Chapter 13

M y eagerness to continue lessons with Sir Magis quickly fades the moment he holds out his hand and reveals another tangerine. The corners of my lips slide into a frown, much to his dismay.

"Have patience, Radya. We must perfect these tasks until they are as effortless as breathing," he says, looking at the tangerine like a fine work of art.

I do my best to stifle the curse words rumbling around in my mind and decide instead to take on his challenge. I close my eyes, sinking deep into the inner chambers of my mind. Not even a minute later, the tangerine flies toward the windowsill. A smirk tugs at my lips as Sir Magis walks over to it, knowing fully well that I am committed to making this point. Before his hand reaches the fruit, I flick my hand again and send it careening through the air to the other side of the room.

He hardens with irritation as he beckons the tangerine back to him. "Fine, point taken. But let me offer a warning, such impertinence will only be tolerated once. This is our second day together, and I would hate to report that you are unworthy of the position Their Royal Highnesses so graciously bestowed. Understood?"

My shoulders slump at the admonishment, and I offer an apologetic nod. "Understood."

We sit in an uncomfortable silence for what feels like an eternity, each second emphasized by the tapping of his finger against the desk. I don't know why I chose to bait him, truly. But the look that he's giving me now, with the cruel lines of his eyes and puckered lips drawn in warning, is all of the lesson I need to never cross him again.

I hold my breath until he claps his hands together and lets some of that sternness fade. "Right, well, let's not permit this unpleasantness to mar the rest of our time together. What type of challenge will you find most interesting, hm?"

"What about flying?"

"Dear girl, when have you ever heard of non-Mediols flying? Last I checked, wings have yet to sprout from your back." He chuckles to himself, amused by my ignorance. "Let's stick to something a little more realistic. How about conjuring flame?"

I swallow my wounded ego for the sake of moving forward in our lesson, but how was I supposed to know that only Mediols could fly? I didn't believe magic to be possible for anyone but Lord Myles until this week, so the possibilities seemed endless. "Can I create fire?"

I saw Sir Magis light a candle by simply waving his hand over it like it was nothing.

Without another word, he places an unlit candle on the desk in front of me and says, "Bring it forth."

No advice, no instruction.

He seems to expect me to intuit how to light the candle as if it should be instinct. But, then again, maybe it is. I figured out how to move objects on my own, so maybe this will come just as naturally.

Breathe, focus, and feel. I need to empty my mind of all other thoughts and allow only this to occupy the chambers of my mind. Behind my eyelids, I see the flames flickering in a rhythmic dance, swaying to an invisible beat that warms my hands. I hold on to this image until the room disappears around me and all that exists is that thermal energy flickering in my mind.

I open my eyes, prepared to see the dancing candle come to life, but instead, I find the unlit wick staring lifelessly back at me. I look at Sir Magis for help and cross my fingers and toes that he finds the generosity to do his job.

"Find the source of the flame in your heart and draw it forth," he says as if that makes the instructions any clearer.

"A flame in my heart… What does that mean?"

"You tell me." What is the point of the lesson if he won't answer my questions, or provide any form of instruction that makes a lick of sense?

A flame in my heart? A flame is a natural element… like my heart… which has blood… "Do I need to draw blood?"

Sir Magis draws his lips into a tight line and shakes his head. "No, blood drawing will not be necessary."

"Could you perhaps instruct me, or do you simply enjoy watching me suffer?" That seems to be a common theme in this household. Maybe there's no true gift at all. Maybe they brought me here as some cruel joke. Are they just waiting for me to crack?

"How are you feeling right now?"

"A little annoyed, honestly."

"Good, now harness that emotion."

"My annoyance?"

"Annoyance, anger, lust, greed, anything that lights your heart aflame." He fans his hands in the air, and I take a mental note of his flair for dramatics. "Find it. Recognize it. Hold it in your hands and then let it build."

There's always a deep well of anger and resentment somewhere inside of me. It simmers down below, occasionally rearing its ugly head for no reason at all. Born of loss and loneliness, fear and frustration. No matter how hard I try to clear it, to clean it all out, that muck remains. It thickens and grows with each new lashing. Tapping into it might be the easiest thing I've done so far.

But where to start? My conversation with the twins comes to mind first. I imagine Gemma and Viola being plucked from their homes as children, shoved onto a dark ship, and sent across the sea and into foreign territory with nothing more than each other. Separated from their parents. Far from their homes. To be traded as a commodity. The more I think about it, the more my heart begins to race. Red hot fury pulses through my veins almost instantly.

Yet nothing happens.

I need more, need to feel more. I harness the pain of losing my parents. To this day, and despite all of the lies and promises kept from me, I still feel it. The world is a dark place, lacking in love and beauty and wonder, without them. My only family. Not a day goes by that I don't think of them or picture their faces, though the image of my father gets fuzzier with every passing day.

When my chest becomes an aching pit, I wave my hand over the candle. In an instant, the flame springs to life, but I don't feel the sense of triumph that I felt after moving the tangerine. I only feel pain.

"Drawing on the land's natural elements requires a trade. Your pain in exchange for the flame. The bigger the fire, the greater the cost." His eyes close, and the flickering behind his eyelids suggests that he might be reliving a memory. A moment goes by like this until he finally sighs and returns to our lesson. "Now you must dampen that emotion to extinguish the flame."

"How?" Once that well tips, it fills the rest of me like a flood. My soul feels weighed down with pain. "How do you turn it off?"

"The answer to that question goes far beyond our magic lessons. It requires mental agility. Some hold pockets of humor in the crevices of their mind, others rely on meditation." His eyes grow weary and worn as he concentrates on something unseen. "You must release it."

"How do you do it?" I ask pointedly.

"Chocolate," he winks. I search the room for any chocolate but find nothing of the sort.

Without it, I strain to recall a happy memory, but every memory seems tainted. Memories of my parents coincide with grief. Memories of my former life stir up a sense of loss. Even thinking of Moose reminds me that he is my only friend, and a pang of loneliness tugs.

Hours go by as I take deep breaths. I envision success. I try my hardest to recall a time that existed without sadness or pain, but the flame continues its dance undisturbed. My anxiety builds to a crescendo as I accept that untainted happiness may not exist within my memories.

Only an inch of wax remains.

With a huff of frustration, I blow out the candle, no magic required. "I'm done for the day. Thank you, Sir Magis."

* * *

My room is nearly unrecognizable when I return. A display of jewels covers every inch of the vanity. It's so rich that it would make even the Goddess of Beauty blush. Diamond tiaras, emerald necklaces, and golden earrings shine in the sunlight, reflecting colorful prisms of light onto the ceiling. Several gowns hang from the bed's canopy, each one more beautiful than the last. My old boots lay in the corner, looking more pathetic than ever next to the sandals spread across the bedroom floor. The twins must have done this while I was in my lesson.

In my old life, I might have delighted in trying on every combination imaginable, but at this moment, the defeat of my lesson is weighing me down. What is the point of making your outward appearance look nice when the inside feels so rotten?

As if sensing my imbalance, Moose paws at my leg. I hoist him into my arms, gratefully accepting the licks on my cheek. My friend. My best friend. I run my fingers over his soft fur in sweeping motions, and I swear that he's smiling at me, reassuring me that everything will be okay. I hug him close to my chest. And every second that I hold him close, my anxiety eases a little more. Could he be the key?

Testing this theory can wait until tomorrow. For now, I need a nap more than anything. Pushing past the collection of gowns hanging on the canopy, I crawl into bed and quickly fall into a deep sleep beneath a lump of capes and shawls.

* * *

Viola shakes me awake sometime later, and I notice the familiar, sticky sensation of sweat pooling around me. My head pounds as I try to remember the nightmare that surely came, but I draw a blank.

"Into the bath! Now! Up you go!" Viola tugs at my arm, pulling me towards the bathing chamber. "We didn't expect to find you looking like a wraith emerging from the depths! We're going to have to work double-time to prep you for the banquet! Unless you have a preference, Gemma will choose everything for you this evening. Now, go!"

"I have no preference." I find myself feeling extra grateful for their guidance. Without them, I'd probably spend hours second- guessing every choice. I have no idea what's appropriate for a banquet, much less meeting a group of conniving courtiers.

This might be the least relaxing bath I've ever taken. The twins keep popping their heads into the room, rotating in regular intervals, to ask if I'm done yet or to get approval on various shoe and outfit combinations. Rather than hasten my bathing, it has the opposite effect. Every reminder of the importance of this evening makes me want to stay here forever.

One more minute , I think. But when that minute expires, I repeat the process all over again. Thirty more seconds. Ten more seconds. Nine and a half more seconds…

Viola whisks me away the second I stand, wrapping me in a sun-warmed towel. In the bedroom, Gemma is beaming, holding an ivory gown with rosy little flowers sewn into the fabric. It reminds me of the gown the queen wore when I arrived here – another terrifying reminder of my unbelonging. In her other hand, she holds a matching cape with a delicate silver clasp.

Her eyes widen with delight as she asks, "Do you like it?"

"Like it? Gemma, I… it's the most beautiful gown I've ever seen." My heart thuds as I begin to fear that I'm not enough for it. Not enough for this life. They seem to think that I might be capable of being a good queen, but they're wrong. I'm ordinary and so, so unworthy.

"That's not all!" Gemma gently places the gown onto the bed and moves toward the vanity to grab a silver tiara with star-tipped prongs extended in the shape of a halo.

"It's stunning, really, but I can't wear all of this," I say, motioning to the tiara, the jewels, and the gowns. "It's not… right for me."

I'm an imposter, and this court will see right through me.

"Don't be silly. You were destined for this life. You just need a little confidence boost, that's all." Gemma, always looking on the bright side, says what she thinks I want to hear. But I've only known her for three days. And in that time, all I've managed to do is move fruit around the room. I hardly have any worldly knowledge or experience. How do they expect me to rule a kingdom when a simple court banquet terrifies me and my greatest accomplishment so far has been a food fight? I clasp my hands together, trying to mask their shaking.

"We know that you will be a great queen because it is your gods-given right." Viola sighs as if she's choosing her words carefully. "Trust me. Walk proudly into that room. The throne belongs to you. And if ever you feel inadequate, remember that you were chosen by the gods to lead."

"Did anyone ever consider that the gods chose wrong?"

"No, not for one second," she coos, squeezing my hand twice. "Come now, get dressed. Take a breath. Put a smile on, and let's go."

Breathe.

The gown fits like a glove, hugging my bony hips, and the tiara twinkles atop my head. Gemma weaves half of my hair into braids, leaving the rest to fall down my back in loose curls. I catch a glimpse of my reflection and hardly recognize the woman staring back at me.

Though somehow, beneath it all, I still look like my mother - with her bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. It's like looking at a portrait of her. I take hold of that small bit of comfort, seizing it like a beacon of safety to help guide my way through the next few hours.

When I turn away from the mirror, a funny sensation passes over me like fingers drawing from my neck to shoulder, tracing the lines of my clavicle and then drawing down across my stomach. I can't explain it, nor do I understand it, but I've felt this embrace before. It's drawing me closer as if to say, I'll see you soon.