“Thank you, sir,” she said quietly. “For ... everything.”
He nodded once. “Go and get your hands dirty, Isla. You will find the earth has more to teach you than I ever could. ... Oh, and—please, call me Harold.”
Chapter Fourteen
Isla followed Juliette along the cobbled path behind the main university buildings, the words from the textbook she had read in the staff room during her lunch break running through her mind.
Terra Wielder: Can manipulate what they see including soil, stone, earth, and plants.
Terra Summoner:Can wield what they see as well as summon and enhance what exists in the world including plants, roots, trees, terrain, minerals, and crystals. Can influence growth and decay.
Philosophical abilitiesinclude bestowing healing or inflicting sickness. Balancing energy—life cycles and vitality. Embodies the cycle of life, nature and health.
Fated.All of the above, though able to manage greater feats.
She had approached studying the textbook like cramming for an exam, as though she could memorize her way to mastery. Yet the weight of her upcoming hands-on lessons still pressed on her: the text was theory, but the clay—the living, pliant earth—she was sure would not be fooled. She hadn’t had any more incidents since she turned her bedroom into a jungle, and she had been too afraid to try to wield or summon anything in case she lost control; instead, she was attempting to memorize the pages word for word.
Juliette hummed an off-key tune, walking just ahead of her, then turned and interrupted Isla’s text-chanting memorization mantra.
“Honestly, Isla, I can’t get enough of Jane Austen at the moment. I mean, I’ve read all her works before, but there’s something terribly amusing about the way Mr. Darcy refuses to say what he means. Reminds me a bit of Edmund, don’t you think?”
Isla gave a small laugh at her friend’s earnest look. Clearly she had given comparing Mr. Darcy to Edmund a lot of thought. “I can kind of see your point; he does seem the quiet,hold-your-cards-close-to-your-chesttype. Though when he does speak, it’s to the point, and he seems to say exactly what he means.”
“But he holds things back; I just know it. He’s a puzzle I intend to figure out.” Juliette stopped outside an old door. The studio was tucked away in a converted carriage house. Following Juliette inside, Isla breathed in the smell of wet clay filling the air. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with bisque pottery ready for glazing, jars of pigments, and assorted tools. Long worktables bore the scars of students—small gouges and streaks of dried clay that gave the room character. A kiln hissed softly in the corner, the promise of transformation hidden in its heat.
Andrew, Edmund, and another man looked up as the two women entered, their conversation pausing.
“Good evening, ladies,” Andrew said, a warm smile spreading across his face.
Juliette practically bounced into the room, her excitement palpable. Isla followed.
Edmund moved away to examine a finished piece of pottery with the critical eye of a soldier inspecting his gear, though Isla wondered if he was avoiding engaging Juliette in a conversation.
“Isla, Juliette, this here is George,” Andrew said. “He’s a friend of mine. I met him last year when the garden fountain was playing up.”
George limped forward, favoring his right leg. His smile was boyish and open. There was something easy about him, a quiet warmth. He lifted his hand to shake both Juliette’s and Isla’s hands in greeting.
“It’s nice to meet you, Juliette, Professor Cole.”
“Just Isla, please. You aren’t in any of my classes—besides, today it seems I’m the student, not you.”
He grinned. “Okay, Isla, let’s get started and see if you can start wielding some clay.”
“I’m worried I’m going to make a dog’s dinner out of all of this,” Isla mumbled.
“Nonsense,” George laughed. “From what Andrew tells me, you’re the brightest woman he knows; you’ll soon be among the best of us. Since you’re a botanist, you already have an affinity to the earth. Now you just need to connect to it on a deeper level.”
George clapped his hands lightly. “First things first,” he said to the four of them. “Roll up your sleeves, and aprons on. Clay is rather messy.”
He handed each of them a neatly folded canvas apron. “There. Now, each of you will have your own wheel. I’ll be at mine too, keeping an eye on you and offering tips as we go.”
He stepped back to let them settle, gesturing to the wheels. Isla’s stomach was full of nerves as she watched and listened to his demonstration on how to get started. Pottery was hard enough to do by the look of it, without the addition of wielding.
Isla rolled her shoulders and lowered her hands to the cool, damp clay before her. She attempted to guide it, willing it to risebeneath her fingers—and promptly ended with a lopsided mound that collapsed almost immediately.
“Find your rhythm, get comfortable with the feel of the clay in your hands. Warm it a bit—let it respond to your touch. Remember, don’t force it; coax it gently. Patience and steadiness will win the day.”
Isla felt the pressure of everyone in the room watching her, waiting for her to get it. They all knew she was the one who had to perform, to get this right if she were to have any hope of succeeding as a Wielder.
