Witch Born - LJ Swallow Page 0,65

The damp air and number of bodies in the small space stifles us and I bump against a bench covered in dirt and upturned plastic pots.

“This is insane,” I say. “How will growing vegetables and roses rehabilitate us?”

She shrugs. “Francesca says horticulture gives us an appreciation of nature and the cycle of life.”

“And do we partake in flower arranging too?” I ask with a laugh.

“You’re funny.” Zeke appears in front of us and takes my gloves. “Don’t suggest that to Francesca, or she’ll probably implement it.”

I snort in amusement at the image of the shifter arranging roses and sprays in a vase.

“This mocks the poor nature-loving witches who’ve lost their magic,” says Zeke. “Otherwise plants could grow quicker and easier—and with less need for horseshit.”

“They bring manure over from the mainland?” I shake my head. “I knew Ravenhold would be weird, but...”

“Did you hear they banned Sebastian?” says Kai as he approaches us. He slides a hand around and squeezes Oriana’s backside. “They found his ‘herb garden’. Destroyed the plants.”

“Damn, I hope he harvested before they dug everything up,” says Oriana.

Zeke shrugs. “He’ll find somewhere else to grow.”

I look around. The white-haired kids and Ethan aren’t the only ones missing. “I take it Dorian doesn’t like to get his hands dirty,” I say.

“He’s usually here. Probably having an extra session with Francesca or Marcus.”

“I think I’d prefer gardening,” says Zeke with a glance at me. “Kai, come on.”

At the mention of Marcus’s name, my heart jolts. I’m unsure what to do or say next time I encounter Dorian. He’s now more than the guy I arrived here hating; the one I’d spent years wishing he were dead. I don’t like or trust Dorian, but I can’t kill him. But when he discovers the truth, will he kill me for my blood and his safety?

As Zeke wanders to the opposite end of the stuffy greenhouse, Oriana picks up a small gardening fork and twirls it in her hands. “This is a waste of time. We suck at gardening. Everything dies.”

A row of small tomato seedlings wilt in pots on the bench and I reach out to touch the tiny leaves. The nature magic that elemental witches use can destroy with fire but also preserve and restore. This extends to cultivating rare flowers and herbs for potions. My parents never encouraged this in me. They were happy that I had the skill to add to the list, but there wasn’t any point in developing such common magic.

I close my eyes, and attempt to channel that elemental magic, but there’s no spark. Perhaps the academy doesn’t want to encourage my benevolent powers either and are influencing the magic they want to use.

“Does anything in here survive?” I ask.

Sapphire shrugs. “Sometimes. Nobody cares.”

“Somebody must. Oriana—you’re elemental—does your missing nature magic bother you?” I gesture at the seedlings.

She snorts. “No, that’s not a side of my power I miss. I think Rachel over there was a tree-hugging elemental witch. She cries over them sometimes.”

“No way.” I chew my lip and look around at the students, some sitting on upturned wooden cates and others poking at growing plants with their trowels. The girl they indicated carefully waters a tray of more developed seedlings, lips pursed in concentration. “Again, this is bloody weird thing to teach us,” I say.

“Yeah. But could be worse.”

“What classes did you study before Francesca arrived?” I ask.

“Mostly the traditional—maths, sciences, boring shit.”

“Surely that’s as important as growing plants and painting?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Or maybe that was just to fool us into thinking this is an academy and not a prison.”

I stare at the gardening gloves. True. What point is there teaching us life skills?

“People do leave,” I say. “They need to know maths for when they re-join the world.”

She arches a brow. “Do they?”

I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “Yes. I have a friend who knows a family whose son went to Ravenhold. He came home again.”

“When?”

“A couple of years ago.”

“Hmm. I guess they need to let some kids go otherwise everybody will realise the kids are trapped.”

“Surely parents care?” I ask.

“Mine don’t,” she says matter of fact. “I’ve four sisters and a brother. They don’t miss one kid.” I blink in response. “I’m guessing you’re an only child?”

“How do you know?”

She smirks. “They’re easy to spot. You all have certain qualities.”

“Such as?”

She shakes her head. “I’m teasing.” But she isn’t. “What about your family? Do they care you’re here?”

Do they? I’ve asked myself that question and I’m conflicted