I slide under the bed, heart pounding, hand slipping into my pocket. I take out the king’s gold letter opener, perhaps the only real gold in this room, and clutch it tightly.
Then, I and a sliver of my lady wait like monsters under her brother’s bed.
Time passes. Kassandra turns a page, her hand twitching with effort. The Illusion magic pulses behind her of an attendant who is not there. I strain for my mind to remain where I am—muscles stiff, under the bed, listening to the sleepers above.
How long has it been?I ask.
She turns another page.Almost a half hour.
The tonic may wear off soon.
Perhaps I can help.
Is that possible?
How is it possible that some of my essence has woven into yours?
I fight the urge to groan.How do we know so little aboutmagic?
Because it’s easier for them if we do not know.
I think on this.What can you see?
Nothing. I can only feel your emotions. Hear what you hear, what you think.
Can you move up my body?
What the planes are you saying?
I breathe.It’s as if you’re stuck in my rib.
Gross.
I roll my eyes.If I can hear you in my mind, doesn’t that imply some of your soul is already there?
Philosophical little Avery.
Meld your magic with mine again.
How? We aren’t touching—stop that!
I dig two fingers into the spot on my ribs, pain blooming through my side. I grit my teeth, pressing harder.
Ouch, what the—you’re making it worse!
What worse?I demand.
I’m slipping away.
I notice it, too, my vision dampening, my heart still racing, but my body slick with clammy sweat. The black powder is wearing off, and we don’t know yet if nature will allow us to keep our own magic or render us—or just me—a Molder. This was the risk we both took—it must pay off. And with my clearing and weary mind, anger rises, for this is what the males experience all the time. This power, this awareness, this unfair advantage. How often do they take it?
Move to my tongue,I think before I can get away from myself.
How the planes—
Find a way.
The mattress creaks above me. I pause, clutching the letter opener in my hand. As I drag myself out from under the bed, I feel it—a pinching in my throat, a scraping—as if I have swallowed a gemstone.
