“My family have always been witches, Rafe, even before the Cataclysmic War. Back then, my grandmother’s grandmother’s mother used magic to help her heal, help her look after people. And since nature has taken magic back, my ancestors and I have used herbs and spices and potions, those things nature has left us with. And I’ve always, always believed that nature would forgive us one day. There’s a prophecy, uttered by a few, believed by fewer; it says that magic will come back, and it’ll be reborn in a child.”

“I’m not a child.”

“You’re an innocent. And your origins . . . ?”

Rafe sipped the water and thought about the voices and sounds he sometimes heard, the way they seemed to know him so well, even though he could not understand them. And he thought of the day his parents had told him about when they found him, abandoned and alone on the hillside. “I know what you’re saying,” he said. “At least, I think so. I’m not sure. I’m so confused. I’m just a farm boy!”

“There are ways to know for sure,” Hope said, suddenly standing from her chair and reaching for Rafe.

He sat up and shuffled back on the bed. “What do you mean?”

“Your parents weren’t your blood parents, were they?” Hope stood with her arms outstretched, as if ready to catch him from a fall.

How does she know that? “How do you know?”

“Because they can’t have been.”

“Why?”

Hope came to him, smiling, but there was something behind the smile he did not like. Something old, and desperate.

“I can show you,” she said. “We can look together. You’re tired, Rafe. Look . . . watch . . . haven’t you ever wondered?” Hope reached for his shirt and he did not have the energy to draw back. He felt her sharp nails scratch at his stomach as she lifted his shirt, higher, and then she gasped and stared down at his stomach. “Haven’t you ever wondered?”

“What?” His voice came from a distance. He felt so sleepy.

“You have no navel,” Hope whispered. “It’s true. It’s you.” She looked at Rafe, and then smiled.

Something whispered to him, and Hope’s lips were not moving. He smelled grass in a wide, sun-kissed meadow, even though outside this room he could hear the sounds of hidden Pavisse going about its bleak business.

“You tired, farm boy?”

Rafe nodded, vision blurring as the room rocked him from side to side, and he could taste fresh mountain air taking the sting of Pavisse from his tongue.

Hope was whispering, but he no longer understood. He was listening to something else, something that welcomed him down into deep sleep with words beyond understanding. Behind it, comforting memories awaited him.