If my gifts are not gone for good, if they are a part of me like Grandmother said they were, then why is there no sign of the rain I was born with? Why doesn’t the pool freeze and crack, just like those wine glasses did at Harglade Hall?
There’s nothing else for it. Closing my eyes, I picture my mother. She’s sitting in a rocking chair by the fire, telling me a story.
There was once a girl with eyes like rainclouds and sea mist, and a heart of purest gold, and when she came into the world, she sang to the rain, and the rain sang back.
I watch as tears begin to roll down my mother’s cheeks.
Then I feel it.
Slowly, I open my eyes. My mother is gone but the drizzle remains, hazy droplets smattering soft ripples upon the surface of the pool.
Marina is smirking. Kai is staring at me, his expression slightly bewildered. Fjord has his eyes screwed shut, as though waiting to be blasted into oblivion. He opens one eye cautiously, followed by the other, then straightens up, clearing his throat.
At my Name Day ball, Grandmother claimed my drizzle was intentional, that I was merely demonstrating control, while Flint suggested that I was just being modest. Here, I have no such excuses. Nothing to hide behind. Now, they see me for what I am.
Or rather, for what I’m not.
‘Thank you, Blaze,’ River says quietly.
For the rest of the morning, I try my best to steer clear of Marina, who has taken to standing, watching and even commenting as I endeavour and ultimately fail to conjure anything more than a light shower, although she does so always when River is out of earshot.
I’m relieved when we break for lunch, joining the other Heirs at a large table that I’m almost positive was not there when we arrived.
I sit, self-conscious and irritable, taking a long time chewing and swallowing as an excuse not to speak to anyone. It doesn’t surprise me in the slightest that Ember greets Marina like an old friend. They sit with their heads together, shooting smug glances in my direction. And they’re not the only ones. News of my failure seems to have madeits way around the table. Whispers dance from ear to ear, some barely whispers at all, and I sink further into my seat, wishing I could drop through the floor and disappear entirely.
It hurts, knowing that they look at me and expectmore.They expect cloudbursts and flash floods and downpours and rainstorms.
But I am only drizzle.
13
By the time I reach my chambers the sun has dipped low beyond the horizon line, painting the sky a deep gold.
Since collecting me from the Keep, Spinner appears to have given up asking me how training went and continues to chatter on about a multitude of things I can’t find it in me to care about – who said what about someone I’ve never met and which Heirs have the most beautiful clothes or expensive jewels. I pretend to listen, nodding occasionally.
I’m relieved when she eventually leaves, though she does so with the promise to return later on and help ready me for the evening’s festivities. Last night we celebrated the First Feast, and tonight there is a ball to celebrate the first day of training. It seems to me like the Choosing Rite is just one big excuse for the Imperial Court to throw a party. And having spent my life entirely isolated from society, I admit I’m finding it all rather exhausting. Before, I could spend entire days curled up in the library with only Renly for company, but now, I am on near-constant display, paraded under the watchful gaze of the Eyes and the four Crown Courts, who I suspect at this very minute are learning about my lamentable performance at the Keep.
I slump down on to one of the divans just as Elva arrives. It startles me how silently she can move.
‘My lady,’ she murmurs.
I dredge a smile from somewhere. ‘Blaze.’
She bows her head, then disappears to run me a bath.
I slide unceremoniously off the divan on to the floor, then slink through to my bedchamber and lie on my bed, staring listlessly up at the golden whorls and spirals engraved on the ceiling, tracing their outlines with my finger.
This afternoon had been no better than this morning. I am, as Marina had so kindly pointed out during one of River’s strengthening exercises, useless. I can’t simmer, nor can I carve waves, and in spite of what happened at Harglade Hall, I can’t even make ice, which would come in handy right at this moment, since my skin still prickles with heat.
Scowling, I roll up my trouser leg to examine my stinging shins.
I’m about to fall back on to my pillows when something catches my eye. Curious, I step through the open glass doors on to the balcony. Sitting on the golden ledge is a small silver pot, and next to this pot lies a note – two words written in lazy, looping scrawl.
For you.
I glance around, which seems foolish given that I’m several hundred feet high in the air. Slowly, I take off the lid of the pot and peer inside. It’s filled to the brim with what looks like thick green slime, the scent sweet-sharp and cloying – medicinal.
Could this be what I think it is?
