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“I’m asking.”
He glanced at me again. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
By the time we reached the coast, the tide had gone out, and the sea had withdrawn from the cliff that flanked the beach. It left behind a long, shining wound of black rock, weed, and sand. Shallow pools caught the last of the light. Everything smelled of salt and rot and cold stone. Kelp lay in ropes across the beach, slick as drowned hair. Tiny shells cracked beneath our boots.
The path down from the headland was narrow and steep, cut into the cliff by rain and feet. Gorse clawed at my jacket. The wind carried the sound of waves from farther out.
When we reached the bottom, the cliff rose above us in a dark, wet wall, streaked with mineral stains and trailing roots. Water dripped steadily somewhere inside the rock. The exposed shore stretched in front of us, empty and wide. Tide pools reflected pieces of the sky like scattered mirrors.
The cave opened at the base of the cliff like a gaping black mouth. At first it looked shallow. Then, as we walked closer, I realized the opening went farther back. The cave swallowed the sound around it. Even the wind died at its threshold.
We stopped several yards away.
The sand there was ridged from the tide’s retreat, patterned with the delicate marks of the surf’s debris that had been dragged back out to sea. My boots sank slightly. Behind me, the sea made a low, muscular sound beyond the rocks.
“What exactly are you teaching me?” I asked.
“Not how to stop being afraid.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“You won’t stop being afraid either way, so it’s pointless,” he said. “If Clemency comes, the room is going to feel very wrong. Your body will know it before your mind does, and you’ll want to run.” He stepped closer, his hands closing around my shoulders. “So we’re going to make the whole thing simple.”
“I don’t think fear is known for being simple,” I said, the wind flapping my collar.
“It can be trained.” He pointed at the sand. “First, your feet. Whatever happens, find them and feel the weight of your body. Think about the ground holding you, even if it seems unsteady. If the room seems to tilt, or you hear something that makes you shudder, feet first.”
“Feet first,” I repeated.
“Second, name it, so it stops being everything, even if you don’t say it out loud.”
“What do I say?”
“I’m afraid.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. Don’t fight with it.”
The daylight had all but disappeared, and the sand had turned slate.
“Third,” he said, “Forget about taking deep breaths. Breathe low instead. Low and quiet. In through your nose. Longer out than in.”
He watched me try it.
“No,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re trying to force yourself to be calm.”
I glared at him.
“Try it again.”
I breathed in, slower this time.
