Mika hadn’t been the one to tell the children about the fact that witches were always orphaned young. They’d already known; it was one of the few things Lillian had told them. Mika, who had always suspected that Primrose had made up the spell-that-went-wrong story, had been astonished to discover that this mysterious spell was apparently talked of elsewhere, too.

“Like I said before, I have no idea if a spell really did go wrong,” Mika said now. “But yes, whatever the reason, that’s why our parents died.”

Rosetta, who was working at the other, bigger cauldron, spoke up. “If you’re a witch,” she said quietly, “does that mean you’re more likely to give birth to a witch?”

“Based on what we know, yes,” said Mika. “Anyone’s child can be a witch, but a witch’s child is far more likely to be one, too.”

“Wait!” Altamira cried. “Does that mean I mustn’t ever have babies? But I like babies!”

“First of all, you’re seven,” said Mika. “You’ve got a while to go before you need to worry about that. Second of all, witches do have babies. I exist, don’t I? We don’t always give birth to witches. We’re just more likely to. Many witches choose not to have biological children because of the risk of, you know—”

“Dying soon after?” Rosetta asked.

“I was going for a euphemism, but that works,” said Mika. She hesitated, wondering how much she could appropriately explain to them. “And yes, some witches choose to take the risk because they want children very much, but sometimes the choice is taken out of their hands altogether. Now can we get back to our potion-making?”

Terracotta had not come to this lesson. Mika knew she was practicing the simple spells she’d taught the girls so far, because Rosetta had told her so, but Terracotta had missed about a third of their lessons. She typically turned up to a session or two, became reluctantly captivated, and promptly decided not to come to the next lesson just to make sure Mika never forgot that she didn’t like her one bit. When they were thrown together outside of lessons—at mealtimes, in the firelit front room in the evenings, or when it was Mika’s turn to keep an eye on the children playing outside—Terracotta either ignored Mika entirely or, alternatively, discussed methods of murder in the most matter-of-fact voice. Mika had decided to be amused because the alternative was to be extremely, extraordinarily frustrated.