Free Witch Born by Amber Argyle

nodded as if that made perfect sense. “And are you? New and better?”
    Senna remembered how terrified she’d been of her village, of the people inside. They wouldn’t frighten her now. “Yes, I think I am.”
    “Then I shall call you Senna.” Mistin sang to her potion. The differences between their voices were immediately apparent. Senna’s soprano soared and the whole world seemed to still, as if listening. Mistin’s alto was like the creaking of old wood. She was one step above a Wastrel, or wasted Witch. A level one. Her potion was many steps ahead of Senna’s, but its color and luster were off. Her song just wasn’t strong enough for the transformation to take place.
    If a Wastrel remained on Haven long, she became little better than a servant.
    Mistin’s song dropped to silence. As if guessing Senna’s thoughts, she said, “Weakness in one area forces growth in another.”
    Senna found herself aching to say something honest instead of the veiled niceties everyone else seemed to prefer. “Haven only sees one kind of strength.”
    Mistin’s steely gaze met Senna’s. “Their mistake.”
    Why did it have to be that way? Why were some innately more powerful than others, regardless of merit? Sorrow burning in her chest, Senna dropped in a few kenlish seeds. Almost ashamed of the clear ringing of her voice, she sang.
    Banish all half truths and lies.
    Even silence we decry.
    The kenlish seeds slowly disintegrated as they swirled. But Senna’s potion wasn’t the only one to change. Mistin’s potion color went from a dirty yellow to honey. The black flecks floating inside shone like flakes of gold.
    Mistin blinked. “How many potions could one strong Witch sing if dozens of Witches were mixing the ingredients for her?”
    Senna nodded. “I’ve wondered the same thing. But it’s just not the way they do things here, right or wrong.” She studied Mistin more closely. “What’s it like where you’re from, in Dresdan? What’s your family like?”
    Mistin hesitated as if considering her words carefully. “The world hates Witches. My mother forbade us from singing. Still, someone always managed to find out what we were, and we’d have to move again. One time, we didn’t get away fast enough. Only my brother and I escaped.”
    How had Senna known Mistin for months and not realized most of her family was dead? “I’m so sorry.” Senna had lived with the outside world’s hatred of Witches her entire life. “Where’s your brother now?”
    Mistin gave a small smile. “He followed me to Nefalie. He wants to become a Guardian.”
    Senna watched a bird fly into the pavilion, circle the heads of the Apprentices a few times, and dart out again. “Why didn’t your family live here? It would have been safer.”
    Mistin’s nostrils flared. “My family’s songs were very weak. Believe it or not, I’m the strongest of them. There would have been no place for my sisters here. And I would not have left them alone.”
    Senna couldn’t fathom it. Wastrels weren’t welcome on Haven. Apparently, they weren’t welcome anywhere else either—rejected by Haven for not being enough of a Witch, and rejected by the world for being too much of one. They would belong nowhere. “It shouldn’t be like that. There’s plenty of room here.”
    Mistin stirred her potion harder than necessary. “That’s why I’m still here, despite the fact that they treat me like a servant and everyone looks down on me. There’s nowhere else for me to go. Certainly nowhere safe.”
    Senna stared at her beaker so Mistin wouldn’t see the pity in her eyes.
    “Finish up, girls. It’s nearly time to shift your studies,” Prenny announced.
    Senna stopped off her half-finished potion.
    “Brusenna— Senna, you’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
    Senna startled. “How could you know that?”
    Mistin shrugged. “I told you. Weakness forces a person to develop other strengths. Good singers tell the world what to do. Not-so-good