fell to her ankles, the tails flapping slightly in the breeze as she made her way across the lawn, her dogs trailing behind her. Harper had known Augusta Hawthorne her entire life, but that was not enough to overcome the sheer presence she exuded. Something about her demanded focus. Harper had thought for ages that it was a Hawthorne thing, but when she’d seen it in her siblings after they passed their rituals, she’d realized the truth.
It was a founder thing. They all knew how to be watched?—something Harper had yet to learn.
“Before we begin,” Augusta said, locking eyes with her, “there are a few things we must cover. Firstly, I’m well aware you do not trust me. I do not expect you to, not yet. But I do require your respect. Can you do that?”
Harper’s throat was tight, but she nodded. There was no world in which she would ever trust Augusta Hawthorne, but she’d always respected her. Even when she’d hated her.
“Good.” Augusta’s voice was as chilly and brisk as a fall breeze. “Secondly, I want you to be aware of what we’re facing here. Four Paths is in a time of turmoil right now, and the town needs all of our strength to steady it after what happened with the Church of the Four Deities?—we’re still feeling those aftershocks. Something strange occurred the night before you agreed to train with us, at the place where the Church attempted their ritual.”
She drew out her phone and showed Harper a series of photos. Harper stared, frowning, at the iridescent liquid oozing through the lines of the founders’ symbol, the deep grooves in the dirt.
The night before she’d agreed to train with them. That was the night Violet had been out late.
“Do you know what that is?” she asked Augusta.
Augusta shook her head. “Something new,” she said sharply. “Something dangerous. Which means there’s no more time to waste.”
At first, Harper just exercised. Stretches, which Augusta modified for Harper’s residual limb; lunges, a quick jog around the yard. Harper was sweating and glad she’d worn workout clothes by the time they were done. After forty-five minutes of physical labor, Harper chugged most of a bottle of water, then sank to her knees beneath the tree she’d turned into a statue, panting. The branches above her head shone in the light of the setting sun.
“Now that we’ve dealt with the basics”?—Augusta’s boots appeared a foot away from Harper’s knees, crunching across the desiccated autumn leaves?—“let’s discuss your powers.”
Harper tipped up her head. Augusta’s face was impassive, but Harper wondered if her mind was full of the same memories Harper was now replaying. The night Harper had gripped her arm and tried to turn her to stone. The night she’d fallen into the lake. The night her life as she knew it had changed forever.
“All right,” Harper said, starting to get to her feet, but to her surprise Augusta shook her head.
“No, I’ll join you.” She lowered herself into the leaves, crossed her black leather boots, and placed her gloved hands primly on her knees. Harper wasn’t sure she’d ever actually been eye to eye with Augusta Hawthorne before. She’d expected the woman’s gaze to be even more piercing up close, but it was softer instead. The setting sun deepened the crow’s feet around her eyes, set her feathery blond pixie cut ablaze, and it occurred to Harper that this woman had watched this town crumble in her grasp, that she held the very weight of the forest itself on her shoulders.
“What happens when you turn something to stone?” Augusta said mildly. “Describe your technique.”
Harper hesitated. “It’s like… I push,” she said, extending her palm. “And it sort of flows from there.”
“Localized in the hand, naturally,” Augusta said, her brow furrowing. “Sounds as if the power comes when you call, so what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know when to stop.” The words tumbled out of her, shameful and soft. Harper had always thought she’d excel as a founder if only she had powers, that the meticulous control she’d put into her weapons training would be easily applicable. She’d even judged Isaac for his inability to keep his powers in check. But now she was out of control, just like him.
Maybe she would have learned if Augusta had given her a chance instead of cutting her off. Maybe fewer people would have died in the Gray. The knowledge of how unfair it was surged through Harper’s chest, and she knew that Violet would have let