Magic Steps

“Mama said I couldn’t come here in normal clothes,” he explained as they walked down the hall. “She even scrubbed me behind the ears, and me twelve years old!

Does his grace really need so many rooms?”

Sandry opened another door, to find it was one of the side entrances to the chancellory. Scribes turned to stare at her. She closed the door. “His grace’s officials need the rooms,” she told Pasco severely. “We’d better go outside.”

And I had better think of someplace else for us to meet, she realized. Pasco just isn’t comfortable here.

A stair led them out into the gardens. They found a seat on a stone bench that was tucked out of the day’s brisk wind. Sandry perched crosswise on it and drew her legs up in a tailor’s seat under her skirts. She pointed sternly to the bare spot on the bench in front of her. Pasco sat. “Do you remember how we meditate?”

she wanted to know.

“You have to ward us,” he said, mischief in his eyes.

Sandry drew herself up and got off the bench with great dignity. “So you do remember yesterday’s lesson, at least a bit.” Let him think she had meant it as a test. He didn’t need to know that mentally she was yelling at her self for almost forgetting such an important thing.

She had to calm down to place the thread circle and enclose them in her power.

By the time she rejoined him on the bench, she had to admit that, since she did ward them before his magic could spill, it was funny. Not that she would tell him so, but she thought that the duke might laugh at the tale.

“What next?” she asked.

“I close my eyes and breathe and count and think of nothing,” he replied promptly. “Even if I’m bored.”

“Very good,” she approved. “And today I want you to imagine you’re fitting yourself into something small—,”

“Like what?”

Sandry tried to remember how Niko had explained it to them. Briar had chosen a carved wooden rose, Sandry a drop spindle, Daja a smith’s hammer. Tris had never said what she had imagined. “Well, it could be one of the rocks here—,”

“Why ever would I want to fit into a rock?”

“Then maybe something you use at home,” Sandry told him, trying to be patient.

“A candle holder, or a baton. Anything, as long as it’s small. You have to learn to pull all your power within your skin, so it won’t escape you.”

He remembered the pattern of counting and breathing, which pleased her. Getting him to empty his mind remained a struggle. She had to wonder if she and her friends hadn’t’ needed meditation to harness their power. The first time they had tried fitting their minds into something small, they had done it easily.

Pasco pre tended, to try, then, complained that it was too hard. He had to scratch; he fidgeted. She called his attention back to meditation. At last, the: Citadel’s giant clock struck the hour, completely destroying the mood.

Sandry got stiffly to her feet and took up her warding. “Will, you at least think of something to fit into?” she asked.

“I’ll try, my lady,” he told her, His look made her think he might agree, but he wouldn’t do it. What would make this exasperating boy learn, the things he needed to?

Lark had, suggested bribes. Busily Sandry shook out her skirts, driving the wrinkles from the cloth. “Pasco.” she said craftily, “the sooner you learn to pull in your magic, the sooner you can dance without surprises. You might want to think about that. And if you learn to con trol your breathing, you’ll be able to dance longer.” Guiding him out of the courtyard, she asked, “Do you know Fletchers Circle?”

He frowned. “Between Spicer Street and Fountain Street, off Bowyer Lane?”

“That’s it,” Sandry replied as they entered the castle. Fletcher’s Circle was closer to East District than to Duke’s Citadel; she would have to travel longer to get there, which was just as well. The easier things were for Pasco, the less chance that he would try to skip his lessons. “There’s an eating-house—,” she began.

“The Crooked Crow,” he said promptly as they walked into the front hall.

“Yes. Let’s meet there tomorrow at this same hour.” That would give her time to ride with her uncle and have breakfast before she had to meet him.

Pasco nodded. “May I go now?”

“Fletcher’s Circle—don’t keep me waiting,” she added. “Yes, go.”

He trotted out of the residence, his step light. Sandry ran to the door and called after him, “No dancing!” Pasco, halfway across the courtyard, waved at her and kept going.

She sighed and drooped against the heavy door. I am not a teacher, she told herself for the dozenth time. I am much too young. And it’s so hard!

“Excuse me, my lady.” It was one of the maids. “You’ve guests. I took the liberty of putting them in the rose sitting room.”

Sandry thanked the woman. Who might have come to see her? When she entered the room the maid had spoken of, she found Lark and a stranger.

Lark beamed at her. “Sandry, Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, this is Yazmin Hebet.”

Yazmin curtsied deeply.

Sandry almost goggled, but caught herself in time it was unladylike. Instead she returned the curtsy. Yazmin Hebet was the most famous dancer around the Pebbled Sea, where the troupes she belonged to had toured for years. Because she danced in public festivals as well as in the castles of the rich, she was popular with all classes of people. Everyone talked of the great Yazmin, from the clothes she wore to the men she was supposed to be in involved with.