Page 94 of The Filigree Key

If earth built a body, water gave it life, and fire fueled it, then air was its spirit.

Its freedom.

Lifting my hand, I focused on the sensation of the wind pushing and dragging through the narrow channels made from my outstretched fingers. It was not one-directional like a river. It was nonsensical and whimsical and as free-spirited as a bird.

I wondered what it would be like to sprout wings and feel this puckish thing ruffling my feathers and pushing me up to soar wherever I wanted to go.

“Meadow, I can sense your concentration wavering,” the Stag Man chided.

“Have you mastered the true nature of air? No. Then shush.”

He quieted, relaxing into that stoic meditation thing he did on the rare occasion he chose to be patient.

Maybe I was on to something with the wing thing. Scanning the sky, I searched for any sign of birds. They, of course, were doing the sensible thing and hunkering down in the face of the inclement weather. The storm winds were having a fun time with the leaves, but it wasn’t the same. The leaves could not direct their flight or manipulate the wind like birds could.

“What are you doing?” The Stag Man snapped out of his trance the moment my boot scraped against the bottom rung of the railing. He surged forwards, hands outstretched to keep me from hurling myself over the railing.

I swatted him away. “Getting inspired.”

Vines fused my feet and legs to the railing, tethering me in place as I leaned into the wind with my arms outstretched like wings. The vines remained supple, allowing the wind to push me a degree or two so I didn’t feel fully tied down. More like a kite whose string was caught in a tree. Still flying, but unable to go anywhere.

Closing my eyes, I released my preconceptions and extended my magical perception in an attempt to connect with the freedom in the wind.

A lightness filled my chest, a sense of buoyancy without water. I concentrated on the tug and pull on my hair and dress as the storm winds played with my braid and clothes. It felt like a hyper-extroverted friend trying to grab my hand and haul me after them to go skydiving or something equally adrenaline-filled and ludicrous.

And yet the cursed element eluded me. Marten had mastered his talent with air magic and I was twice the witch he was. Why couldn’t I grasp it? What was I missing?

After some time, the Stag Man said, “The sun has set, Meadow. And you’ve run out of time.”

The deadline was midnight tomorrow.

“I can do this,” I growled.

“I know you can. But in another way.”

Without further explanation, he led the way back to the great hall, and I discovered the reasons for Alec’s disappearance and Ossian’s leniency via the moonstone collar. Ossian had needed the special birdcage for something else.

Inside the birdcage were three large slim-bodied, silver-green pixies.

Alec had gone pixie hunting at the farmhouse. Dart, Flit, and Zip darted, flitted, and zipped about the tiny confines of the silver cage, their flute-like chirps shrill with outrage and panic.

A shudder rippled through me as Ossian placed his hands on my shoulders, gripping so I could neither recoil nor lunge forward to free them.

“Another word for potential is spirit,” the Stag Man murmured against my ear, confirming my earlier revelation. “And you will master air by taking theirs. More so than any other living creature, when a pixie dies, it releases a tangible spirit with its last breath. If you can master air, you’ll be able to seize that spirit before it departs from this world. And look, three pixies. Three tries to get it right. Am I not generous?”

CHAPTER FORTY

The Stag Man snarled as a mixture of thorns and green fire rippled across my shoulders, stabbing and singeing his palms. He lurched back a step with a sound of disgust, a gem on his necklace flaring to heal his hands.

But I didn’t attack further. Instead, I asked coldly, “Capturing a spirit will do it?”

His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “A free spirit, so unless you plan to first free the wight in the cloch and then capture it anew—nigh impossible—choose another. One that knows how to fly, preferably.”

“I have another spirit in mind.” Turning on my heel, I stalked for the double doors of the great hall.

“You’ll forgive my skepticism,” the Stag Man said, catching up to me in just a few long strides. “The pixies will stay here if this second attempt proves a failure like the first.”

“It won’t.” The pixies and I didn’t share a bond anywhere close to the one I had with Sawyer, even before the Soul-Bonding Spell, but I had adopted them. I was responsible for them. They were mine, and I was sick and tired of Ossian tormenting that which I loved.