Patricia has been pulling me forward slowly. We’re at the hearth now, and I can finally see what’s happened to Abby.

Her back is torn open like a great cat has used her spine for a scratching post. Long stripes of split flesh crisscross from shoulder to hip, some thin as a razor, others open wide enough to reveal folds of tissue in pinks and reds that I’ve only seen at the butcher. The whip took skin and cloth, leaving both her body and dress in shreds.

A human did this to another human. Some boy did this to Abby over some perceived slight. She ran for help and no one gave it to her. They handed her over to a boy who tore her body open and left her for dead.

Fury builds in me like venom. A sharp, dangerous feeling I’ve never felt about someone I haven’t met. “Carr.”

Patricia nods. “His monument is on the quad.”

“His monument?” I turn to her, enraged that this monster is honored at Carolina or anywhere else.

She sighs heavily. “Everything has two histories. Especially in the South.”

I search her features for the anger that I’m feeling, but her face is a tired mask. She must feel it. She must.

Patricia stares back as if she knows what I’m thinking. “Never forget. Be angry. And channel it.” She reaches for my hand and grips it tight, and it’s the only thing keeping me from swaying to the ground. “Watch. This is the heart of Rootcraft, Bree. Protection from those who would harm us, and, if they do, healing so that we can survive, resist, and thrive.”

I watch Mary settle on her knees, palms facing up on her lap. I watch as she begins chanting beneath her breath, a low pulse that feels like warm drums beating in my feet, in my belly, my heart. Then, I watch as those drums become more than a feeling, as they take shape and become visible.

Light curls up from Mary’s knuckles and coats her palms and wrists, as yellow flames grow and pulse along her skin.

“Mage flame,” I whisper in awe. Patricia startles beside me, but somehow, that doesn’t feel like it matters. Not when I see Mary lean forward over Abby’s back until her glowing golden hands hover over the injuries and the wounds begin to slowly, slowly close. Not when Mary’s breathing and Abby’s ragged breaths come together until their chests rise and fall in the same rhythm, and the root knits muscle to muscle, muscle to fascia, skin to skin.

The smells of honey and blood mix together in my nose and mouth.

The two women breathe together for a long, long time, while the blood of Mary’s ancestors comes forward to heal wounds wrought by a horse whip in the hands of an evil man.