Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(44)

Clover hums, thoughtful, and looks behind us at the row of jars still on the lawn from when she and Arien practiced earlier. She gets up and walks over to the edge of the sigil.

“Come over here. You too, Arien.” She beckons to us. “Show me what you did.”

Arien and I kneel down in front of the line of jars. He looks at me, then takes hold of the jar as the shadows gather at his palms.

I put my hands over his, then close my eyes and think of how it felt, that last time. It’s harder now that I’m trying to call on my magic with purpose. When the power finally rises through me, it’s just a brief flash of warmth, like I’ve passed beneath a shaded tree to an open clearing, then gone back into the dark again.

Clover puts her hand on my arm. Her eyes shimmer as she sends magic over our twined fingers, adding her own power to the spell. Arien tenses. I can feel the poison inside the glass, inside the water. Feel how it could be mended. Almost. Almost. I take a deep breath and try to draw out my magic. Try not to think how easy this would all be if I had the power the Lord Under offered.

The strands of Arien’s magic draw tight for a moment before he falters. I sit back with a frustrated hiss as the shadows dissolve. Clover picks up one of the jars and squints at it. The water isn’t clear, but it has changed; it’s no longer inky black, but the gray of softened charcoal.

“It’s not the same as your magic,” I ask her, “is it?”

“No. I don’t know what it was like before, but now your power is like … a leftover.” She makes an apologetic face, then scrunches up her nose as she thinks. “Wait. I have an idea.”

She jumps to her feet and runs back into the house. Lamplight flashes in the window of her stillroom; then she comes back with her basket full of the notebooks and pens she and Arien use at their lessons.

Clover opens one of the books to a blank page, and quickly sketches a sigil onto the paper. It’s not like any of the symbols I’ve seen Arien draw, or any of the marks on his arms. It’s small and curved, like the petals of a half-closed flower.

“When you touched Arien, it was like you made his power more concentrated. This is a channeling spell. It will help you focus more.” She blows on the ink, to make it dry, then passes me the pen. “Practice on the paper first.”

I lean over and set the pen awkwardly against the paper. I’ve practiced my letters, and I can write my name, barely. The pen feels unfamiliar in my hand. The ink spills out, turning what should be a neat line into a dark smear.

“Can you?” I try to give the pen back to Clover, but she shakes her head.

“You’ll need to draw it, otherwise the spell won’t work.”

“Start with the smallest symbol, at the center,” Arien says encouragingly. “Then work your way outward.”

I pick up the book and try again. The second sigil I draw is even worse, a blur of unsteady lines marred by blotches of ink. I sigh and grip my fingers tightly around the pen.

There’s a rustle from the garden, and I look up to see Rowan standing at the far edge of the lawn. I can tell by his expression that he must have heard my confession.

He comes over and sits down beside me. “You’re going to snap the pen if you keep clutching it like that.” He reaches for my hand. “Hold it more gently. Like this.”

I loosen my grip as he curls his fingers around mine. “Like this?”

“That’s right.”

He puts his arm around me. Together, we press the pen back against the paper. He guides my hand, and while my lines are still smeared and clumsy, it’s much more careful than I could do alone. We fill the page with sigils, each one neater than the last. As he helps me, I start to learn the rhythm of the spell, the sharp angles of the innermost symbol, the curved arc of the outer lines.

Finally, I’m done, with my last effort almost passably neat.

“There.” Rowan rests his chin against my shoulder. “You did it.”

I lean against him for a moment. My eyes close as a peculiar feeling stirs in my chest. Then Clover snorts back a laugh, which she turns to a cough when Arien elbows her. I move away from Rowan quickly and busy myself in tidying the pile of notebooks.

“Anyway…” Rowan gestures to the pen and makes a sketching motion with his fingers. “I’m sure you can manage from here.”

“If our inscription lessons in the Maylands had a teacher like you, I’d have learned much faster,” Clover says. Arien elbows her again. “What? I was just admiring his technique!”

“Excuse me.” Rowan gets to his feet and walks past the altar into the darkness of the garden.

“Don’t you want to watch Violeta cast her very first spell?” Clover calls after him. When he doesn’t respond, she frowns at me in pretend seriousness. “Do you think he’s worried it will be bad luck if he sees you before the ritual?”

“This isn’t a handfasting.”

“At least you’ve just practiced your inking, if you want to write him a proposal.”

Arien rolls his eyes. “If you’re both finished, maybe Leta can try drawing the spell on her skin?”

I pick up the book and stare hard at the page until the sigils are an indistinct blur. Then I push back my sleeve to bare my wrist. I draw the sigil, still feeling the ghost of Rowan’s hand against my own.