“Will you give me answers?” I ask her. “Will you help me?”
The two around her seem to bristle at my tone as if it isn’t a common occurrence for someone to walk in and ask something—anything—of the Maker.
She only stares in my general direction. Her scarred and empty eyes, watching somehow and unnerving me. I wait for the words inside my head, but they do not come.
“Will you tell me about the others like me? What their gifts were? How to use them or wield them?” I try again as if shaping the question correctly might release her tongue.
She stands, pushing herself up from her seat, her shoulders sagging around her, as if her bones aren’t sure they won’t cave in around her body. But then, if she is hundreds of years old...
The others, her Triune, stay where they are, but she descends the stairs, and I breathe through the sweep of anxiety, clinging to the look in Ten’s eyes, the fear in Azur’s, the bile in Ascella’s words.
They are why I’m here.
Her too-thin skin over her lips pulls against the movement of her mouth as she tries to speak, not into my mind, but with words. “Ever. You are beginning to realise. Beginning to see.”
“No. Not really. There isn’t enough information. I’m lost. I don’t know how. I don’t…” Panic invades with the avalanche of questions suddenly let loose in my mind.
“Shhh, child.” Her voice calms as if swathing me in something good and pure.
“You are blessed with bearing all Aslendrix’s power. But it is a cruel gift, for it can be more burden than blessing.”
“Help me.” The emotion is thick on my words. “Nobody seems to know how. Or they are wilfully letting me stumble through like an animal snared in a trap.” I bite the last word back, thinking of Rowan and his drive to test me.
“Use that well inside of you.”
I tilt my head to her. Did she know Kyra helped me?
“I know all. You must practice control. Your emotions are wild and raw. A spark to your own dry wood, threatening to burn you alongside everything. Don’t think of your power as a singular thing. It is earth and space and time and everything in between. Caress it, nurture it, for it can be fickle and stubborn and deadly.”
“Enough of the riddles,” I shout, raising that emotion she just warned me about. “What about others? Books. Lessons. Please,” I beg. “I saw myself kill Ascella when I know I’d never do that. I can see images from places I’ve never been. I don’t know what will happen if I accidentally touch someone, and… I can hear people’s thoughts.” I concentrate.“Like you.”I pushthe last words to her. “And worse, lay traps in their minds. How? I didn’t know I was doing that. Is there something inside of me, my subconscious, that is doing this?” The words trip over themselves, all my fears bursting through and pushing out the questions. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Please.”
The room grows silent. Like a dampener just draped the room, blocking even the faintest whisper of breeze. And then I feel it like another presence. The Maker raises her hand to my cheek.
I don’t recoil but concentrate on the position of her hand and the feel of her paper-thin skin, dry and brittle, against my face. The hum of energy pulses between us, and I recognise this now. She twists her head to one side, then the other, as if she’s sorting through something. But my mind stays clear, my breathing steady. No pain. No visions.
My fists clench at my side, and I feel the cool metal of the ring on my finger again as I picture that well of water inside my chest.
Calm. Still.
“Good.” She elongates the word like she’s purring it at me. “Have you seen it? The Larimar Lake?”
I just shake my head, more confusion seeping in.
“Interesting. Tea?” She pulls her hand away and steps back.
“Um, yes, thank you,” I agree and mask the confusion. Having a cup of tea with the witch wasn’t what I’d anticipated.
She turns, walks over to the small table on one side of the room, and slumps down into the seat. And as if this was already planned, a woman walks towards us with a tray. She sets the service down, wisps of steam billowing from the teapot.
But there is only one cup. A beautiful blue cup that is eerily familiar. A web of cracks decorates the outside as if it might shatter and break at any moment. My eyes look from the cup to the Maker and then to the woman carrying the tray.
“How?” I ask.
“How, what?”
“How do you have the exact same teacup as I do?”
“Do you believe in coincidences, Ever?”
