"What is it, sir?" My cheeks feel hot, and I hope it doesn't show.

He's at his counter near the stairs, mixing up medicines. "Elénna was busy with another patient. I was just hoping you could grab me some salt from the cabinet."

"Of course, Illesiarr." As I fetch it for him, Jacin's steps thud down the stairs. I pretend to search the cabinet until the door swings shut behind him. "Here you are." I set the jar beside him.

Quietly, Illesiarr says, "I don't want that man here again."

I glance up at him, startled, but Illesiarr just keeps grinding his mixture.

"I don't think that will be a problem, sir."

"Very good." He nods, his wrinkled face creasing in some inscrutable, final expression.

"I think I'm off to bed now. Unless you need anything else."

"No, m'dear. Sleep well."

Upstairs, I curl into my blankets but can't fall asleep. Wide awake forever later, I close my eyes and picture myself curled up in my father's armchair, a worn book in my hands and a warm fire before me. His fingers clack at the keys of his presswrite, their steady rhythm lulling. Finally, somewhere between the imagining and the reminiscing, I drop off.

The click of the presswrite calls to me in my sleep, weaving in and out of my dreams. It has a certain rhythm to it that's unmistakable, not just a constant word after word, but a one, two, three, four, like music. I follow it, dancing through mind and memory to find the source of the sound.

When my dance ends, I find myself staring down at Sean Rahkifellar.

Surprise floods me. "I never noticed before."

He jumps, but his fingers slowly finish out their rhythm. "So you're back." He's still staring at his presswrite.

I nod, but there's a heady nothingness to the movement, like trying to shift a limb when it's numb. "You're a musician, aren't you? One, two, three, four. A beat."

"Not exactly. But if you're in my head you should understand."

"I'm not in your head." Something rings in my mind, someone else's voice, blurred by the vague fingers of memory. Some rare magicians... "I'm above you."

Sean looks up, around. He scoffs and looks back down, his eyes having never landed on me.

Because I'm not really here.

That sparks my memory like light springing up in darkness. "I cast a spell. Without meaning to. Without speaking. I'm here, Sean. I'm real, and you're real, and you were really typing..." The more reality brightens my mind, the more this scene slips from my grasp. "I'm in Morineaux," I rush. "I made it to the castle. Are you—"

The image cuts out, and my eyes snap open. I lie on my back, in my bed, curtain fluttering above me. Moonlight shines through the window, and its calm, soft rays belie my racing mind.

That was Sean. I talked to him. Lucidly this time. Just not for long.

The other dream—could it have been a spell too? Could I really have spoken with him twice and not known it?

And he thinks he's crazy for hearing me. Truly thinks he's crazy, and is calm and come to terms with it. The thought twines worry tight around my chest.

Next time this happens, I need a plan, a message to give him.

My mind flicks back to my last words to him. Are you... What did I plan on coming next? Are you alright? Safe? Guilt crawls into my stomach as I realize that's what I should have been asking him, but whether I like it or not, I know what that last word was supposed to be.

Are you coming?

I brush the thoughts away as I slip out of bed. It'd be ridiculous for him to come. Morineaux is in the middle of war, and it'd be nearly impossible for him to get to the castle anyway. He's safer wherever he is, and I need to tell him so if I get the chance.

How to convince him I'm real will be a harder matter.

I light a candle. If I'm going to get any message to him at all, though, I'll need to find him again, and I'll need the control to stay.

Steeling my will, my hands move through the motions Aster taught me. There's something lulling in the gestures, and for the first time, I feel myself slipping into the spell before I ever mutter the command.

"Fæn."

The magic rushes through me, and for a stomach-dropping moment, I feel like I'm tumbling helplessly into an endless chasm, hands scrabbling for some purchase. Fire fills my veins as I cling to control. Aster's words play back in my mind. You've already set the string to thrumming; the note will play. A shaking breath fills my lungs. Pushing aside the fear, I open my arms wide and freefall.

My eyes drift open. The silver glow of my body lights the room just as much as the candle does, and a warmth buzzes in me from head to toe.

Sean, I think. Take me to Sean.

The silver plays against my skin, wisping in the air behind me when I move my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut. Take me to Sean.

I stand there focusing until the warmth drains out of me. When I open my eyes, the candle is the only light in the room. Blazes.

My bed-tousled hair rubs against my neck and shoulders, and I tie it back. Maybe I should start with something a little smaller. I open the backpack Aster had a servant bring back to me. After rummaging around for something to use, I pull out a book.

I'd almost forgotten I'd kept this. My hand strokes the dark blue cover, painted with stars and a boy flying on the back of a giant owl, the mythical noctua of the High Valleys. It was my favorite growing up, a tale of impossible-to-reach places, magic, and sacrifice. It seems fitting to use it now.

Sitting cross-legged, I place it about a foot in front of me. I take a deep breath and make the motions. "Fæn."

The magic takes over for a heart-stopping moment. Pain flares as I hold on to my will, but when I fall into the magic, my skin hums and the silver glow lights the room once more. For a second, I'm distracted with the freedom, the sensation of unlimited possibilities.

Then my eyes fall on my book. Come, I think at it.

It doesn't move.

Bring me the book, I think to the glow.

Nothing happens.

"Move," I say. "Come here."

The book frustratingly continues to obey the laws of physiks. As the glow fades out, I press my lips together. This isn't science. This isn't direct cause and effect. This is magic, volatile, emotional, ethereal. Ordering it about apparently isn't the way to get it to work.

But if it's listening to me, then I need to figure out the right way to talk to it.

A chill runs over me at the thought of casting the fæn spell yet again. Each time, I feel like I'm jumping off a cliff. No matter the thrill at the release, the idea of falling a third time twists wires around my lungs.

But Sean is alone in Draó, and I asked him to leave. He's frightened, and I'm the one who frightened him.

Gathering my nerve, I cast again.

The silver glow comes and goes several more times as I try different ways of talking to it: persuasion, wishing, whispering, begging. I talk to it like a higher being, like a person, like a scared bird. With every successive dive off the cliff, I give it everything I have.

Nothing happens.

The surety of its futility infects my mind, but I can't quite convince myself to give it up. Not yet.

The moon has sunk beneath the sill of my window. Just one more, I vow for the tenth time. My heart beats fast, but I sit back, drawing in a deep breath.

"Fæn."

The spell arrests my heart and breath before I freefall into the dive. The magic hums through me, but I don't open my eyes this time. Do you remember how you felt when Marcí fell on the porch, or the night before we left, when I asked what you wanted me to tell you?

Scared. Out of control. Desperate to change something impossible.

I need this book to move, to be in my hand. I need to see Sean again, to explain things to him. I need to learn to control this gift, to not be scared of what's inside me. I need this to work, for something to happen.

I can't fail again.

A thud sounds, and my eyes snap open. Silver flashes away from the book, and a faint pop like the pressure changing fills my ears. The book lies right in front of me, a foot closer.

"Yes!" My exclamation rings loud through the room, and my hand snaps over my mouth.

Beneath my fingers, I grin. The book moved. I didn't see how, but the evidence is undeniable. My magic worked. It listened. Warm success fills me, and my eyes drift closed.

I sit straight with a start, my head having drooped forward. I feel like I marched with the Traders for two days straight. As I clamber into bed, I wonder why my magic would send my eyes and voice across the continent for free but drain me to send a book less than a foot across a room.

No sooner do I pull the blankets tight around me than I slip into sleep. The dawning sun wakes me what feels like minutes later, but I get up and ready for the day. Leggings, dress, shoes. I reach for my notebook on my bedside table.

It's not there.

Memory sparks, and I let out a shaky laugh. I left it in the living room last night. Relieved, I make my bed, put up my storybook, and leave the bedroom. After shutting the door tight behind me, I retrieve my notebook from the tea table.

Except it's not there either.

I search the living room, check under the blanket, between the cushions, beneath the loveseat. I hurry downstairs to where Elénna and Illesiarr sit around the breakfast table. "Have either of you seen a notebook upstairs?"

"I'm afraid not, m'dear."

"I haven't been upstairs since dinner last night."

"Oh." Dread blooms in my stomach. "Alright. Thank you." I smile and make my excuses for not joining them.

Because my notebook is gone. And I know who took it.