Danae crouched, tongue between her teeth, staring at thelittle plant. She could feel Metis’ gaze on her, drawing her attention like a gnat buzzing about her ear.
She looked up at the woman. ‘I don’t know how.’
Metis cocked her head, loose strands of dark hair whipping about her face. ‘Try. I want to see what happens.’
Danae scowled and turned back to the flower.
She stretched out a hand. As her fingertip touched the wiry stem of the plant, she reached inside herself and seized a twirl of life-threads. She imagined the new petal she sought to create as she wrapped the glowing strands around the plant. Then she pushed.
The stem snapped, and a shower of lilac petals exploded into the air, immediately borne away by the wind.
Danae sighed sharply and slumped back on her heels.
‘Hm.’ Metis tilted her head and stared at the decapitated flower. ‘Either you think the word “grow” means “destroy” or, as I feared, you have no control over your power.’
Danae scrambled to her feet.
‘I have control. I vanquished the Stymphalian birds with seawater. I fought off Hera, the Queen of the Gods herself, with nothing but snow and ice!’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Brute strength and luck are not control.’
The heat of Danae’s pulse radiated through her skin. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
A similar expression settled on Metis’ face to the one she had worn when Danae killed the lizard. ‘With Prometheus dead, I am the only one left who will help you understand your power. You’d do well to remember that, girl.’ She cast about, then picked up a stick that had been wedged between two rocks. ‘We’ll start with something dead, seeing as you can’t be trusted with anything that has an ichor.’
Danae’s glare simmered.
‘Now,’ Metis handed her the stick, ‘float this into the air. Withcontrol.’
Danae took the wood and held it across her palms. Channelling her life-threads into her hands, she sent several glowing strands into the stick and whipped them upwards. The twig shot into the air and was immediately hurled across the rocks by the wind.
She swore under her breath and ran to retrieve it.
Metis watched her, arms crossed, brow heavy.
‘Try asking,’ she said as Danae returned.
‘Ask?’
‘That stick might be dead, but when you fill it with your life-threads you are temporarily granting it an ichor. Even inanimate objects like to be asked.’
Danae flitted through memories of using her life-threads to conjure wind or rumble the earth.
‘I’ve never had to ask before.’
‘And how did you feel after?’
She considered for a moment. ‘Tired. Exhausted if I’ve used a lot of threads.’
Metis nodded sagely. ‘It takes much energy to impose your will on the world. If you learn to ask, you’ll use far fewer threads.’
‘But what if the stick doesn’t do as I ask?’
Metis gave a slight smile. ‘You must have faith. If your will is aligned with that of the Mother, it will do as you say.’
