face is flushed red.

Bracing her feet against the branch, Morgan flips backwards and lands with a dull whump. She smiles slyly at Circe, like she recognizes the lie for what it is. Circe ignores her and yells for their still arboreal friend to come down from the merram.

Bogdan gives them the thumbs up. The boy is strong but ungainly, and he struggles not to step on his own toes as he takes his time climbing down. After he's safely on the earth once more, the friends play rock, paper, scissors to decide what they'll play first. Boggies throws the winning hand, but Morgan gripes about his choice. "Circe always wins," she says. "It's not fair."

It's true, skipping stones is easily her best game by far. No one in all of Hadfield Elementary is as good at skipping stones as she is. So after the children venture further to reach the pond, it's no surprise to any of them—Circe included—when she wins the first round.

"Dang, Shepard," says Boggie, giving her a light punch in the arm. "You got some kind of super charger in that thing?"

She looks down at her muddy boots with a sheepish smile. She would never say so, but she enjoys being the best at skipping stones. She's good at lot of games, but skipping stones was the first game she ever beat Damien at fair and square. Admittedly, having a patient older brother her gives you pointers doesn't hurt.

It's time for round two, and Circe rolls a stone around in her hand, feeling out its weight and shape. She calls for Boggie to take his place, but the boy is fixated on Morgan, who is squatting atop a large, flat rock with her hands tucked into her armpits.

"Hey, I can show you how to throw better if you want! It's easy!" he says and motions for her to rejoin them.

"Yeah, Boggie can show you!" Circe adds, hoping to encourage her. "He's real good at it. We can even pick out some rocks for you, if you want!"

The girl's expression sours. "Ugh, let's just climb. Your games aren't fun." She's already scrambling up a bulbous root before either friend can answer.

The line of Circe's mouth hardens. Why does Morgan always do that? Whenever she loses she gets in a huff and calls the game boring or says it's unfair, and she makes them do whatever she wants to do instead. Sometimes, Circe gets the feeling her friend might not like her—might hate her even—but she can't think of a good reason why, and she can't put her finger on what makes her feel that way.

Morgan cups her hands around her mouth and yells down, "Hey, Boggie, watch this!".

In one graceful, practiced motion, the girl stands up straight. Her lithe body is poised on the branch, and her once sour face washes over with profound stillness. Without warning, she raises her arms up highand launches herself headlong from the tree. For a moment, Circe panics, but Morgan's front flip twist ends in a perfect, noiseless landing.

"Whoa! How'd you do that?" Boggie asks, his mouth hanging open.

"Easy," she says, shrugging. Her nonchalance feels forced, as does the smirk curling at her lips. "We do a lot harder stuff at my gym. If I make it to finals"—she interrupts herself to do a handstand pirouette— "Coach says I can train with the big girls next year. Maybe even travel to Earth."

"Wow…" marvels Boggie.

Circe tries not to scowl. It's just so fake. Not the gymnastics, but Morgan's vapid smile, like she's just won a competition only she understands the rules for. It confuses her, and a funny burning rises from her gut.

"I thought you only got to go to Earth if you win the system-wide tournament?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"Yeah, well…" The girl plunks her hands on her hips and furrows her brows. "I'm gonna." Without further explanation, she looks down at her brand new holowatch—the one she made sure to show everyone at school—and lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Gosh, I have to go home now. Daddy says he's gonna take me to the new fancy bakery today. It's French. The first one on all of Mindoir, you know. I get to pick out whatever I want."

If Circe could roll her eyes right out of her head right now, she would. She'd roll them right out of her head and into her hand, then shove her hand into Morgan's face and scare with her slippery eyeballs. The absurd image makes her giggle inside, but she suppresses the urge to laugh before it erupts from her mouth.

"Aww, don't go!" Boggie whines. "It's no fun without you!" He playfully tugs at Morgan's sleeve, but she jerks her arm away, and he frowns.

He's being sincere. Circe knows him well enough to know. But why does his frown bother her more than Morgan's obnoxious bragging? It's no fun without you. The words wriggle in her head like so many lucidian worms. What about her? Is she not any fun to play with?

"Sorry," Morgan says. "I guess I'll see ya at school tomorrow? Bye!" She turns on her heels and abruptly skips away.

Still frowning, Boggie continues to wave long after she disappears through the line of trees. "I can't believe she gets to go to Earth," he says with awe. "I heard there's lotsa people and and lotsa things to do there."

Circe rolls her eyes behind his back but avoids correcting him. "Yeah, it sounds fun."

No, it doesn't sound like fun. Earth is overcrowded and overbuilt, that's what Gran'da said. And besides, Morgan isn't going to Earth! Not yet at least. Did he not hear that part?

It's not fair. It's not fair that Morgan gets to show off. Everyone claps for her. They give her medals and cheer for her because gymnastics is a normal thing for a child to do. Because Morgan is normal. Circe Shepard is not normal. The doctors said so. Her parents said so. The accidents and broken bed frame and shattered dishes said so.

It's not fair. If only she could show them, the other kids at school would scream but in the good kind of way. She'd be more than the girl with a funny name, or the girl always covered in dirt. She could be useful. She could help them retrieve their confiscated toys from the top of the teacher's shelf. She could bring down their balls when they got stuck on the flat roof of the science building. No—she could be the one to throw the balls, to hurl them from all the way across the court without moving, without touching them, and she'd score the winning basket for the team, and they'd cheer for her, and they'd love her.

She'd have more friends. Ones who didn't brag all the time or put her down, who didn't make her feel lonely even when she was with them. She could help Dad with jobs on the farm, or help lift Gran'da out of his chair when his back got too sore. All these things she could do to help the people she loved, and they would love her back.

But she can't.

It's not fair.


Whatever invisible thing that had been holding back the clouds dissolves all at once, and the clouds rush in as Circe and Boggie make their way home through the fen. The rain comes down in intermittent spits and splinters, but colony kids aren't deterred by a spot of bad weather: they're built for the rough of the outdoors, and they visit the creek before heading their separate ways.

Bogdan's feet plunk through the cold water. He's chasing after a tadpole with cupped hands as Circe watches from the bank in a daze. She wonders if the lilotu she'd seen earlier is still here. It stirs her memory again, and the burning in her gut returns; it roars up through her throat and into her mouth until she spits something she can't take back.

"Hey, Bogdan!"

"Huh?" he grunts without looking up. His hands clap at the water and come away empty.

"Wanna know a secret?"

"What?"

She motions for him to come closer. Boggie wades through the creek to meet her, his heels still halfway in the water.

"I can do magic,"she whispers.

Boggie leans away and stares at her below furrowed brows. "Liar!" he says, and lets out a rolling snicker. "Magic isn't real! Just like how Santa isn't real."

"Says who?"

"My brother said, and my brother knows lotsa stuff. He's thirteen." Droplets of water fly through the air as he shakes his hands off.

Circe's jaw sets. "I'm not lying, Boggie."

"You can't do magic."

"Yah-huh I can!"

"Okay. Do a trick then."

A trick? "Um, okay…" Her arms stiffen at her sides. She hasn't considered the consequences of actually showing him, but if she takes it back now, he'll never believe anything she says ever again.

There isn't much to impress with save for a moss covered boulder half-buried in the mud. It'll have to do. She sizes it up for approximate weight, though she knows right away that it's bigger than anything she's ever moved before, but if she's going to wow Boggie she needs to try. She checks the space behind her and backs up several meters from the creek's edge. "Watch this!" she says, hoping her feigned confidence will stir up her own mettle.

She starts with the familiar routine. They're the steps to a dance she's only just begun to memorize: planting her feet hip-width apart, grounding herself with a deep breath, and letting the tense muscles of her face relax. She lets the world around her fall away. Of all the lessons she's learned during her time practicing in secret, the most important is this: don't think too much.

The rest of her body loosens, and she extends an arm out low, her fingers spread apart like she's waiting for someone to take her hand. It doesn't take long for the warm tingle to start at the base of her neck. It swells through her spine and down her arm until it reaches the tips of her fingers where it pools.

She centers all her attention on the rock. The rock, twice as big as Boggie's head, only jerks forward at first, but it's soon loosened from the mud, and it hovers just above the ground. Circe strains. Her eyes never leave the weighty stone. As she lifts her arm higher, mud drips in heavy gobs and the boulder follows, mimicking the arc of her hand as if connected by set of ghostly struts.

"WHOA…" says Boggie, inching forward out of the creek. "How—how are you doing that?"

A grin cracks the flatness of Circe's face as she glimpses his gaping expression."Easy," she says with aplomb. "I told you—I can do magic!"

With her confidence boosted, she raises the boulder higher in the air. Her grin widens. This is the highest she's ever lifted something. But with Boggie observing, she's distracted, and her control wanes the higher she lifts it. The boulder begins to sway.

"Ahh, careful!" he barks nervously.

The adrenalin coursing through her tiny body urges her to keep going . The boulder continues rising until it's levitating above their heads in a precarious pause. Signals are stretched too far and thin—the boulder lurches from side to side. She struggles to regain control. Keep going, Circe! Keep going! chants the crowd in her mind. Her heart is racing. The cool rain bites her hot skin. She grunts and holds her breath. She thrusts her other arm out to shore it up, but it's no use: the heavy stone plummets to the earth, free of its tether.

As she stands gasping and desperate for breath, she almost doesn't hear it. A shrill wail that pierces through the rushing of blood in her ears, like the sound of distant bird call through a thicket.

It's Boggie. He's doubled over. For a moment, he doesn't move. Then, a groan tumbles out as he shoves the boulder from his foot. Circe looks on, too shocked to understand what's happened. He snaps his head up to meet her gaze, and it's then she sees the tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks, the trembling drops of rain clinging to his brow. The absolute revulsion with which he scowls up at her.

"What's wrong with you!" he cries through a closed throat.

"Boggie, I'm sorry…I-I didn't mean to. I—" She takes a step forward. "Are you okay?" She reaches out, but her hand is shaking. She stares hard at her hand. Something stops her from going farther.

The boy's face crumples as he looks down at his foot. Choking back more tears, his voice quivers. "M-Morgan was right. You—you're a witch…"

"A what?"

"She said you're a witch," he says louder.

A witch? Gran'da had used that word before, when he said Circe was a witch's name from ancient myths. Or does Boggie mean those ugly women with black cats and brooms, the women who sow misfortune wherever they go?

Circe shoves away the wet bangs plastered to her forehead and grits her teeth. "I am not!"

"You…are…a…WITCH!" he shouts again defiantly.

"I am not a witch! You take that back, Bogdan Tomas!"

"WIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!"

His howl sets off the beast inside her. Too angry to remember why they're shouting, she swings her arms wildly through the air in a selfish fit. A spray of pebbles fly up and out from the ground, pelting Boggie across the chest and neck and raining down into the creek.

He cries out. More pained tears fall from his eyes. "Stop it! Stop it, Circe!"

The frightened boy shields his face with his hands, and she remembers why he's upset, why he's called her a witch. Her body turns rigid with fear.

"B-Boggie…"

"Stay away from me!"

"Boggie, I'm sor—"

"I HATE YOU!" he screams. With all the fight taken out of him, he pants, then winces as he turns in the direction of home. "I hate you…" he repeats, limping as he drags his injured foot behind him. "I'm telling my mom!"

"FINE THEN!" she screeches after him. "TELL YOUR MOM, MAMA'S BOY!"

Boggie doesn't turn around. Circe shuts her eyes tight to keep herself from crying, but shutting her eyes does nothing to stop the rage from fermenting inside her.


Somewhere beyond the fen, the lonely, plunging whistle of a cheegral penetrates the darkness. It's soon joined by a lilotu—its chant is deep and monastic—hidden within the tangle of reeds that line the dilapidated storehouse.

Circe's eyes are only half shut when a distant voice rouses her. Her sleep is too restless, too dream-laden to be valuable, and any strength she may have saved since sunset has evaporated into the night air. She listens closely, too exhausted to move.

"Circe!" the voice calls again. They're shouting her name.

But the voice may as well belong to a ghost. She is frozen in the spot where she fell. The spot where the door of the storehouse trapped her small body. Too afraid to go home, she'd run out of the pouring rain and into the building for shelter, a place that once stored excess grain but was abandoned by its owners after too many seasons of failed crops.

Heavy footfall tramples the reeds outside. The sudden rustling startles her, and she grunts, trying once again, unfruitfully, to lift the bent metal door above her. The footfall stops just short of the entrance.

"Circe?" says a familiar voice. A splinter of light shines beneath the door just where it touches the floor.

"Damien…" she answers, her voice echoing against the door.

"Shit!" Her brother lunges through the open threshold, his shoes scuffing the concrete as he scrambles to pull the door up. "Can you push up on the door at all?"

"I tried," she says, her teeth chattering. "But it's too heavy."

"I'll pull up, but I need you to push up at the same time, okay? Can you do that for me?"

She's too tired, but she how can she tell her brother 'no? "Yes," she says.

"Okay, on three then. Ready? One…two…three!"

On three, the siblings push and pull until Damien is able to pivot the door free and clear of her body. Circe's arms collapse to the floor, and she stares up at his shadowy face as he stands over her, his headlamp shoved back and askew over his head. His dark hair, even darker than their mom's, hangs down in wet hanks.

"Ugh! You're dripping all over me, Damien!"

His grave expression breaks as a small laugh escapes him. "Glad to see you too." His soberness returns as he looks her over. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

"Um, my butt hurts a little, I guess. But I think I'm okay," she says, pushing against the dusty floor to sit up.

He extends a hand to help her to her feet and frowns. "You're shivering. You must be freezing. Come on, let's get you home." Damien lowers himself and places a knee on the ground. "Hop on. I'll give you lift."

Circe is too cold and tired to argue and drapes herself over her brother's back. At least it's stopped raining; she can tell even before they leave the protection of the storehouse. Cheegrals don't usually sing when it rains, but more have joined the night's chorus, so many that their whistling turns comical as they overlap one another.

The siblings are silent as they make their way across the grain field, their way illuminated only by Damien's dim headlamp. The silence is a kindness. Her brother, the perennial troublemaker, would understand its value at a time like this. Still, she wishes she could say it. Tell him everything that happened. But she's too ashamed, and she finds herself without the words to explain.

Instead, she comes back to the self-reproach that had led her to the storehouse. How could she be so stupid? How many times had her parents warned her? She was so sure she could control it, but she couldn't. Showing off had been a fool's errand. The only thing she showed off to Boggie was her arrogance and recklessness.

And what about Boggie? Was he alright? She'd probably hurt him, or worse, maimed him for life. The thought of never earning his forgiveness weighs heavier than any boulder ever could. Maybe she deserves that.

When Damien and Circe reach the machinery shed, the question finally comes.

"What the hell were you doing in the storehouse anyway?" Damien asks, trying to sound casual.

Circe tightens her grip around her brother's neck. "The rain started real hard. It was dry in there."

"And the door?"

"I might have ripped it out…" she mutters.

"Ripped it out?" He jerks his head over his shoulder. "Jesus, remind me not to piss you off!"

"I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't, Circ." Damien stops to hitch her up his back and get a better grip on her slipping legs. "Boggie's okay, you know, in case you were wondering. He's fractured his big toe, but he'll be okay."

Circe's cheeks burn hot with guilt. "You knew?"

"Yeah," he says solemnly. "Mom was at the Tomas' farm when Boggie dragged himself outta the woods looking like a wet rag. She sent me and Dad out to find you when you didn't come home."

"What about Gran'da?"

"He's holding up the fort."

Circe bites her lip. It's so much worse than she imagined. "Is she…mad?"

"Mom?" He sighs. "You know how it is with her. She's all quiet until she's not. She's gonna make you go to Boggie's tomorrow, to apologize in person at the very least. I don't know what she's gonna do after that."

Leaning her head out to see ahead, Circe catches the lights of the prefab glowing between the stalks of allip beans. She doesn't want to go home, but she doesn't have much choice. The trade port will be closed right now; there's no running away.

"Hey, Damien?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I got made this way as like, a punishment?"

"A punishment?"

"Yeah. Like maybe I did something wrong." She presses her cheek against her brother's back, then rests the weight of her head.

"What? No, of course not. It's just one of those freak accidents. No one is punishing you."

"I feel like it sometimes."

"Listen, I get what's it like to have something inside you that feels…different. But you can't let it get you down. Think of it as a strength. A superpower." Damien snorted. "Like, you literally have a superpower. How amazing is that?"

The prefab comes into clearer view and every single one of its lights are on. Soon, Dad and Gran'da and Mom will descend upon their confused witch and ask her too many questions she can't answer. Not in a way that will make sense to them, anyway.

"Damien?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really have to go? To the Allliance?"

Her brother doesn't answer right away, only sucks his teeth. "I do. They need soldiers to fight the Batarians."

"I'm going to miss you when you go," she whispers.

"I'll miss you too, doodle."

And for the first time, she feels like her world is just too small.