“Take your time,” Gray murmurs.
Like last time, I can’t retain my grip on those gold flecks. I need a new approach. I shift the visualization, picturing a ball.
“A glue ball,” I mumble.
“Do I even want to ask?”
Our eyes lock, and I see the amusement dancing in his.
“Shush. You’re distracting me.”
I imagine a ball in my hands, covered in a sticky substance. I draw the gold dust to it and experience a rush of triumph when it sticks.
Yes.
Slowly, I start collecting more and more of those gossamer threads, wrapping them around the ball. It’s getting bigger. So much bigger.Now I just need to figure out how to draw the energy from my gold ball and allow it to course through my body.
I take another breath and open myself up to the sensation, but the resulting shudder is so forceful that my grip snaps, the ball exploding and the dust dispersing in all directions.
“Damn it!”
I try to regain my bearings. The room is spinning.
“It’s fine,” Gray encourages. “Try it again.”
I rest my palms on my thighs and shut my eyes, even though I don’t need to for visualization. Yet again, I can’t seem to harness the gold. Either I clutch it too tightly and stifle the energy, or I’m unable to gather it in the first place and it skims past my fingertips.
“Breathe,” I hear him say.
“What?”
“You’re not breathing. I can see you holding your breath.”
“How do you know breathing even helps?”
“Breathing always helps. You can’t truly focus if your lungs aren’t getting what they need.”
He has a point. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on my breathing until the slow, meditative breaths start to come naturally. Flecks of gold float behind my eyelids, and this time, I know I’m harnessing. My palms grow hot. Tingling. My arms follow suit, and although I don’t have silver veins like Hawkins, I feel the energy shuddering through them. I’m mindful of my hands, forcing myself not to clench them. I need to give the gold room to spread. And it is. It’s spreading. Ifeelit.
I open my eyes to find Gray watching me.
Pick up the glass.
I broadcast the command into his mind, but he doesn’t move.
Pick up the glass.
Pick up the glass.
Come on, you asshole.
Pick up the glass.
Every muscle in my body begins to strain, and then, without warning, the energy wavers and dims. When I look down, I realize my hands have curled into tight fists.
“Shit. Why do I keep doing that?” I mumble.
“Doing what?”
