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I don’t know what’s happening. I feel like something’s been lodged in my throat. I can’t stop staring at the stranger, and liquid heat seems to be moving through my veins.
I almost want to…
I want to touch him.
I’m startled by the unfamiliar thought almost as much as I am by the fact that I’ve inadvertently whispered the words aloud.
A flare of heat hits me from below. Confusion and wariness and some powerful unfamiliar feeling all battle for dominance within me. But the broadsword demands my attention.
It’s… pulsing.
But in the time it takes me to draw my next breath, it stops, and the temperature spike disappears. I look back out the window to find the man moving on.
I just stand there, breathing. But I can see the red-haired man in my vision perfectly, and another wave of heat that has nothing to do with the sword rolls through me.
What is this?
The faintest sprinkling of magic pulls on me from below, and I force myself to wipe the stranger from my memory.
I consider the weapon carefully. It’s as if I’ve started the magicking process but not finished it. What was it I’d said right before the weapon pulsed?
“I—I want to touch him,” I repeat, my cheeks heating.
Nothing happens.
I raise my hammer and bring it down against the hot metal, but before the two can meet, the hammer bounces back up, despite not quite making contact. Intrigued, I try again.
It’s resisting my blows.
Now why would it do that?
All right. What I’d done was say something about the man who wandered past my windows. Perhaps if I try that again?
“He’s quite tall,” I whisper. “With beautiful hair.”
Nothing happens. No pulse of heat.
So it wasn’t talking specifically about the man that did it.
“It’s hot in here,” I say, trying for another fact, but that obviously does nothing for the sword.
Think harder.
What I’d done was whisper a thought I had aloud. I told it to the blade.
No, not just any thought.
A private thought.
Asecret.
“After Temra goes to bed, I sometimes sneak extra sweets from storage.”
The blade glows white, and a flare of heat rises like before.
Thrilled, I tell the sword more. “I wish I could be more like my sister. She’s so fearless and outgoing. I envy that.” I plunge the sword back into the fire to make the steel more pliable. More prepared for my secrets.
“She doesn’t remember Mother or Father. When she asks about them, I lie and say I don’t remember, either, because it’s too painful to talk about them.”
