A Shadow Bright and Burning (Kingdom on Fire #1)(24)

I felt like I was only standing there, moving my arm in a silly way. Every time an image entered my head, I quashed it.

The water didn’t move, not even a ripple.

“Try again.” Agrippa frowned. My stomach gave a painful lurch. I did as he asked. After three more tries, I huffed in frustration.

“I’m sorry. Shouldn’t I be able?” How hard could this be, with three sorcerers aiding me? How incompetent was I? I searched Agrippa’s face for the smallest signs of disappointment.

Agrippa didn’t respond.

“You’ve enough power to make something happen, Miss Howel,” Blackwood said. “That it doesn’t is mystifying.”



“Don’t scare her, Blacky,” Magnus said.

“Enough,” Agrippa snapped. “Miss Howel, you mustn’t worry.”

“Should it be this hard?”

He clearly debated with himself for a moment. “No, I don’t believe it should.”

What kind of prophetic savior can’t even complete the easiest task?

“You mustn’t worry. Keeping a clear mind isn’t easy, especially for someone who’s never trained as a sorcerer before. I’ll give you some breathing exercises to help control your thoughts. Now. Try again,” Agrippa said. He crossed his arms and watched. I did as he’d asked.

My anxiety rendered my mind blank, just like he wanted. But whenever I touched Porridge to the water, nothing happened. Two hours ago, I’d created a wind current. Why was it so difficult now?

My powers, whatever they were, seemed to work only when I was actively thinking. But that was wrong.

Suppose the queen would not commend me? Suppose I was a failure? They would put me on the street for certain, and Rook would go with me. No. He wouldn’t lose his security because of me.

“Miss Howel, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.” There it was, that tinge of disappointment in his voice. The water would not move.

I thought of Gwen, beautiful Gwen in her beautiful room. Had she felt like this? That if she didn’t please him, she would die a little inside? Or had she always been secure in his love, as a daughter should be? I felt like a changeling, a peevish, whining, solemn creature stealing beautiful Gwen’s place and lingering in Agrippa’s house, to feed off him and give nothing in return.



There was no trace of a smile on Agrippa’s face. Beside him, Blackwood watched with interest. Frustration sparked something inside me. Bright light appeared at the edges of my vision.

Magnus said, “Well, perhaps the Ancients aren’t fond of crossing puddles.”

A great sweep of flame covered me, not blue this time, but orange and blood-red at the heart. Agrippa and the boys threw up wards to protect themselves as the fire reflected in the walls and ceiling. As quickly as it had appeared, the fire died.

“Why did I do that?” I put a hand over my chest; my heart was pounding.

“I’ve no idea,” Agrippa said.

I had been so frustrated, so furious. Instinctively, I decided not to mention this to the others. They’d responded to my question about control in such an odd way; perhaps it would only cause trouble. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Agrippa said. “It’s odd, of course. Usually, when supported by three others, when in a triangle…But this is helping no one.” He scratched his head and sighed. “Perhaps we’ve begun a bit too soon and fast. Miss Howel, why don’t you rest this afternoon? We’ll speak more at dinner.”



I did not want to rest. I wanted to fight on until I’d conquered the lesson, but I sensed Agrippa needed time to think. To reflect on my failure.

“Of course,” I said, praying that no one heard my voice waver. I left, pretending that I didn’t feel how heavy their gazes were on me.

—

THERE WAS NO TALK OF THE training at dinner, but afterward the butler asked me to follow him to the library on Agrippa’s orders. Feeling ill, I walked down the corridor to two large oak doors. Inside, the room took my breath away.

The shelves rose high above my head, with a ladder that stretched to the uppermost volumes. Huge bay windows looked out onto the garden. Several green velvet armchairs clustered before the hearth. The firelight flickered on the walls and the carpet, with the occasional snap of wood the only noise. I padded into the room and admired the shelves bursting with books and the portraits hung on the walls. I recognized Agrippa’s image, but examined the others more closely. Some had been painted recently, judging by the style of clothing, and some dated back hundreds of years.

One particular image drew my attention: the painting of a great house on an emerald lawn, fringed on all sides by a dark wood. The house glowed in the sunlight. I couldn’t tell if the dark, foreboding woods lent the place its air of grandeur and beauty or if the house’s splendor caused the woods to appear more threatening by contrast. Something about it stirred my imagination, like a scene from a fairy tale. I felt in some way that I’d been there before.



“Do you like it?” Agrippa said, startling me. He stood behind me, smiling at my curiosity.

“It’s exquisite. Are these all books on magic?” I glanced around.

“No. Sorcery doesn’t require much literary knowledge. Only scholars or magicians write anything. But my father was a great reader, and so am I. I’ve the most extensive collection of magical theory and history in London, I’m proud to say.”