Free Legacy by Molly Cochran

beside her, and she threw her arms around me with a little cry and the soft scent of powder.
    “Oh, my precious child,” she whispered, her eyes filled with tears. “Do you really not remember us at all?”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really don’t remember ever being here before.”
    She took my hand. “Darling Katy,” she said. “How difficult it must have been for you all these years.”
    “Perhaps it was better, under the circumstances,” Agnes said. “Her father was cowen. She may not have manifested at all.” She looked at me curiously. “Or did you?”
    “Did . . . did I what?” I stammered.
    “Display some unusual ability before you came to Whitfield. Something that you may have felt wasn’t quite . . . well, normal.”
    I inhaled sharply. I’d never told anyone about the pushing before. “Well, sometimes I think I can make things move. Actually, I don’t know if I can or not. It’s probably just my imagination.”
    The two women exchanged a glance between them.
    “We heard about the party,” Agnes said. “And the fire.”
    “I didn’t set the fire,” I said stolidly.
    “No, of course not.”
    “I put it out. I pushed. Made something move. Only this time it wasn’t a real object. I used a blanket. But the blanket was only in my mind.” I shook my head. “I’ll bet that sounds completely crazy.”
    “Not to us, dear,” Mrs. Ainsworth said.
    Agnes looked stern. “We don’t care for that term, either.”
    “Oh, stop it, Agnes!” The old woman waved her handkerchief agitatedly. “One mustn’t say ‘witches’. One mustn’t say ‘crazy’. For heaven’s sake, why can’t you just let people say what they mean!”
    Agnes was silent for a long moment. Finally she said, “Of course, Grandmother. You’re right. The name-calling hasn’t done us in yet.”
    “And it won’t, as long as we don’t let it,” Mrs. Ainsworth said stubbornly.
    “Is it because of my mother?” I asked. “The name-calling, I mean.”
    “Only the crazy part,” Mrs. Ainsworth said, shifting in her seat. “People have been calling us witches for centuries.” She raised her eyebrows. “Ourselves included.”
    A little puff of air escaped my lips.
Witches.
    Agnes sighed. “All right. I just wanted to avoid shocking Katy.” She turned toward me. “You see, among the uninitiated—”
    “She means ‘ignorant,’” Mrs. Ainsworth interrupted.
    “. . . the term ‘witch’ is sometimes misunderstood. Ordinary people—cowen—often believe that witches are evil, or even worship the devil. We don’t really know why this misunderstanding came into being, except—”
    “Oh, pooh. Of course we know. Men aren’t comfortable with women having power, and the kind of power witches have tends to be inherited through women. Some men can do magic, of course, but far more women. It’s in our nature. Even cowen women know when their babies are in distress.”
    “Nevertheless, in their world, that sort of ability isn’t honored. To cowen, power means money, influence, and physical strength. Getting others to do what they want.” Agnes sat up straighter. “But our world is different. Our first ancestors were humans with extraordinary abilities: Magicians, shamans, witch doctors, medicine women. Also clairvoyants, psychometrists, teleporters . . . psychics of one stripe or other.”
    “What’s a psychometrist?” I asked.
    “Someone who can see into another’s life by touching an object belonging to that person.”
    I sucked in my breath. That was what I’d done at the restaurant, with my mother’s wall hanging.
    “We know, dear,” Mrs. Ainsworth said kindly. “Hattie told us. These episodes will probably occur more and more often. That is why we came to you, despite . . .” Her voice trailed away.
    “Your father forbade us to contact you,” Agnes said. “He made that very clear when he left Whitfield with you. We are going against his express wishes by speaking with you now. Knowing that,