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Susan is gone before I get up the next morning. Grace refuses to answer questions in her place. I should be panicking about losing my challenge—six days away, now—but I’m distracted by the tingle of unseen eyes on the back of my neck.
If Ravel could haunt—or hunt—me from the forest, I don’t see any reason he couldn’t haunt me from inside these walls. Or worse.
It’s one thing to think about Ravel. I can bring reason to bear on his actions, his motivations, considering each piece of evidence and laying them down in tidy rows where they can’t hurt me. But the way I feel—I keep pushing it off at arms’ length to keep from going under, the memories of being lost in what he wanted and who he would have made of me sparking a swelling surge of panic that threatens to paralyze me.
So, instead, I practice the forms Steph has been teaching me, building up muscle and balance if nothing else. But I keep flinching, imaginary knots of wood flying at me out of my blind spot. Grace gets fed up and makes me sit on the ground with my eyes closed and my hands clasped. I keep peeking until she adds a blindfold. It only makes me jumpier.
“Focus.” She raps the top of my head, which doesn’t help.
“I can’t. This is a waste of time.”
“You’re a waste of time.” She pats my shoulder to soften the retort. I only flinch on the first pat. “Meditation is the first step to unlocking your abilities.”
“I thought playing with string was the first step? Or forest gathering? Or basic stances . . .”
“Different paths. That was for weavers. Like handing a stick to a dreamwalker. And meditating for dreamspeakers.”
“But I am a dreamwalker. And weaver. And—”
“You were a dreamweaver. And we’re all—well, not me so much, but the rest of you—dreamwalkers. Weapon-based and hand-to-hand fighting are just for the lowest rung of travellers. Um, maybe don’t mention that around Steph, ’kay? The point is, weaving’s rare and kind of a big deal, but you said you’d done it before, and your family was known for unusual talent in working the threads, so we started you there.”
“Then why am I sitting in the dirt?”
“’Cause you suck at everything else,” Cadence says.
“It’s even less common than weaving,” Grace says. “And not nearly so powerful, but there are also dreamspeakers, and the first step in their training is—”
“Sitting in the dirt?”
“—Meditating. Which looks a lot like sitting in the dirt, yes. You must’ve noticed a few speakers at the training hall. Basically, they’ve moved on from the need to fight on the physical plane. Instead, they just tap the dreamscape and work from there. Which is what you need to do, either way.”
“Wait, so then why have I been letting Steph beat me up every day?”
“Entertainment value?” Cadence suggests.
“Trainees usually learn a little bit of everything, to explore and test their talents,” Grace says. “And you haven’t been showing much of an aptitude for weaving. We figured, with your challenge coming up, even if you couldn’t dreamwalk, you might as well learn how to defend yourself.”
I’m going to fail, aren’t I?
“Definitely,” says Cadence.
“Anyway, now we’re giving this a shot,” says Grace, glossing over my woeful lack of combat aptitude. “Sit still and try to feel what’s around you. Reach for those threads.”
I roll my eyes behind closed lids and flutter my fingers sarcastically.
“Not with your hands.”
I fold them neatly in my lap and imagine throwing pebbles at Grace’s head.
“Wrong image,” says Cadence.
I growl and shift, already getting numb. The ground is cold. A dusty, earthy smell clogs my nose and scratches the back of my throat. It looked flat here when I sat down, but I can feel clumps of earth or stones or something poking up.
“Are you even going to try or can we go inside now?” says Cadence.
I roll my shoulders and make an effort to settle. Abstract patterns of ruddy light and shadow twist behind my closed eyelids. The breeze ruffles my hair, cool on my skin, wafting in the musty, nose-tickling scents of herbs and distant flowers.
There’s a scuffing sound from Grace. Voices in the distance. Buzzing—some kind of insect.
My skin crawls, waiting for the brush of wings and the creep of tiny legs.
“Wrong life-form,” says Cadence. “Try for something bigger.”
Oh, so she’s helping now?
“Nah, just bored. But please, do keep wasting our time. Not like we’re on a deadline or anything.”
I pound my fist against the dirt in lieu of her face and something sparks behind my eyes. Clawing both hands into the earth on either side of me brings it jittering in and out of focus: a tangled web of shadows and bright lines as if I’m facing the sun with my eyes closed.
Except I can feel its heat on the back of my neck. And those aren’t veins wavering at the edges of my awareness.
“Don’t get excited,” Grace says, her voice too even. “Just stay with it.”
My lids flutter with the effort not to scrunch in concentration. Phantom threads pulse in and out of focus in time with my heart, my breath slowing to match.
“That’s it,” Grace says. “Find the balance.”
I dig deeper into the cool earth, knuckles aching. Grit stabs deep under one nail. I snatch the hand to my chest, losing the tenuous connection.
“Well?” I wave the bloody digit in Grace’s direction.
She looks down. “I don’t know how to tell you this . . .”
“But it’s hopeless,” Cadence finishes. “You’re better off giving up now.”
“But it worked!” Grace squeals, jumping up and dragging me with her as she bounces in a tight circle.
I go stiff, elbows out in self-defence. But I’m practically fizzing inside. It’s the first time I’ve so much as caught a glimpse of the dreamscape since fighting off the Mara. Maybe I have a chance after all?
“Yes, fine, you might’ve popped a few sparklies,” Cadence says. “Don’t get too excited. You’re hardly ready to dive back into battle.”
The fizzing stops, replaced by a stone in my gut.
Grace stops bouncing. “What’s wrong? You finally made progress!”
I mumble something about it hardly being anything and try to pull away. But she leans in, so close I can feel the heat of her breath.
“Stop squirming. I just want to see.” She smooshes my face to keep me trapped.
I blink fast and stare into the middle distance as if that’ll make it less awkward.
“So jealous,” she says. “It’s cool how it mirrors your mask. Even the fade-out is pretty.”
I stop trying to push her away. “Fade out?”
Her fingers trace across my cheeks. “The way the silver pulls back under your skin. Not much surfaced, but it’s slowest to fade in your eyes and over these marks above and below.”
She backs off—finally—and I suck in air fast before she can crowd my space again.
“Good work. Now try to do it again.” She plops down and pats the ground.
I ease down, my finger throbbing where grit lodged under the nail—
“Poor baby,” Cadence says with all the sympathy of someone who’s forgotten human sensation. “Have not! You’re just a whiner.”
I knuckle both fists into the ground in response, going up on my knees to put more force into it. But this time, nothing flickers behind my eyes.
I uncurl and press fingertips to the earth, biting back a yelp. Nothing but pain sparks to life.
“Be patient,” Grace says, sounding anything but. “Give it a minute. Feel for the connection, don’t force it. Reach out, don’t grab.”
My fingers flex, stubbornly digging deeper, but I focus on relaxing just a little with each breath, listening and feeling for the life around me buzzing and rustling and . . . crunching?
“You’re needed,” says Susan.
I jump up, hiding my hands in my shirt as if I’ve been up to something I shouldn’t be.
It’s more than the interruption that puts me on edge. Her voice was abrupt, distant—or maybe that’s just weariness dulling her tone. Her face might be tense, but her shoulders sag with exhaustion.
“Cole just had a breakthrough.” Grace bounces up to Susan as if she hasn’t noticed anything’s wrong.
“I need you to come with me,” Susan’s glance takes in the dirt clinging to my clothes, my grubby hands, even the drop of blood seeping from the pricked nail. “Now.”
I tilt a reassuring smile in Grace’s direction. “Finish later?”
She nods, brows furrowing. She doesn’t know what’s wrong, then.
Susan’s already walking away.
“Is it the ghost from the woods? Is Ash back? Am I in trouble?” I hurry to catch up, voice pitched low, ducking my head as strangers pass.
“The Council of Nine wishes to speak with you. You haven’t done anything wrong. Just answer their questions. Truthfully, girls.”
“Both of us?” Cadence asks.
“They can hardly question you separately.”
When she puts it that way, this sounds more like an interrogation. I hunch my shoulders and wish I could go back to sit in the dirt with Grace.
What have I done now?