“Now push the enchantment further. Make it bloom.”
I closed my eyes again. I thought of the sapling uncurling, facing the sun, shining for all the world to see. I thought of it reaching its potential despite the world telling it otherwise. I thought of time racing forward, seconds passing like water in a stream, and its future self radiant and on display. A golden thread flickered at the corner of my imagined scene.
When I opened my eyes, a bud perched at the end of the stem, closed tight.
My shoulders sank. “It didn’t bloom.”
He put a hand on my knee, and I stiffened. He immediately put it back in his lap.
“It was your first try at earth magic. You’re not going to get it perfect. Eventually, you’ll even be able to conjure the bloom without a seed at all.”
My knee ached at the emptiness left behind, even as my chest roiled with confusion. He was being kind. Why?
I studied his face. Was he having an unusually good day? Had I truly done something notable in his eyes? I supposed it was my first try at a new elemental.
He leaned back, seemingly unaware of my scrutiny. “Let’s take a quick break.”
I exhaled. “Alright.” I returned to plucking clover.
Thom pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You mentioned your father was a fire mage.”
I hesitated. His eyes were fixed on the calloused hands I’d thrust at him so carelessly during our second lesson. I closed them so my fingers would cover the faded burns that graced my palms.
“He worked with other magics, too,” I said, my throat thick. Too much had been kicked up as of late. I preferred Papa’s memory buried, just as his body was. But from his journal to the herring, my wedding along with Gina’s condition, it seemed his ghost lingered everywhere I looked. “But he was never able to master any of them. Fire was his favorite.”
“An inability to master the other elements indicates a shallow power.”
I stiffened. “And whose fault is that?”
“Pardon?”
I clenched my jaw, shaking my head. “Never mind.”
“You said he was never educated?”
I began to blink faster. “Yes,” I said quietly.
“Lyra.” He placed his hand on my knee again. This time, he didn’t remove it. “Lyra, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
“You haven’t.” My skin burned as the pressure of his hand weighed heavily on my lower thigh. I didn’t want this. Not him, not like this.
“Lyra?”
My vision finally cleared as I scooted back. His hand fell weakly to the ground. He sat straighter, looking down. The hint of pink rested on his cheeks.
He cleared his throat. “And what drove his fire magic?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Remember what we’ve been discussing, about the reasons behind our magic. What motivated the magic he performed?”
I opened my mouth, unable to find an answer, still flustered from the Prince’s change in countenance.
“It’s alright if you’re unsure—I was just curious. Sometimes parents gift their children the same magic thread. But you’re a textile mage, so…”
“Yes,” I said, frustration sparking. “He wasn’t too pleased that I didn’t follow in his footsteps.”
“Not necessarily.” He adjusted his spectacles. “A magic thread isn’t the same as an element. It’s an emotion, or a longing. It isn’t necessary but it amplifies your magic. And it’s adaptable, too, though not by much.”
