My older sister, Kelara, sat with me in the chambermaid’s quarters, her ankles crossed before her. She picked at a loose thread at the bottom of her dress.
“Let me,” I said, running my thumb along the seam. Kelara obliged, leaning back. The air above the fabric blurred, the thread resewing itself into the dress’s hem.
Her eyes crinkled. “I wish I had your gift.”
“You shouldn’t.” As I spoke the words, my stomach churned and nausea clutched at my throat. So many lives ruined from a gift I didn’t even want.
I would have to confront Ella eventually. But what would I even say to make her hear me?
“Why not? It seems so useful.”
“Yes, so useful that Papa could never put me to work in his shop.”
“Lyranore.”
“What?”
“You can’t really mean that.” Her gaze searched my own. “Papa was proud of you.”
I schooled my features, but all I could hear was Papa’s words on his deathbed, thick with disappointment about my life’s trajectory:You’re meant for more, Lyranore.
“Yes, I’m sure he was very proud when he fired me at fourteen.”
Papa had been a talented fire mage. He worked as a blacksmith along with his father, who’d learned the craft from my great grandmother. If he’d been born in different circumstances, he might have one day made the Mage Council.
But status played favorites, even in magic.
And Papa’s life was cut too short to make a difference.
Kelara wrinkled her brow. “You came home with new burns and blisters every day. He didn’t fire you because he was disappointed—”
“He didn’t have to,” I interrupted. I looked down at the callouses and scars that graced my fingers and palms. “I was sloppy. We both knew it. I didn’t have it in me.” The line of fire mages ended with me. The promises and dreams he told me growing up, of outwitting the system, of bringing honor to our family name, ended with my simple gift: textile magic. “I make an excellent mender of clothing,” I said with a bitter edge to my voice. “Nothing more.”
“Mending is useful.”
“Mending is a neat parlor trick. But it won’t earn me a place on the Mage Council like Papa wanted.”
Kelara sighed, her fingers running over the thread I’d just repaired. We’d had this argument enough times to know it always ended the same way.
She eyed me. “Have you heard about Gina?”
“No.”
“She’s caught the plague.”Her tone faltered.
My entire body went rigid.
The Quiet Passing.It was the same sickness that had taken Papa, the same one that continued to steal friends, lovers, and family with steady cruelty. “She’ll be alright,” I lied.
Kelara’s face scrunched. She tried to nod, but a tear slipped across her cheek, dripping off her nose. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her.
“She won’t.” Kelara cried inside my arms, shoulders shaking, and I patted her back, my own heart breaking within me. Gina had been my sister’s best friend since childhood. She might survive, but not without scars from the sickness that stole her innocence, her deserved right to live a long, happy life.
It hadn’t spared the King’s eldest daughter—why would it spare a poor girl from the city?
When Kelara stilled, I released her from my grasp. Her nose was red, her eyes swollen. I rustled through a nearby drawer for a kerchief, which she took and blew her nose into. She wiped her cheeks roughly, then finally turned to look at me.
“I’ve been thinking…”
