Finding out about this supposed institute is the whole purpose of my mission. Over the years, the Families have come closer and closer to tracking down the exiles. Recent intel led them to believe that someone with my abilities could make contact with them at the right place and the right time and could maybe even be invited to join them. I’m not sure whether I ever truly believed it was actually possible. But here I am. And it’s suddenly seeming very, very possible.

“You’re a Sire. You need to be trained and protected.”

Mission aside, I can’t deny that I’m desperate to know what it means to be a “Sire.” These people understand this part of me that has been a mystery—and a weight on my shoulders—for so long. It might not be my main purpose for being here, but a little more probing would only be natural from a girl who’s supposedly never heard about any of this.

“So, what, I’m some kind of scientific anomaly?”

“What? No. Not at all. Having Sire abilities is a normal recessive genetic trait. Just like blue eyes or red hair.”

Normal. I feel so much relief in that one word.

I’ll never forget the time my parents first saw evidence of my abilities. I accidentally revived some wilted roses at our dining room table, and they freaked out like I’d gotten a face tattoo. My mom threw the flowers out immediately, and my dad’s hands were actually trembling. It’s a horrible feeling, seeing fear on your parents’ faces and knowing they’re terrified of you.

I could never understand what made them so afraid, until I saw the book.

I was in middle school, and Grandfather had brought me to visit Mom at her office. As I was waiting for her, I could tell the big, gilded book on her desk was the kind of thing that those not yet initiated into the Families were definitely not allowed to see. Of course, I couldn’t stop myself from looking.

It was all in a language I couldn’t read, but the illustrations were clear enough, and I knew why my mom must have been reading it. I couldn’t grow a vine out of my hands, throw lightning, or stop someone’s heart with a touch like the people in the colorful sketches, but whoever they were, my mom thought I was like them. And the pictures told me what happened to people like me. Drowned, burned at the stake, excommunicated. It was enough to make me want to do anything I could to prove that I was not one of those monsters.

Can it possibly be true that everything I bottled up for so long is just… normal?

Michael continues, “Being a Sire means you can manipulate Ha’i—life force—like when you made the plant grow and how you heal rapidly.”