“You still have a choice to make, Nepenthe,” said the Witch of the Woods. “But not today.”
“I have made my choice.”
“Not today,” the Witch of the Woods repeated.
The Witch of the Woods’s home was the Hollow. It was a marvel of magic and roots. The Witch had used her roots to hollow out room after room beneath the ground. But Nepenthe had never felt at home under the ground like she did in the water. And now, with her parents gone, she could not bring herself to step inside.
Nepenthe spent days at a time in the water. No longer was she torn between land and sea. It was different living with the witches than visiting them. Before it was like going out and seeing a magic show in one of the villages. Now magic was all around her, all the time.
She only wanted to be in the water. It was where she could still feel her mother. And it was where she could weep without anyone seeing.
Days turned to weeks.
And then the Witch of the Woods, finally accepting that Nepenthe’s choice was a final one and that she would never live on land again, came to her with a gift.
“I wanted you to come to this out of a place of love, not grief,” the Witch of the Woods preambled.
Nepenthe always answered when the Witch called. She would swim to the side of the River and listen to what the Witch had to say before pushing off with her tentacles back into the currents.
But this time, the Witch had not come with words alone. She had built Nepenthe a boat and it was sitting still, anchored, despite the current.
“There is a point where even a witch can forget who she is,” the Witch of the Woods said. One of her branches skimmed the top of the water, reaching for Nepenthe.
“I think I know who I am,” Nepenthe countered, swimming with a purposeful splash in her direction.
“Mourn your parents, but do not drown in your tears.”
The Witch of the Woods stood on the shore and reached a long branch beneath the waves, plucking Nepenthe up. With a slick thud, she deposited her on the boat’s deck. And then she left her to be.
The boat was made of the Witch of the Woods’s favorite silver Oaken. It was rare and came from the top of some mountain that she could not travel to by roots. In order to procure the Oaken, the Witch of the Woods had to climb.
The Oaken’s bark looked like gold leaf, but it was silver—and it made Nepenthe think of the King’s carriage. Only it was not twisted into something ornate. Its lines were simple and reminded her of the River’s currents.
The boat had all the comforts of home, including a few of Nepenthe’s favorite things. There were also some belongings of the River Witch and Prince Eric. Nepenthe contemplated throwing everything into the River. But instead, she curled up in her father’s favorite chair, which somehow still smelled of him, and fell asleep.
The next few weeks went like that. Nepenthe got into a comfortable rhythm with the other witches. She continued her training, and when things became too much to bear, she had her boat. She had the water.
And then the witches brought her Ora. She was so different from Nepenthe. Ora was about the same age, but she was not from the sea. She was beautiful, and Nepenthe imagined every boy in Algid thought so. The Witch of the Woods had said that Ora had powers, too. She was said to have control over fire. But while Nepenthe was submerged in exercising her power, Ora did not make any effort to find hers. Nepenthe hardly ever saw even a spark.
In theory, Ora was to take the Fire Witch’s place one day. Just as the Coven had left Nepenthe’s mother’s place as River Witch open to her. But the Fire Witch and Ora were not mother and daughter. They were aunt and niece. And their relationship seemed a distant one. Perhaps it was because Ora was not interested enough in fire, or perhaps her disinterest came from the Fire Witch’s lack of interest in her. Nepenthe never knew, and for all Ora’s talking, Nepenthe sensed Ora would never really tell her. All she knew was that Ora was a fixture in the Coven.
In the future, she was to be a part of the Three. But Nepenthe wondered, somewhat meanly, what the Three would be if their Fire Witch could not so much as raise a hearth without kindling.
The Coven said Ora needed a home, too, and they brought her to Nepenthe’s boat often. Ora was happy to have a new playmate, though, and her pretty and bright presence in contrast to Nepenthe’s rumbling clouds drowned out some of the noise of Nepenthe’s hurt when she was out of the water. If nothing else, Ora was becoming a friend—whether Nepenthe wanted one or not.
They went on like that for a while, living like sisters, until everything changed again.
One day on the boat, Nepenthe saw Ora saying good-bye to another girl. She had a shock of hair and a striking face that rivaled Ora’s.
Nepenthe vaguely remembered her visiting the Coven during the phases of the North Lights when she was young. The girl was one of the Coven’s apprentices. The Coven had many. There were girls from all over Algid who had shown some magical promise. Girls who might one day replace one of the Three—if Nepenthe or Ora did not rise as expected.
The Witch of the Woods had no heir and she was as old as the forest itself. Nepenthe wondered if this girl had wanted to be of the River. If Nepenthe had perhaps pushed out the apprentice by her arrival. But on second look there was something so earthly about the girl. So human. It was clear she did not belong in the water.
“Margot, since we might not meet again, I want you to have this,” Ora trilled, giving the girl a pretty embroidered shawl.
“Thank you,” Margot said, flummoxed, before turning to Nepenthe.
“Nepenthe, is there anything I can do?” she asked.
The genuineness of her tone cut through Nepenthe, reopening her forever wound. She bit her lip, and called on her forgotten manners.
“That is kind of you,” Nepenthe replied. “I remember you. You are with the witches.”
“The Witch of the Woods says she has nothing more to teach her,” Ora explained. “So Margot’s training is done.”
Margot looked at Ora then. That was the difference between them. Ora was a part of the Coven by blood. Apprentices were there on merit alone. But if Margot felt any resentment toward Ora, she hid it well. With a small smile, Margot pulled the new shawl around her with great care.
“Funny thing,” she said.
“What?” Nepenthe asked as she made her way toward Ora.
“It’s the only thing I have ever been given since my naming day,” Margot laughed.
A whole life from birth to now, and she had never had a present? Nepenthe thought of all the gifts she’d gotten from her parents over the years and tried to imagine what this girl’s life had been. Nepenthe opened her mouth to offer up a kindness, but what was there to say? Nepenthe had lost those who were most important to her. But she had the Coven and the water. Margot had never had anyone or anything, except for a little magic, and apparently not enough.
Nepenthe said Margot’s name gently, but Margot was already gone into the night.
The next few years were a blur of magic and water. Apprentices like Margot would drift in and out of their lives, but Ora was a constant. In time, the Witch of the Woods would leave them for days and sometimes months at a time.
Ora and Nepenthe did not have much in common, but they spent hours together. Time unifies and endears, while one isn’t paying attention.
And though her training wasn’t complete like Margot’s, Nepenthe could make the River do what she wanted now. She could change its course. She could make fountains rise and fall. But on land Nepenthe was limited. She could only move water like a bow without arrows. On land, her skin dried. Her tentacles disappeared. She looked like anyone else.
Like everyone else.