I am four now. My limbs are stronger. I can walk. I can climb. I can talk, though some words still come out mangled. The language of this purple planet has many words not known on Earth. People here are only taught what they need to know and my Mumma is a farmer who was only ever taught to use pictograms and numbers to keep inventory.

  I love being a child again. There is no weight on my shoulders. No lack of future closing in on me. There is only today and I am content living for now.

  The summer morning begins with the sun sliding through the arched farmhouse windows illuminating the bedroom where I sleep with my Mumma and my two brothers. The light is enough to wake me from my slumber and give me the strength to roll out of my low wooden bed and pull on my dull blue linen gown.

  Mumma is of course already awake, moving through the kitchen in a rhythm you can only perfect with years of practice. The smell of freshly baked milk bread has filled the kitchen with its warmth.

  “Good morning, Mira”

  I give her a big hug. The heartbreak of loss from my past life is healing slowly with the mundane familial love I have found here.

  Sitting on a chair by the kitchen window, I eat my toasted bread with raspberry jam we made in the spring. The birds are chirping and the roosters are announcing the arrival of morning.

  Feeling energised from the food, I pick up the egg basket and get ready to head out to the coop for my one and only chore of the day. The basket is lined with straw. I like how it holds the eggs gently and carefully not to make any noise.

  The summer sun is bright even in the morning. The path to the coop is like walking through a maze of flowers: yellow, white, red, and my favourite the icy blue roses. Bees drift through the air with a lazy focus.

  With my short legs, the walk takes five minutes. The only fear that occupies my mind here is avoiding the snails. I have sadly sent many a snail to a better place. The crunchy sound of their shell breaking always reminds me of the fragility of life. It can be gone in a minute.

  The coop sits beside the barn, fenced in neat lines. Chickens and ducks live together, and the ducks even get a pond. I get to use the pond too. Every bath I’ve ever had in this life has happened in those crystal blue waters.

  I collect eggs slowly, carefully, my mind drifting to thoughts about my magic.

  Since the day, three years ago, when I magically bubble-wrapped myself for safety, nothing has worked. I’ve tried feeling for a magical special something deep within me. I’ve tried chanting words which sound powerful and commanding and magical. I’ve tried setting up rituals with stones and flowers and blood. Nothing has worked like almost dying did.

  If my magic will only answer when I am on verge of death, then I will wait for it patiently.

  “Mira!”

  Finn’s voice carries from the barn.

  “Come here! I’ll teach you how to milk today.”

  He grabs my arm before I can protest. I know his fingers will leave behind splotchy red marks. I hug the basket close to my chest.

  “You’ll make me drop the eggs,” I say. “Mumma will scold me.”

  “Mumma never scolds you,” he says almost to himself. Yet, he takes the basket and keeps it near entrance of the barn.

  I hate milking. I love cows but milking them is not for me. Every time I have tried, something or the other has gone wrong. The cows here are not milked by hand. Instead, for some forsaken reason, they use a magical device that seals onto the udders. The glass bottles then fill on their own. You would think it makes the work easier. I believe it really exists to torture young mages reborn on a farm.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Every time I try to use this, I am the one who gets the milk. Not the bottles.

  Finn grins when he hands me the device. He wants me to be all sticky and gross. Of course, he does. It’s the only joy he has in any life. Rowan bosses him. He bullies me. I bully no one because there is no under me to boss.

  “Just be gentle,” Finn says.

  As if I am ever anything but gentle, I close my eyes and try to pull my magic inward. I imagine it wrapped tight around my belly, knotted like a ball of yarn.

  Bessie the cow watches me with her big innocent eyes full of boredom.

  I attach the device.

  One, two—milk explosion, voila!

  I am covered from head to toe in sticky, warm, liquid. I gasp and flop down. The milk is lukewarm and sweet yet sour. It smells like it will reek. It soaks into my fabric which hasn’t seen soap in days. My eyelashes are struck by its stickiness. The tears come leaking out. I scrunch my eyes trying to shut them more, balling my fists over them in painful circular motions.

  Finn is laughing. He is posing like a chicken and making mocking clucking noises.

  “Ooo lil Mira is a cry baby! Cluck, cluck, cluck”

  My chest feels too tight. I wrap my arms tightly around my torso. I can’t believe I am being mocked by a six year old. I don’t deserve this.

  Finn reattaches the device easily. They work perfectly for his non magical hands.

  And that’s when the dam holding my magic breaks. It flows out of me in waves of destructive force. The ground tremors under the pressure.

  The bottles shatter into pieces. Finn falls on his back unable to withstand the magic I unleashed without a second thought.

  There are fragments of glass, splashes of milk and the incessant mooing of cows protesting the defilement of their house. I notice Finn’s hands are shaking he keeps looking at me and the broken milk bottles. He doesn’t look like he knows me anymore.

  Yet, I can’t stop crying. I am no longer crying of embarrassment, now my tears are from fear. I am afraid of this power I can’t control.

  Rowan comes running in, he takes one look and pulls me into close into his chest. He holds me without expectations, calmly rubbing my back in soothing circular motions as my sobs start to fade into hiccups. Moments pass as we sit like that.

  Once I finally breathe normally, he moves his attention to Finn.

  “What happened?”

  Finn stumbles through his words. “We were milking the cows and then somehow the bottles exploded. I don’t know how.”

  Rowan doesn’t look impressed, “Is that so?”

  I remember the sick pleasure with which Finn laughed at me. I don’t understand why he isn’t accusing me outright.

  “It was so scary,” I tell Rowan. This much is true.

  He nods. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

  He turns to Finn. “Get more bottles from the shed so we can finish here.”

  Then to me: “You go wash in the pond. Finn will handle the milking.”

  I nod and leave.

  The eggs, at least, survived my outburst in their shock proof eco-friendly container.

  First, I drop the eggs in the shipping bin, keeping six for our use, and the shipping the rest for the mysterious buyer of all our goods.

  I scrub myself clean in the pond. The smell fades, but it still lingers on my hand even once the sun has dried me completely. I know now my magic is triggered when I am embarrassed not just when I am dying. That much is progress.

  I am afraid Finn will tell them it was me. That I am dangerous.

  That night, when Mumma gifts me a yellow dress, I wonder if she knows what I did. I hold the dress close, it’s the finest fabric I have known in this life. It is soft and lightweight. The dress fits me perfectly but its design would allow it to grow with me for many more years. She worked all winter to prepare this for my Naming ceremony knowing I have magic.

  I lie in bed looking at the dress hanging on the rack, tomorrow my life will change. Tonight, my Mumma is holding me more tightly than usual. I don’t know what she expects.

  All I know is I will be officially recognised as a ‘Mage’ class tomorrow. I will no longer live as an ignorant, peasant child. I will master my powers and explore all I can find on this new world.