21
I have to stop whatever is happening to me. Or at least get a better understanding of how to control it. That’s the only thing that will prevent me from hurting more people.
And I have less than a day to do it.
Old news feeds of Caitlin Greene wait in a neat row on the wallscreen. It’s a little creepy seeing her as a young woman giving fiery speeches about the Sensitive threat side-by-side with a shot of her fifteen years later, wild and angry. She looks completely crazed.
My breath rushes out of me. I need to know what happened to Mother and Caitlin.
If I were Mother and I wanted to hide something, where would I put it? I’ve turned the house upside down searching for her journals. Images of different places flash through my mind, but none of them seem right. Oliver said I needed to know what to ask for and I’d be able to find it. But I’m not sure what, exactly, I’m looking for. Searching for journals has given me nothing.
I tilt my head and study the wallscreen. Something is off, but what?
Caitlin out among the people with Charles at her side; Caitlin delivering State of the State addresses; Caitlin holding her daughter in her arms, sobbing as she announces Charles’s death.
A daughter.
I shake my head at how obvious it is. There are no feeds of her as a child. Every one is of Caitlin between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five. Why?
“Images of Caitlin Greene when she was…fourteen?” I ask.
Nothing. I suck on my upper lip. How could Mother hide all the feeds? There have to be hundreds, if not thousands, of them.
I toss a pillow at the wall. This is getting me nowhere.
Orange and purple streaks stretch across the night sky. I’ve been up all night and have nothing to show for it. And there’s no way I’ll be able to poke around today. Not with the pre-binding activities Mother has scheduled for me.
I snort. Maybe I’ll get lucky and my intended will go missing. Or maybe someone will attack the binding hall again.
Or maybe I’ll go so crazy, Mother won’t be able to parade me in public.
I flip over on my bed and stare at the wallscreen upside down.
Huh.
“Charles Channing,” I say. “I want images of him when he was fourteen” Dozens of images, and not one with Caitlin, flash onto the wallscreen. As I’m sorting them into groups, it hits me. There are no feeds of Caitlin Greene at fourteen because Caitlin Greene didn’t exist. At least, not under that name. She didn’t take Greene as her surname until later.
A smile forms on my lips. “Caitlin Channing. I want every feed on her.”
Hundreds of images clog the wallscreen and I grin. I’ve found her.
What if Mother hid her childhood data under her father’s name?
“Malin Trevern,” I recite. Image after image of a young Mother flash across the screen.
I wiggle excitedly in my seat before pressing my hands together and bowing my head. With every ounce of concentration I have, I focus on the journals of Malin Trevern.
The air around me pops like little firecrackers.
Dozens of antique books sit in neat stacks across my floor, casting off a strange vibration of magic. I frown. Mother must have placed extra protective wards on them.
I slide off my bed and slowly circle the books. At Summer Hill, Eloise taught me how to use these old relics, but I can’t touch or open them with magic, because knowing Mother, the books will probably explode or disintegrate if I do.
“Is there a password on the books?” I say aloud. My wristlet chirps twice and I glance at the screen. Enter password, it flashes.
Taking a chance, I say, “Malin Trevern.” My wristlet goes blank.
“Damn it.” My heart sinks. I tap at my wristlet, softly at first, then harder. The screen remains blank. It won’t even turn on.
My finger pounds against the small screen and in desperation, I say, “Ping, Kyra.”
Nothing.
I lean against my bed. Wonderful. Mother will know immediately what I did.
“What happened at Northwoods that you don’t want anyone to know, Mother?”
My wristlet buzzes. The screen flashes and the shimmer of magic surrounding the books disappears.
“Northwoods?” I say with a smile. “That’s the password?”
With my hand flat against the top book, I say, “Northwoods and Bethina.” Hopefully, it’s the right combination of words to find what I’m looking for.
Two books float through the air and hover before me. I tap the one on the left and it flips open to a section in the middle. I pluck it out of the air and climb back into my bed.
My eyes travel over the page. Mother used old-fashioned loopy handwriting that I have a hard time reading.
“Translate.” The words smooth out, unbending the strange curly strokes, until neatly printed words line the page.
Bethina arrived today. I love the girl, but she travels like a commoner. One trunk and not a single gown. Father hopes I’ll have some influence over her questionable fashion choices, but honestly, she’s hopeless. If she would only let me do something with her hair.
But what does it matter? We all know she’s headed for a career as a housemother. It’s all she talks about. Personally, I think she’ll be brilliant at it. Look how she is with Henry. Always letting him tag along, wiping his nose, keeping him entertained. I couldn’t do it. I have none of the sisterly devotion she does.
Oh! I received a letter from Iso today. Apparently our new Ag teacher is a sight to behold. And young—
I lay the book down in my lap and scrunch up my face. Sisterly devotion?
Like a million spiders, a chill races across my arms and legs. “Trevern family tree,” I whisper.
A tree, similar to the one Mother showed me of the Greene family, appears on my wallscreen. I follow with my eyes until I come to my name and backtrack. Mother sits above me, by herself. Above her are her parents, Anja Greene and Jones Trevern. But next to her father is another name, Livia Brioden. Beneath them is Henry.
My hand flies to my chest. My grandfather had another wife? I check the marriage and death dates. My grandmother died when Mother was just a baby.
Jones must have found a new mate. He would have been obligated under witch law since he only had one child.
I tap my finger against the side of my nose. Which means his new wife only had one child too since, according to witch biology, he had to produce one more offspring—a boy.
“Livia Brioden.” My voice shakes. The name flashes on the screen. And beneath her two names: Henry Trevern and…Bethina DeSoto.
My mind whirls as I sort the information. Henry and Mother were half-siblings, having the same father. And Bethina and Henry were half-siblings, having the same mother. Which means, Mother and Bethina were step-sisters?
I cup my hand over my mouth. Why doesn’t Mother want me to know? Did she do something to Bethina? Hurt her in some way?
No. She couldn’t have. Bethina would never have taken me. Unless Mother forced her.
I fling the books off my bed and roll onto my stomach. There are too many secrets in my family. It’s a giant puzzle.
A thought nibbles at me and I grab my tablet from the side table. I make three columns: Mother, Henry, and Bethina. Under each one, I write Mother and Father.
My grandmother had to be Dark since she was a direct descendant of Caitlin, so I write a D next to her name. I’m positive Bethina’s parents were both Light. I mark L’s under her name. Since Livia was Light, I mark an L under Henry.
Bile raises in my throat. Henry told me his parents were Light and Dark. If his father was Dark, not his mother as I was lead to believe, that means my grandfather was Dark.
I stare at the screen.
Mother
Henry
Bethina
Mother - D
Mother - L
Mother - L
Father - D
Father - D
Father - L
Mother isn’t a mix. She was only raised by a Light witch—Bethina’s mother.
She’s one-hundred percent Dark.
And she has no idea what’s going to happen to me on my birthday