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Moonlight made the night snow glisten as it collected on roofs and smoking chimneys. Harriet, who was ten at the time, lay sleeping in bed, encompassed in a web of dreams and wreathed in sheets.
Something awoke her. She climbed out of bed, stilling her belled collar as she walked to the hall railing. Peering down, she heard her father's voice carry from the first floor; presumably from the living room. Her face aglow with curiosity, Harriet moved in to hear.
"Megan," her father said, "I'm beginning to think she should know. I've seen how she is -- I know it's begun. But if she doesn't know, she can't control it. We both know how bad that can be." There was a moment of uneasy silence; then her mother spoke.
"Adam... Are -- " Harriet missed the rest of her sentence; she guessed her father had put another log on the fire.
"Yes, I am sure!" He growled back indignantly. "I've seen her collar! Yesterday, her collar was royal blue. Today, it was white as snow --" Harriet blushed, and brought a quaking hand up to the bell, "-- and it was glowing at breakfast!"
"Adam, quiet!" Harriet's mother hissed reproachfully. "If she hears us now, it won't matter who's right!" She sighed, then spoke more calmly. "You are right, though... A budding witch should never be kept in the dark."
Harriet, breathing much harder, let her hands slip from the rail; but the voices kept coming.
"Surely not tomorrow, though, right? I mean, the moon's waning, so..." Harriet's voice trailed off, leaving his meaning unsaid.
"Right. But the question is, New or Waxing? I'd love a Creator, but, I always did envy Manipulators..."
"Definitely a Manipulator. She seems to have a knack for colors. I never will get the furniture back to a proper gray, she hates gray..."
Harriet returned to bed, her heart racing.
The next few days were rough on Harriet. In the morning following her discovery, she acted as she had the day before; this was surprisingly difficult when she had gone white-faced with the concentration required to maintain her collar's tone. If she arrived with a third color yet, it would seem like she was practicing; if she arrived collar-less, she would arouse suspicion. Her anxiety was at a peak when her parents shared a smile, and Harriet noticed the faint light cast by her bell-collar. With a rattling hand, she sought to make breakfast, but leapt backward as a box of cereal began to whistle a cheery Irish jig.
Wide-eyed, Harriet's glances flickered between her mother, her father, and her Rice Krispies ©, each of which smiling kindly at her. But Harriet, poor Harriet was terrified. A tear slid down her face, and she backed against the opposite counter. She jumped as she felt her father's warm hand on her shoulder, and her mother pushed back Harriet's hair.
"Harriet... We ought to have told you a while ago -- we're not like the other families. You overheard last night, right? You were born to magicians; your father was a mage from the West, and I a witch from the North. We promised we would raise you like an ordinary child, without the burden of knowledge until you were old enough."
"Harriet, you're more talented now than we were after a month of training." Her mother praised, and wiped Harriet's tears. "Wait for the New moon, Harriet, and start yours. For now, you have to get ready." With a wave of her hand, the cereal quieted, though it looked thoroughly downcast. Smiling weakly, Harriet renewed her attempt to make a meal.
School was difficult as well. Throughout the day, Harriet had to resist the temptation to use magic for every occasion, such as annoying the teacher and cheating at sports. Most of the time, her will prevailed, but no one ever did find out how she wrote quite so many sentences in just the first minute after class.