“I’ve twice as many berries as you, and I’m nearly three times your age,” Enat says with a laugh as she looks into my basket. “Maybe we should talk less and pick more.”
I groan my protest, though I don’t mind at all; little of my life has been spent around women like Enat. The needles at the tops of the trees glint like fat emeralds in the afternoon sun, shimmering above as I follow her with a full basket on my arm.
Moving nimbly, Enat crawls over a tangle of roots that skirt a moss-painted trunk. “You should know the majority of Channelers have only a hint of the original ability. Most are not like Jacinda.”
I scramble around the tree and fall into step beside her. Papa once bred a horse and a donkey to get a mule, and though it’s a crude thought to pop into my head, it makes me wonder about Enat’s magic.
“Could two Channelers marry?” I ask. “And create stronger offspring?”
Her foot pauses midstep over a root arching out of the ground, and a donkey-esque guffaw of a laugh bursts from her mouth. “Marry? No. Channelers are always women, since the gift is passed through the maternal line.”
It never occurred to me women are the only ones with the gift. But of course that’s the case. Still, my question is too funny not to laugh. I join in her chuckling until tears leak from her eyes.
After wiping her face and restoring some order, she adds, “We all have blue eyes.”
Hers are the deep cerulean of the ocean, unlike mine, which are pale blue, a sister shade to frost. Britta, your eyes are blue like the jewels, blue like your mother’s.
I almost laugh once more at the whirl of my thoughts, though unlike before, the humor is eclipsed by uneasiness sliding around beneath my skin. I want to scratch the feeling away. Two weeks from turning eighteen, and it seems as though I may not know myself at all.
It’s growing more evident every day that Papa kept one more secret from me.
My fingers rub my sternum where an acute spot of grief grows.
I never questioned why I could discern the truth in others, because Papa explained it as gut instinct. I even figured my knack for knowing when an animal is close to death was hunter’s intuition. But I cannot explain away how I healed the dog without considering the possibility that magic was involved.
“When I stopped at the Elementiary in town,” I find myself saying, “that woman, Astoria, thought I was a Channeler. Me, a Channeler.” I chuckle. Wait for the scoff. Any response to confirm the shopkeeper was out of her mind. Nothing comes. Just as I feared . . . and anticipated.
When Enat doesn’t say anything, I push myself to continue. “I think I might be a Channeler, even if I can’t explain how it’s possible.”
I never intended on trusting this woman who was a stranger days ago, and now here I am, fully waiting on her answers. Even if I cannot feel the warmth or chill from her words, my instincts tell me she’s someone I can believe. She’s someone who will tell me the truth.
Trust is a delicate thing, so easily broken and not so effortlessly repaired. I spent years alone, guarding myself until my ability to trust others was reduced to a pile of splintered pieces. It’s as though I’m sweeping all those shards together to ask one question: “Do—?do you think I’m a Channeler?”
She stops just ahead of me and turns around, a faint smile curving the wrinkles around her mouth. “I’m certain you are. Can you guess which type?”
“A—?a Spiriter?”
“Correct.”
Chapter
28
WHEN I WAS NINE, I FOLLOWED PAPA INTO a store where beautiful glass orbs were on display. Somehow, I bumped a delicate ball off the table. I remember it was as if it were happening in slow motion; and yet, to my horror, I couldn’t stop the orb from hitting the ground, where, on impact, cracks spread across the glass, breaking it into countless pieces.
I’m the glass ball now, falling slowly and shattering into conflicting emotions.
Shock. Anger. Hurt. Confusion. Relief.
Seeds and stars, not just any Channeler, but a Spiriter? I rub my hands over my face and shove my fingers into my hair until my scalp twinges.
“Have you nothing to say?” Enat watches me with a touch of guarded curiosity.
“I feel like I should’ve known. I should’ve figured it out before now.” My arms drop to my sides.
Her expression softens. “Oh, Britta, this knowledge is passed down from mother to daughter. And even then, you should know, it’s rare. And not often spoken about because many fear what Spiriters are capable of. The gift only runs through a few bloodlines in Shaerdan. A handful of women in each generation possess this power, though not all have the full gift of being able to sense energy in all things and to manipulate and restore that energy.