He put his hand over mine and shifted my grip down the stave.
The Pull struck hard enough that I nearly lost more than just the form. Like consciousness.
Leather at the back of my throat. Heat under his palm. The steady pressure of his fingers around mine, putting me where I needed to be.
“Keep it there,” he said.
His voice was rougher than it had been.
“I am.”
“Move your foot.”
“I have two. Be specific.”
“Left.” This time the word was almost choked.
I moved it back.
“There.”
He took his hand away.
The place he had touched kept the sensation of him.
I did the block again.
This time the stave rose cleanly.
Hale stepped back.
“Again.”
I did it again, and again, until the movement stopped feeling forced and began to feel possible.
At the fourth repetition, my hair came loose.
The string slipped. Hair fell into my eyes, into the corner of my mouth, damp from sweat and sticking there.
I started to lift a hand.
“Don’t drop the stave.”
“I’m not planning to fight anyone blind.”
“You may have to.”
Annoyingly, he was right.
The hair caught at my mouth again.
I lifted a hand.
“Don’t drop the stave. Ever. For any reason.”
“I’m being strangled by my own hair.”
“Then turn around.”
