Days turned into weeks turned into months. Though their primary focus was on keeping the young witches’ powers in check, Sōngbǎi and Maisha couldn’t help but teach their girls other skills as well. Maisha relentlessly taught them mathematics, as well as a bit of global politics, history, and culture. Sōngbǎi on the other hand, usually whisked the girls off on adventures, hiking through mountains and forests, valleys and rivers, all the while teaching them how to build campfires, forage, hunt, read maps, and other various survival skills- both with their magic and without it.

It was after one such adventure that the girls sat around a fire outside of the hut, whittling twigs under Sōngbǎi’s direction. Maisha strolled across the clearing and took a seat by Báigǔ next to the fire. Xīsà immediately moved to sit closer to Maisha.

“What's that you three are up to?”

“Whittling chopsticks,” Morg replied happily. Maisha furrowed her brows,

“What do you need chopsticks for?”

“It’s an easy whittling project for the girls,” Sōngbǎi replied, “and it’s not like you have a particular abundance of utensils.”

Maisha made an expression that seemed to say, ‘touche.’ They sat around the fire in silence, the shadows flickering in the firelight.

“How come Henry didn’t stay to say hi?” Morg suddenly asked, looking at Maisha. Startled, Maisha found herself at a loss for words.

“Henry?” Sōngbǎi inquired cooly, pausing her whittling.

“At least I think it was Henry,” Morg said, “he was… small. Kinda skinny, kinda short, with brown hair and he had a tan flat cap… I thought he looked familiar. Was it Henry? I met him when I first turned my parents into frogs.”

Maisha sucked in a breath. How could Morg have seen him? He came and went while the girls were still on their trip with Sōngbǎi and Báigǔ. Maisha glanced toward the tree across the clearing standing tall at the edge of the clearing. In the dim firelight, the eyes embedded up the trunk took on an eerie green glow. Even from this distance, she could feel their gazes on her. Maisha shivered.

“So what was he doing here?” Morg insisted.

“Morg, it’s Maisha’s own business, you shouldn’t pry,” Sōngbǎi interjected.

“Hahaha, no it’s alright, Henry’s a dear friend of mine from the Southeast,” Maisha explained with a laugh.

“Dear… friend?” Sōngbǎi stared at Maisha, misunderstanding her meaning.

“Well,” Maisha flashed that mischievous grin, “more like my spy, haha! He tells me what the silly priests down there are plotting. Pentecostals, holiness, episcopal and the like, they all have schemes up their sleeves.”

“So he’s… you’re… romantically involved?” Sōngbǎi asked, still unclear. Maisha once again fell speechless, momentarily shocked by the blunt question. Then burst out laughing,

“Ahahaha, weren’t you just telling Morg to mind her own business? But no. He’s more like… a brother.”

“Really?” Morg asked excitedly, “How come he didn’t stay longer?”

“Well the fewer people who know about my spies, the fewer people there are to let something slip.” She booped Morg on the nose with her finger. “So no talking about Henry to outsiders, alright?”

Morg nodded enthusiastically. Sōngbǎi smiled and continued with her whittling.

***

Several mornings later, Morg and Xīsà studiously worked on Mandarin and English respectively. Morg felt driven because the closest thing she had to a playmate was Xīsà. Xīsà was driven because whenever she did well in her studies, Maisha would clasp her hands together happily and praise her and that made Xīsà happy.

Maisha appeared behind Xīsà’s shoulder, studying her work. She made a few corrections to her grammar, then said in Chinese something along the lines of “Keep up the good work!” tousling her greasy black hair affectionately. Xīsà looked at Maisha curiously when the woman began playing with the young girl’s locks, her fingers running through the strands meticulously.

“Sōngbǎi, come look at this,” Maisha called across the room. Songbai set down the book she had been reading and made her way to stand beside Maisha. Narrowing her eyes, she studied the stark white streak of hair cascading through Maisha’s fingertips.

“Ah. If the rest of her hair changes to look like this…” Songbai trailed off. When the mana in a young witch’s blood awakened, the magic coursing through their veins frequently altered their body in some form or fashion- whether that consisted of a simple change in hair color, or something more drastic like growing horns or antlers depended on the witch. So if this unnatural streak of white in Xisa’s hair grew and became any more noticeable, that coupled with the fact that Xisa was many moons younger than the typical age at which a child’s magic should awaken, the extent of Xisa’s magical ability would become obvious. From there, it would only take an ounce of deductive reasoning for someone to guess the two girls were twin souls.

Before now, even if an outsider became aware that Morg and Xisa were witches, as long as it remained a secret that their mana had already awakened, Maisha and Songbai’s adoption of sorts of the girls was quite reasonable. Cyewen Island, the island-town where their little family had been living, was a place of learning. At the age of 13, witches are brought here to train and learn under the guidance of older, more seasoned witches. While this obviously benefits the young witches, it also gives the elder witches an opportunity to find young and eager apprentices.

However, it's also common practice to take in a witch younger than the age of 13 if said young witch is in any sort of danger. In the most practical terms, any witch looking for an apprentice benefits from this arrangement; more living young witches means more options of apprentices. At the same time, although many witches have unconventional habits and tastes often bordering the macabre, a witch is no stranger to empathy; of course if they see themselves in a young and troubled witch, their heart will endeavor to assist them.

And beyond all that, as witches are incapable of ever having children of their own, many opt to adopt abandoned kids- witch or otherwise. Thus the sudden appearance of two children in a house in Cyewen was indeed quite reasonable. Expected, even.

But the appearance of a pair of twin souls was a different story. Witches were in a constant power struggle with each other, many individuals striving to snuff out any threat to their status. As they were now, Morg and Xisa had the potential to threaten those in power, but as new witches unable to properly control or wield their mana, they were vulnerable. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the monks, too, would surely strive to end such threatening women under the guise of preventing a tragic history from repeating itself. If the wrong person discovered the true identities of these girls… Songbai didn’t like to think about it.

“We can’t just leave her hair like this. What are you planning?” Songbai asked expressionlessly. The two had fallen into speaking Mandarin, as they frequently did ever since Maisha became good enough to hold conversation.

“I’m going to whip up a little hair dying potion. She’ll have to take it once a week,” Maisha declared as she swept over to the kitchen and started tossing a variety of ingredients into a large mortar. Its matching pestle immediately whistled over, happily grinding the ingredients together. Sōngbǎi nodded thoughtfully and took a seat beside the girls.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Squid ink, squid ink, I’m certain I had some somewhere…” Maisha muttered while searching behind bottles and jars. Xīsà, who had been searching avidly through her hair for the aforementioned streak of white, snapped her head up- squid ink for the potion? Was she supposed to drink squid ink!?

“Ah!! Carob pods! These will do the trick. Wormwood, anise, fennel, yucca root, and… oh my, can’t forget the slugs!”

Xīsà watched wide-eyed as Maisha plucked a handful of slugs from the jar and tossed them into the mortar. Xīsà often helped Maisha clear slugs out of the garden- but this was not what she had expected them to be used for! Xīsà jumped up and ran over to Maisha’s side, peering into the contents of the mortar.

Sōngbǎi rolled her eyes, “Always the slugs. Do they even do anything?”

“Of course!” Maisha said clasping her hands together, “Slugs for longevity!”

Sōngbǎi rolled her eyes again. Maisha crossed the hut to dump a pint of water and the ground up contents of the mortar into the cauldron before lighting the fire underneath with a snap of her fingers. In no time, the brew began bubbling, and an interesting smell wafted through the hut. Morg finally looked up from her studies, sniffing the air curiously. Maisha stirred the brew with her wooden spoon until the concoction turned pitch black. Then she scooped out a small portion into a cup and handed it to Xīsà. Xīsà could see her reflection in the ebony liquid. Maybe she was supposed to rub it on her hair rather than drink it. Wouldn’t that make more sense? Maisha put a firm hand on Xīsà’s shoulder.

“Drink up!”

If it had been any other person offering her this inky sludge to drink, Xīsà would have clamped her mouth shut and run off. But it was Maisha. Xīsà gulped down the potion. It was spicy and burned her throat all the way down, leaving behind a licorice aftertaste - not nearly as bad as she thought it would be!

Morg appeared by Xīsà’s side, looking curiously at the tar-black soup.

“What’s that? Do I get some?” she asked in English, reaching for Xisa’s cup. Maisha tapped Morg’s hand with her wooden spoon as a warning. Though the motion was quick and made Morg flinch, the spoon landed on her hand with a feathery gentleness.

“Don’t just go grabbing for what you know nothing about!” Maisha reprimanded, “This is a potion for Xīsà only, she must take it once a week so help her remember, and if any strangers come by, be sure not to mention it, okay?”

“Potion? Is it like medicine, is Xīsà okay?” Morg took a surprised Xīsà by the shoulders and studied her up and down.

“No, no… I mean yes, she’s fine, it’s nothing like that.”

Sōngbǎi groaned internally, sensing Morg’s onslaught of questions approaching.

“Then what is it? What’s it for? Why does she have to take it?”

Maisha laughed patiently, “One question at a time okay? It’s a potion to turn her hair black. A streak of-”

“But her hair’s already black!”

Sōngbǎi stomped over, prepared to give Morg a good whack on the head- how many times did she have to tell the girl not to interrupt! But paused when she noticed Maisha sway slightly, as if off balance. Sōngbǎi studied the woman. The usual rosy hue in Maisha’s dark cheeks had left, leaving behind an alarming pallor. Forgetting all about Morg, Sōngbǎi rushed to Maisha’s side.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you so pale?” she interrogated. Maisha smiled brightly.

“Just a bit tired is all.”

“Tired my foot! Look at you! You’re about to pass out!” she said harshly, dragging over a kitchen chair and gently guiding Maisha into it. Xīsà, who had been petting the little frog sitting on her shoulder, now stared at Maisha, noticing, too, that the witch seemed unwell.

“I think I must have used a little too much mystical power, I’m just a little tired now, really, I’m perfectly fine!”

“What? On what? The potion? Potions don’t use hardly any mana at all! Something from before? Why didn’t you tell me?!” As Sōngbǎi spoke, the harsh timbre of her voice slowly transformed into one of concern.

“Hahaha, Sōngbǎi, don’t be so worried, I’m fine, I really am,” Maisha said, standing up from the chair with a chuckle. “See? I appreciate the concern, but it’s really nothing.”

Sōngbǎi glared at Maisha. If the woman didn’t want to tell her what was wrong, or what was going on then fine, Sōngbǎi thought, that’s her business. It had nothing to do with her. She had no reason to be concerned. Sōngbǎi strode across the house and left with a bang! as she slammed the door. Maisha stared at the closed door unhappily, not sure what exactly she had done to upset her fellow witch. With a sigh, she focused her attention back on the wide-eyed girls, neither of whom really knew what to make of the situation.

“Let’s take a break from language lessons.”

*

Morg lay awake, staring at the bundle of fresh yarrow hanging above her bed. She reached up and plucked one of the leaves, crushing and rubbing it between her fingers, releasing an earthy pine fragrance. Songbai had specially built an extra room and two new beds for the girls, with mattresses stuffed with goose feathers, pine needles, dried grasses, and lavender. Morg glanced across the room in Xisa’s direction, her steady breathing a mere whisper against Morg’s ears. Morg enjoyed having more space to herself, but she had begun to have trouble sleeping with this new arrangement.

With a sigh, Morg slid out of bed and sent her feet straight into her boots before wrestling on her coat as quietly as possible. Tip-toeing around, she began pilfering candles off a nearby bookshelf and shoving them into her harp bag. Not wanting to pass through the main room of the house where Songbai and Baigu now slept, Morg opened the window closest to her bed and lowered the harp bag onto the ground. She then clambered over the windowsill herself, landing softly in a layer of pine needles. Hoisting the bag over her shoulders, Morg set off into the woods.

A silvery half-moon beamed down through the branches, lighting Morg’s way as she hiked down the trails she had grown to know by heart. Dead leaves and frost-tipped pine needles crunched softly beneath her boots, and various insects not yet scared away by the cold sung chirping, buzzing melodies. The frigid wind whistled through the swaying trees, chapping her cheeks. Morg buried her nose into the furry collar of her coat. After a while of walking, a dilapidated house came into view.

“Hi Scarecrow Beaux!” Morg cried happily when the straw-filled scarecrow and run-down shelter came into sight. Since finding the ramshackle cottage a few months ago, Morg frequently visited when she wanted to be alone. Morg paused by the scarecrow, straightening up his straw body from where it sat lopsided on its stick. Smiling in satisfaction, Morg plopped down in front of it and began chatting.

“Couldn’t sleep again, Beaux, I just get so restless at night. And I keep having these… weird dreams. Plus it's the only time I can play the harp. I’m sure Maisha and Songbai wouldn’t mind this much, though, even if they knew. It's not like there’s anyone around to be in danger and I don’t think I would accidentally turn myself into a frog.”

Though even as she said all this, Morg felt a pang of guilt at lying to her mentor witches. She had promised not to play, after all. Morg began building a little mound of dirt around the scarecrow’s base stick in the ground, making sure it was stable and secure before leaning her back up against it. Little bits of straw poked out of the scarecrow’s pant legs and sleeves, brushing itchily against Morg’s neck.

“Well what do you think, Beaux?” Morg asked, looking up at the scarecrow’s face. Two blue button eyes stared lifelessly into the distance and the usual stitched up, criss-crossing smile stretched from one cheek to the other. Morg pulled out a piece of straw from the scarecrow’s clothes and began cleaning her teeth with it.

“Yeah, I knew you’d say that,” Morg said with a sigh, the piece of straw sticking out of her mouth. She began pulling Maisha’s candles out of her bag, placing them around her, careful to flatten any tall grasses at risk of catching fire. She pinched her thumb and middle finger together, prepared to light the candles with a snap and an incantation. She had practiced many times with her mentor witches, but she knew better than anyone else how unpredictable her magic could be. She lowered her hands at the last second- it could be a catastrophe if she set the wrong thing on fire without Maisha or Songbai around to do damage control. She fished a set of matches out of her pocket, chatting with Beaux all the while.

“Did you know, Beaux, that I used to practice my harp every day in front of a mirror? That’s why my technique’s so good now!” Morg boasted to her inanimate friend. “Or at least, that’s what my instructors used to say. I don’t need a mirror anymore, though!”

With the field around her flickering warmly in the candlelight, Morg pulled her harp out and began fiddling with the strings, tweaking and tuning until they sounded right. Feeling giddy, Morg strummed through her scales, the tempo increasing, faster and faster until she couldn’t get through a scale without tying her fingers in knots, the notes riddled with mistakes. Even with her fingers slightly numbed and stiffened from the cold, Morg continued playing with enthusiasm.

“This one’s for you, Beaux!” Morg hummed gleefully. Her fingers danced across the strings as the leisurely melodies cascaded into each other, weaving together lonesome notes that echoed through the pines. Morg closed her eyes, letting her fingers work off of muscle memory, her body swaying lightly with the tune. As she played, the forest stilled; even the insects seemed to have quieted down to listen to the haunting music.

The wind sent forth a gentle gust, tousling Morg’s hair and knocking Beaux off kilter again. The scarecrow leaned over Morg, candlelight reflecting blurrily in his button eyes. His arms hung limply in front of him, as if reaching out for the young witch who sat at his feet.