Rowan cut her off. “No! It doesn’t. Not to me, anyway.” She joined Finn in the grass, folding her legs underneath her and nervously twirling her hair in her fingers. She was only three, maybe four years younger than Finn, but she had a childlike quality about her. “My mom”—Rowan quickly glanced around to make sure no one was listening—“could talk to trees.”

Finn couldn’t hide her shock. “Seriously?” Once again, she was overwhelmed by what seemed like magic to her. Her own ability suddenly felt mundane in comparison. Why did some people get to listen to star music and talk to trees while she was stuck reliving strangers’ pollen allergies and middle school dances? “That’s amazing.”

Now it was Rowan’s turn to look surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you to believe me.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to believe me, either.” Finn looked down at the soil trapped underneath the girl’s toenails. “What about you and your sisters? Can you guys talk to trees, too?”

Rowan stopped winding her hair around her finger and tugged. A nervous habit. Finn had a few of those herself. “Yes.”

“Is that what all the holes are for?”

“Yes.”

“How does it work?”

“I just stick my toes in the ground. Like this,” she said, burrowing her toes into the loose earth. “And they send me messages.”

“Oh, yeah! I remember learning in school that trees communicate with each other through their roots using bacteria or something. Is it like that?”

“My science teacher taught us that, too,” she said, a coy smile on her lips. “They have feelings, you know. They can be sad or happy or scared, just like us.”

Finn could see traces of all three emotions in Rowan’s face. “So they tell you what they’re feeling?”

“It’s not like I hear them talking or anything. I just sort of know.”

Finn guessed that Rowan, like her, had only a basic understanding of how her ability worked or where it came from. In the end, what did it matter if they’d been genetically programmed or cursed by a witch with twelve toes? It didn’t change anything. They would still be different. They would still elicit curious looks from strangers and find creative new ways to explain themselves, which is a creative way of saying they would have to lie.

“Can you show me?”

Rowan hesitated more out of habit than actual reticence. “Sure.” Then, “It works better if I stand.” She stood and slipped her feet into the hole in front of her. Moments later, her eyes glazed over and she was still, her breathing so shallow that Finn could barely see her chest rise.

She stayed like this for several minutes. Finn waited for something to happen, some sign that it was working, but Rowan didn’t turn green or sprout leaves like some fairy-tale creature. She did what all trees do: stand and wait.