I lean over and set the pen awkwardly against the paper. I’ve practiced my letters, and I can write my name, barely. The pen feels unfamiliar in my hand. The ink spills out, turning what should be a neat line into a dark smear.
“Can you?” I try to give the pen back to Clover, but she shakes her head.
“You’ll need to draw it, otherwise the spell won’t work.”
“Start with the smallest symbol, at the center,” Arien says encouragingly. “Then work your way outward.”
I pick up the book and try again. The second sigil I draw is even worse, a blur of unsteady lines marred by blotches of ink. I sigh and grip my fingers tightly around the pen.
There’s a rustle from the garden, and I look up to see Rowan standing at the far edge of the lawn. I can tell by his expression that he must have heard my confession.
He comes over and sits down beside me. “You’re going to snap the pen if you keep clutching it like that.” He reaches for my hand. “Hold it more gently. Like this.”
I loosen my grip as he curls his fingers around mine. “Like this?”
“That’s right.”
He puts his arm around me. Together, we press the pen back against the paper. He guides my hand, and while my lines are still smeared and clumsy, it’s much more careful than I could do alone. We fill the page with sigils, each one neater than the last. As he helps me, I start to learn the rhythm of the spell, the sharp angles of the innermost symbol, the curved arc of the outer lines.
Finally, I’m done, with my last effort almost passably neat.
“There.” Rowan rests his chin against my shoulder. “You did it.”
I lean against him for a moment. My eyes close as a peculiar feeling stirs in my chest. Then Clover snorts back a laugh, which she turns to a cough when Arien elbows her. I move away from Rowan quickly and busy myself in tidying the pile of notebooks.
“Anyway…” Rowan gestures to the pen and makes a sketching motion with his fingers. “I’m sure you can manage from here.”
“If our inscription lessons in the Maylands had a teacher like you, I’d have learned much faster,” Clover says. Arien elbows her again. “What? I was just admiring his technique!”
“Excuse me.” Rowan gets to his feet and walks past the altar into the darkness of the garden.
“Don’t you want to watch Violeta cast her very first spell?” Clover calls after him. When he doesn’t respond, she frowns at me in pretend seriousness. “Do you think he’s worried it will be bad luck if he sees you before the ritual?”
“This isn’t a handfasting.”
“At least you’ve just practiced your inking, if you want to write him a proposal.”
Arien rolls his eyes. “If you’re both finished, maybe Leta can try drawing the spell on her skin?”
I pick up the book and stare hard at the page until the sigils are an indistinct blur. Then I push back my sleeve to bare my wrist. I draw the sigil, still feeling the ghost of Rowan’s hand against my own.
When I’m finished, I look down at the new mark. Once I’ve done this, I can’t go back. The sigil will be marked on me forever. If this works, then I’ll have committed Arien—and myself—to facing the Corruption at the next ritual. But if I refuse to help and the ritual fails, then Rowan will pay. First with his blood, and then with his life.
There is no other choice.
Arien reaches for the jar, and we take hold of it together. “First, close your eyes. Then you just … listen.” He glances shyly at Clover. “Is that right?”
She smiles and places her hands over mine. “Yes. That’s perfect.”
“It’s always there for me,” Arien goes on. “But you might need to reach further. Feel it inside your chest, then picture it at your hands, and on your skin, making the shape of the spell.”
An ache fills me as he proudly explains how to call on the power. It’s such a reversal of those nights in the cottage when he was so uncertain and afraid. He’s had to hide it for so long, but this magic has always been part of him.
“Okay.” I close my eyes. “Teach me how to cast the spell.”
Chapter Fourteen
I sit alone by the altar after everyone goes back to the house. I blow out the candles and watch as wax pools around the soot-smeared wicks. Smoke covers the icon like a veil.
The spell to focus my power worked. When Arien and Clover cast the spell they’re going to use to mend the Corruption, the sigil burned on my wrist and power unthreaded from me. Still faint, still weak, but it was enough. With my help, Arien kept hold of his magic. His shadows wove neatly around the glass as light spilled from Clover’s hands, and the water turned clear.