The last time my mother spoke to me, she reminded me of my most important duty:

"Never—never—tell anyone about your father!"

I can still hear her gritty hiss, feel her grip on my chin when my eyes strayed sideways.

"Never, fy ngeneth. You already know."

"But who do I tell them is their daddy?"

"No one!"

Even now, I remember the bruise of her grip; she squeezed until pain burst beneath my eyelids.

"You know better, 'ngeneth. Anyone is better than your father, but no one—no one—is best."

I knew she was right—I've always known she was right. Ffionwen and Afon cannot have a father.

Werewolves do not become fathers in our world.

No one is best.

SUMMER

July 1995

Branda

It's the wandering time again. By calendar or by temperature, the beginning of spring is when other aconitors—my fellow ingredient gathering witches and wizards—pack up their gear and their families and start on the road in search of the years' fortune.

This is summer. Yet here I stand unpacking in the tiny room I share with my sisters above Donius's apothecary, just as I have done every summer for the last three years.

"Girl! Come here!"

I've not been off the train an hour, yet already Donius has found a task for me. I oughtn't be surprised—what am I if not a slavey for him to order about? But I know Donius enough that I take my time, though not too much. Unease has been my companion today, the question of my future having been brought sharply into focus now that my tenure as a student has completed. Distractions are welcome.

I leave the bedroom and cross the narrow hall to that which my brother Llon, who is twelve, shares with Afon, who is three, the youngest of us here, and who resides further down the street with Onyxia, presently. The trunk's rumpled contents tell me Llon scrambled to find his wand as soon as we arrived. When we boarded the train to return for his first summer holiday as a student (and the rest of my life) I snatched his wand from him and hid it deep within his trunk in case he thought of trying any last-minute jinxes. But he did not fight me. Many are surprised at how well my brother obeys me, but Llon and I have always gotten along.

"Have you gone deaf?" Donius barks as I reach the top of the staircase. He's old, but he stands strong in his reedy frame as he glares up at me from the foot of the stairs, impatient. Donius is my cousin, removed in some way. He runs the apothecary that doubles as our home.

I descend the stairs slowly, as though I've got all the time in the world to do his bidding, telling him without words that, no, I don't take the threat in his tone seriously, and haven't for years. Donius looks as he did when we arrived here three years ago, clean-shaven with his grey hair combed back and his mouth a miserly crease.

He presses a square of parchment into my hand. "Give this to Onyxia when you grab the boy. She's been expecting it," he jerks his chin at the parchment he's given me.

Onyxia is Donius's first cousin. She too runs a shop in Knockturn Alley where she sells bewitched candles, nicknacks, and cheap jewelry, and where she houses Afon, who, being so young, has always spent the time when I am at Hogwarts with her.

Past Donius, in the backroom where merchandise is stored, my siblings look up from the game they've been playing, a silver Sickle borrowed from Donius's pocket on the floor between them, knuckles already cracked raw.

"Are you ga'n to get Afon, then?" Gwenyn, my nine-year-old sister, asks. Straw-yellow hair hangs lankly about her face, the straggly ends brushing the wooden floorboards and her cracked knuckles. Her eyes, droopy at the corners like mine, gaze up at me with a bored glint that turns her typically cheeky expression dull. She is my sister, so I love her, but still. . .she's Gwenyn.

"I am. I'm not taking you with me."

Gwenyn sneers dismissively. "Why would I want to go out there now? Nowt but freaks and idiots at this time."

Beside Gwenyn, my other sister, Ffionwen, has gotten to her feet, delighted by the prospect of seeing Afon again. At five, Ffionwen is small for her age; her head—dark like mine—barely reaches my hip as she hops up and down in pleasure, and I'm no willow.

"Wash some potatoes while I'm gone so I can start dinner when I'm back." This is a chore I know only Llon and Ffionwen will bother with. Gwenyn's two sole missions in life are to irritate people with her mischief and to be the laziest lump she can.

Llon looks up for a moment to consider my orders before returning to their game of Bloody Knuckles. He is twelve with dark hair and small, hazel eyes that seem always to be searching for adventure. But he's a good brother, Llon. I know he'll heed me after I've left.

I walk out onto the steps that lead to the street, sparing a glance at the sign overhead. Apothecary has been engraved into the wood for so long it's becoming dulled, but the outlines of flying bats, toads' feet, and wolfsbane blossoms have been carved so deep into the wood that they push the heading out at you. The images of wolfsbane give me pause, but I try not to dwell on memories of my family's better days; I force those feelings down to focus on the task at hand.

Onyxia resides at the very end of Knockturn Alley, right up against an end wall that separates our world from the Muggles. I pass several small back alleys and lanes, places where the most questionable of arrangements can be made, or where the most destitute among us might sleep for a night wrapped only in a cloak. Between an exposed butcher's block at an outdoor meat stall—emptied for the night—and a row of shack-like rooms to let sits the Bull and its open front courtyard, an inn frequented by underground traders and whores. Prostitute witches are few and far between; often they're former convicts unable to find regular employment and whose shame-faced families won't help them once their sentences have ended. I've avoided looking too closely at them, afraid I'll see Mam's eyes staring back at me from a shadowed passageway.

When I first came to Knockturn Alley, I didn't know anyone. I hardly knew Donius, nor Onyxia. I had to learn how to shout at people who bothered me—thieves who followed me because I was clearly an easy target; leering drunks who would lean towards me; hooded figures who followed me. But I also learned who I could trust, which is less than in other places, but far more than you might expect. What I'm saying is, I hate it here, but in the three years since my brothers, sisters, and I were brought here, we've managed to carve out a place for ourselves. We are aconitors—ingredient witches and wizards—who turn even the filthiest of nature's organisms into sacks of silver and gold, sweating in the summers and freezing during winter, breaking our bodies in ways most witches and wizards would never dream of doing themselves. The kind of business that takes place in Knockturn Alley, I would tell myself, is nothing.

By the time I make it to Onyxia's, the few dusty streetlamps that have been charmed to keep Knockturn Alley from descending into total blackness after dark have sprung to life, casting eerie shadows against the walls and shopfronts. I've hardly touched the brass kneazle-head knocker when the door is wrenched open to reveal Onyxia.

"It's about time—oh, Xenia! But of course, it's you. I was expecting Donius, but is the beginning of summer, isn't it?"

I curl my lips into a spare smile. I've never liked Onyxia, and Xenia is my middle name, and decidedly un-Welsh, which is why she's always insisted on using it.

"Noswaith dda."

Onyxia scowls, just as she always does when she hears me or any of my siblings speak even a single word of Welsh.

"This is for you," I say as I hand her Donius's note. "Where's Afon?"

Afon is three now, but he was only four months old when he arrived at the apothecary with the rest of us. Unwilling to put up with a crying baby in his place of business, Donius struck a deal with Onyxia: once I left for Hogwarts each year, she would take Afon, and also Ffionwen, who was only two then.

Onyxia stares at the note in her hand, eyes narrowing in displeasure. "He sent you with no money, girl?"

"I haven't stolen it, if that's what you're thinking!"

"No. No, girl—I suppose—I should have expected as much this time. Well, wait here a moment. Here are his things." Before Onyxia shuffles back inside, she reaches behind her and hands me a bag filled with Afon's few belongings. Several moments pass before she reappears with my brother, who toddles stiffly behind her. Afon's eyes, dark green like mine—like Tad's—grow wide when he sees me waiting for him. He has always been quiet—very quiet—but what he does not say aloud is spoken by the way he reaches for me, by his awkward, hasty toddle over the threshold. Welsh rolls automatically off my tongue, and I call Afon 'ngwas i—my little lad, and blodyn tatws—potato flower.

"Speak English to him!" Onyxia shrieks. "I've been forced to reteach him every year how—"

"We've got to be getting back, now. Good night, Onyxia!"

Quickly, I pivot round and retreat up the street to the apothecary. I don't care that I'm being rude; I care even less how Onyxia thinks she has suffered raising a child who goes back and forth between learning to speak in two languages. Afon's so quiet he barely uses either!

My brother tucks his head between my neck and shoulder; his breaths gust warmly against my skin; his dark hair is silky beneath my chin. It's a relief knowing all my siblings are with me again.

As evening gives way to night, the shadows of Knockturn Alley appear to jump out and reach for us as we pass by.