She pushed her magic further, attempting to hold all elements of the scene in perfect balance while initiating the first transformation. The paper ballroom began to unfold and refold, walls becoming garden hedges, chandeliers transforming into stars, the surrounding dancers shifting into elegant topiary shapes.
But as she directed the central figures to continue their dance amidst this changing landscape, she felt something … slip. A tremor run through her magic. One of the paper trees faltered in its transformation, tearing slightly as it attempted to hold two shapes at once.
“No, no,” Iris whispered, reaching out with her magic to stabilize it. But in focusing on the tree, she lost her grip on the dancers. Their forms began to blur, folding and unfolding rapidly as if unable to decide which shape to take.
Panic flickered through her. She tried to calm herself, to regain control, but exhaustion had weakened her discipline. With growing horror, she felt her magic slipping further, the careful structure of her story crumbling as the paper creations began to vibrate with unconstrained energy. “No,” she whispered desperately. “Not again?—”
But it was too late. With a sound like a hundred wings beating frantically against glass, every sheet of paper in the room—her creations, the papers on her desk, pages from open books on the shelves—tore free and launched into the air. They whipped around her in a violent cyclone, folding and unfolding with impossible speed, their edges sharp as razors.
Iris cried out as the first cuts stung her exposed skin. She raised her arms to shield her face, but the paper found every inch of exposed flesh—her cheeks, her neck, her hands, her arms.
“Stop!” she shouted. “STOP!”
But the papers only spun faster, catching in her hair, slicing at her gown, cutting her again and again until tears of pain and frustration streamed down her face. She dropped to her knees, hunching over to make herself a smaller target, her magic spiraling completely out of control.
Then suddenly, abruptly, everything stopped.
The papers froze mid-air, then fluttered harmlessly to the floor. The sudden silence was deafening.
Iris remained crouched on the floor, sobbing, her arms still raised defensively. Only when she heard footsteps hurriedly crossing the room did she dare to lower her arms slightly, peering through her fingers to see Jasvian crouching down before her. His hair was disheveled, his cravat askew, as if he’d been startled from sleep. His eyes, though, were intensely alert, fixed on her with an expression of genuine alarm.
“Lady Iris,” he said, his voice tight with concern. “Are you hurt?”
“I … how did you …”
“I fell asleep downstairs,” he admitted. “And then your magic—the sudden eruption of—it woke me.”
“I …” Words failed Iris as she took in the destruction around them. Papers lay strewn across every surface, some torn to shreds, others bent and creased. Pages had been ripped from the bindings of every book in the room. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve ruined everything,” she whispered. “Your books, your grandmother’s books … I—I’ll pay for the damage. I don’t know how, as my family is already dreadfully in debt, but—” She broke off, horrified at what she’d revealed. “Oh no, I—” She buried her face in her hands once more. “I was not supposed to say,” she mumbled, her words muffled behind her fingers. “No one is supposed to know.”
“Lady Iris, please. It does not matter to me. I care only for?—”
“But you cannot tell?—”
“I will say nothing of your family’s situation,” he assured her, his voice softening. “It isyouI’m concerned for right now.”
She stopped, something unexpected shivering through her at his words.
“You’re hurt,” he said, a waver of anxiety still evident in his voice. “Please, let me see your face.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her hands. His expression tightened as he took in her appearance. Judging by the stinging sensation across her face and the way his eyes widened in concern, Iris imagined her cheeks and neck bore the same pattern of tiny cuts that crisscrossed her arms and hands.
“I need to get a healing salve,” he said, starting to rise. “My grandmother keeps supplies in the kitchen?—”
“No!” Iris’s hand shot out to grasp his arm, her fingers clutching the fine material of his coat sleeve. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud, but the thought of being left alonein this room, surrounded by paper that might once again turn against her, filled her with terror.
Understanding dawned in his eyes. He glanced toward the hearth, where several sprites huddled together in the shadows, their tiny flames dimmed with fear. Iris remembered seeing them snuggle into the corner earlier to settle down for a night’s sleep.
“You,” Jasvian addressed them, his tone gentle but firm. “Would you be so kind as to fetch the healing salve from Lady Rivenna’s cabinet in the kitchen? The blue jar on the second shelf.”
The sprites bobbed in agreement, clearly relieved to have a reason to leave the room. They shot toward the door and disappeared.
“What happened?” Jasvian asked when they were alone, his gaze returning to Iris’s face with undisguised concern.
She swallowed, struggling to compose herself. “This … this is how it was the first time. When my magic manifested. It happened in a bookstore. A sanctuary I once cherished above all other places. There was …” Her voice trembled. “So much destruction. Just like this.” She looked around the room, sniffing faintly. “I thought I had learned enough control, but it seems I may have pushed myself beyond my limits this evening.”
“Indeed, it seems so,” he observed, his gaze moving around the room, taking in the sheer number of paper creations she’d been attempting to manipulate simultaneously.
The hearth sprites returned then, carrying the small blue jar between them. Jasvian took it from them with murmured thanks, uncapping it to reveal a pale cream that shimmered. “This will help,” he said, dipping one finger into the salve. “It works with the healer’s magic to accelerate natural healing. I’m not particularly skilled in healing arts, but my knowledgeis enough to address superficial wounds.” He hesitated before touching her. “May I?”
