‘I’m … what?’ I stammer, taken aback.
The old man smiles crookedly. ‘The girl they call the Storm Weaver.’
‘Oh, right.Her. Yes. I mean, yes, I am.’
He studies me thoughtfully for a moment and then says, ‘I thought you’d be taller.’ The lines on his face look as though they’ve been engraved there. I watch his gaze drop to the book in my lap. ‘You won’t find the answers in that, girl.’
I frown, defensive. ‘Why not?’
‘Books are for those who have lived,’ he tells me. ‘You? You have not lived. Not yet. You have your own pages to fill. You want to know how to carve a wave, Storm Weaver?’
I nod.
‘Don’t read about it,’ he says. ‘Do it.’
‘It’s hardly that simple,’ I mutter peevishly.
The old man merely chuckles. ‘You think that book is going to tell you which of your emotions is anchored to the waves?’
I stare at him. ‘How do you –’
‘There was a time my advice was worth its weight in gold,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘And now here I am, merely giving it away. Close the book. Open your mind. Carve the wave.’ He lifts a gloved hand and points a long, gnarled finger at me. ‘Now, be off with you, girl. You’re in my seat.’
Disgruntled, I reach for my crutch, leaving the book on the table. Before turning the corner, I glance back to find the old man settling himself comfortably in my armchair.
I limp back to my chambers, irritable and confused.
What business is it of his how I learn to carve? Who is he, anyway? And more importantly, how does he know that my gifts are Melded? There is nothing about Melding in any of the history books. The Rain Singers kept it secret so that the rest of the world would never find out the source of their power.
As Elva helps me prepare for bed, I realize sleep is the last thing on my mind. The old man’s words have got under my skin, so much so that I fill my wash bowl, place it on the floor and sit in front of it, unsure where to begin.
Rain is sadness. Ice is fury. But as for waves … I don’t know. It could be anything. Anything at all. Which isn’t exactly much to go on. In fact, it’s nothing to go on.
I think about the years of drizzle, about the glasses shattering at Harglade Hall. How they just sort of … happened. I was never trying to discover those anchors. They found me.
Feeling foolish, I stare into the water, waiting for inspiration to strike.
I end up falling asleep in front of the wash bowl, then groggily heave myself into bed a few hours later, just as grey dawn light is beginning to leak through the windows.
Hal comes to visit me that evening.
Ever since the first trial he’s taken to bringing me bunches of gleaming golden roses. My rooms are overflowing with them, their sweet scent perfuming the air.
Naturally, I’m flattered. Delighted, even. Yet still I find myself mystified by his attentiveness, and what’s more, I’m afraid of misinterpreting it. Because what if he’s just being kind? What if I’m simply reading too much into things?
Though if I am, then I’m not the only one.
‘Everyone’s talking about the two of you,’ Spinner told me yesterday, wiggling her eyebrows as she handed me another vial of medicine.
‘What? Who?’
‘You and the prince, of course. There’s been quite a bit of gossip surrounding all his visits to your chambers.’ I must have looked stricken, because she continued quickly, ‘Don’tworry, I’ve assured them it’s nothing untoward. Hal’s a perfect gentleman, after all.’
I couldn’t argue with that.
‘You really shouldn’t have,’ I tell him as I admire the roses. ‘This room is practically a rose garden already.’
He just smiles, then hands the flowers to Elva, who heads off in search of a vase. She returns a few moments later, setting a jug and two glasses down on one of the low tables. Hal pours the pale-green liquid into one of the glasses and offers it to me, but I decline. After my encounter with the Earth Cleaver, I’ve taken to avoiding consuming anything that will make me even slightly uninhibited. Spinner has reluctantly given up asking me about it, since I did a pretty convincing job of feigning amnesia.
