Terrifying.I crush the fire in my palm again, choking off the energy that keeps the flame lit. “You learned the sigils yourself?”
The princess makes a face. “Yes.” She lifts a hand and sketches asummoningsigil—or at least an attempt at one. “It’s been years,” she says sheepishly.
I take hold of her hand, and her skin is so cool against mine. “This way,” I say softly. I fold her fingers into the right pattern, then keep hold of her hand to carefully sketch the symbol in the air. A faint shimmer appears, immediately caught and pulled into nothing by the wind.
But the princess gasps. “That’s never—oh.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I used to do this with Father. The sigil is summoningyourmagic.”
“Perhaps.” I fold her fingers, then do it again. The shimmer reappears, glittering above her fingers before vanishing. “You try, Princess.”
She sketches the sigil more accurately this time. For a heartbeat of time, I think nothing will happen, but there, in the space between breaths, the tiniest gleam hangs over her fingertips.
She stares at me, her lips parted. “Was that me...or you?”
I’m startled by the wary hope in her expression. She must have been very disappointed when she did not inherit her father’s talents.
“Try again,” I say. “You surely have magic in your blood, if you’re King Theodore’s daughter.”
“It’s never been of any use before.” But her expression shifts, turning determined. She sketches another sigil.
This time nothing happens at all, and she frowns.
I reach out and take her hand, then move her fingers through the pattern again. I add a little nudge of my own power, and this time the sigil burns brighter before disappearing altogether. “If you have magic that responds to mine, it’s possible yours will manifest,” I say.
But as I say it, I know it’s a thin hope. Any magic usually makes itself known during adolescence.
She knows it, too, because her frown has deepened.
“We have scholars and historians in Incendar who may know sigils you haven’t tried,” I offer.
That softens her expression—but only a little. “That’s very generous,” she says.
“If you find a way to harness your father’s power, it benefits us both.” I pause, then nod down at her hand. “Do it again.”
She scowls like an indignant schoolgirl, but she attempts the sigil again—and this time she manages the faint glow on her own.
Her breath catches again, but then she casts a glance at her opposite hand, still linked with mine. “I’m still touching you,” she says ruefully.
“It took me years to gain control, Princess. Do not give up hope yet.”
“When it comes to magic, I gave up hope years ago.”
I frown, but she reaches down to trace her fingertips across my skin. The motion steals my words, because I feel it right down to my core, heat pooling in my abdomen. I need Sev to wake up so he can come smack me on the side of the head and tell me to focus.
“You’re so warm,” Jory says.
“I always have been, even before I knew I had a talent for magic.” Without warning, a memory strikes me. It’s not a bad one, but my childhood wasn’t easy, and memories often tug at parts of me I’d rather leave untouched. “When we were young,” I say, “Victoria used to curl up beside me and tell me I was warmer than the hearth.”
Jory draws back, studying me. “You and your sister are close,” she says, and she sounds stunned.
I frown a little and shake my head. “Victoria is...we are...” My voice trails off, because if there’s anything I need to discuss with care, it’s my sister. “We were raised separately. I was on the battlefield with our father from a very young age. She was...is...better suited to life within the palace.”
Her eyes search mine. “But you care for her.”
“Of course. Very much. She is...” My voice trails off.
She is my sister.
The answer should be obvious. A foregone conclusion.
