Andrew’s voice rang out, laced with humor. “Steady on, Edmund, old chap. If you handle that lump like it’s a captured enemy saboteur, it’s liable to revolt.”
Edmund shot him a half smile, not loosening his grip.
“And mind you,” Andrew continued, “if you think this wheel will obey orders like a platoon, you’re in for a surprise.”
Edmund actually laughed at that, a deep sound that filled the room. Isla was grateful that the attention had been taken off her.
As the group focused more on their own projects, George left his wheel to walk around, offering guidance. He stopped last beside her wheel. “Wielding is the same as molding clay. It’s all about connection, not perfection. Think of it as guiding a living thing.”
Isla tried to listen, though she had never been much good at artistic things—that was Juliette’s area of expertise.
“Okay, I’m going to talk you through the steps of wielding as you work. When you feel ready, lift your hands away from the clay, but keep them close—only a few centimeters—and try to wield the clay without physical touch.
“Aetheric Arts aren’t ‘cast’ like spells; they’re a discipline of resonance. Every Aetherian must learn to align three systems within themselves before the Aether responds.
“First, the body—it is a physical conductor. It needs grounding, steady breath, and stamina. As you work, feel the clay beneath your fingers, and steady your breathing. Aetherians need practice and must build up strength to cope with the demands placed on the body.”
Isla tried to focus on the feel of the clay as it turned against her hands. She concentrated as it stubbornly resisted her touch, and she imagined it was secretly laughing at her ineptitude.
“Secondly, the mind,” George continued, unaware of her inner turmoil. “You need focus and intent; precision of thought shapes the energy’s direction.”
Maybe this I can manage, she reflected. Her mind had always been her strength.
“And finally, the heart, your emotional resonance. Feelings are the frequency that opens the channel for Aetherians to use their gifts.”Ah, this is the tricky bit,she thought. She would have to work on it, somehow, without letting her nerves get the better of her.
“As you shape it with your hands, feel it. Listen. Once you’re familiar, let your mind guide the energy. Imagine what you want the clay to do first. When you’re ready, let go and see if you can guide it without hands.”
She focused for a few moments, his words and instructions running through her logical mind.
“Try a gentle lift now,” George instructed. “Just guide it; don’t command it. I’ll be right here.”
She looked up and briefly caught Andrew’s eye across the studio. His nod was small but reassuring.Well, if this goes wrong,he gets a front-row view,she thought, her stomach twisting in anticipation, though his soft smile had admittedly given her the courage to let go.Body, mind, heart. She could do this.
She could not do this.
The clay leapt from the wheel like it had a vendetta. The lopsided cylinder wobbled violently before collapsing into a shapeless, squelchy mound. Clumps of clay flung themselves across the table, smearing against her apron and splattering onto her cheek as well as covering George. Somewhere behind her, a faint squelch indicated that it had even tried to escape the confines of the building entirely.
George raised his hands and the clay soon stopped its frantic bid for freedom.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Isla muttered under her breath, wiping her cheek with a clay-streaked sleeve. She winced inwardly. Definitely not controlled. Definitely not Terra Summoner abilities.
George moved closer, his raised hand still controlling the wayward clay without even touching it, his voice calm and gentle. “It’s all right. This was only your first attempt.”
He placed his palms above the runaway mound. Slowly, obediently, the clay responded, flattening itself and returning to the center of the wheel as if nothing had happened, George’s steady presence coaxing it into cooperation.
“Let’s try again. I’m sure you’ll get it soon.”
She didn’t. Isla tried again—and again—to coax the clay into some semblance of cooperation, but it remained obstinately unmoved by her pleas. At times she felt something, and her palm glowed a faint green ... but then fatigue washed over her mind and body. By the time she stopped, her hair, blouse, and half her dignity were liberally caked in the stuff.
George smiled. Bless the man, he had been so encouraging and patient. “Well,” he said diplomatically, handing her a rag, “the clay certainlyrespondedto you. I’m sure you will get there soon.”
Juliette was less restrained, laughter bubbling out of her. “Responded? It looks like it declared war.”
Even Edmund’s mouth twitched, though he hid it quickly behind a cough.
By the time they’d cleaned the worst of it away—sponging down tables, sluicing hands at the old basin in the corner, and hanging their aprons by the kiln—Isla felt tired and ready for bed.
She wrung out her cloth, glancing sideways at George as he rolled his sleeves higher—the last of them to wash his hands. Her eye caught sight of his Sigil mark on the inside of his wrist. He saw her looking and she looked away embarrassed; she was sure it wasn’t polite to stare.
