Page 39 of The Ordeals
I nod. ‘It’s something I’ve been practising and trying to improve alone for years.’
‘That’s good, of course. And you should continue practising, so you have a grounding at least.’ She nods. ‘But in these sessions before you become a scholar, I will focus on what you are already innately attuned to, and make sure you excel.’
‘I want to excel,’ I admit, looking over at her. It’s like she’s twisted the kaleidoscope, and my own understanding of my wielding has changed completely. Iamgood at something. I just didn’t understand what it was. ‘I’ve never felt like I could before.’
‘And you never had an illusionist to work with? A tutor perhaps, or a teacher at your school?’
‘I … no,’ I say, deciding to withhold the fact I did not attend a school. I am still unsure how that kind of information about my lack of education may affect my chances here. Telling Tessa or Alden is one thing, but to tell my mentor, a member of the faculty? No.
She shrugs, moving to sit on the chair behind her desk and drums her fingernails on the reddish brown, polished heartwood. ‘Then I will set illusions and you must crack them. Like puzzles.’ She bends to rummage through a desk drawer, pulling out a set of small photo frames. Scrunching her nose, she waves a hand over each and passes them to me. ‘I want you to remove the illusions I have just wielded on each of these and bring them back when you are done.’
I study them, finding a sepia-toned portrait of a young man, a dog sitting beside his master under a tree, and the blurry image of a train with smoke billowing around it.
‘I also want you to practise wielding. It’s a muscle, and it must be used every day to strengthen it. Up until now, you may have tried in bursts and starts, but it’s about consistency. Create an illusion for a few minutes each day, then when you’re ready, extend it to work on more people. Create the illusion of an inanimate object, see if it falters, see if you can create an illusion in the minds of a whole group. Then try to hold it for longer each time.’
I nod, taking this in, that simple word unlocking something in my mind.
Consistency. Something so obvious, but that I’ve not had the time nor space to focus on before.
‘You may go. And, Sophia—’
‘Yes?’
She smiles. ‘Illusion is the practice of bending what someone expects to see. Start with something simple, so you are expending less magic. The more you have to convince another mind that something exists, or does not, the harder you will find it, and the more it will drain you.’
‘You make it sound so simple, so obvious.’ I frown. ‘I should have started smaller, shouldn’t I? Instead of convincing someone there’s suddenly no light, I should have, I don’t know, created a picture on a wall. Something a mind could register and accept.’
She replies. ‘Think of an illusion like a lever. Wedge it into a mind in a way that creates the least amount of effort, then push it, using the least force, the least amount ofpressureto yourself. You’ll figure it out.’
The third murder occurs at midnight. The begging,weepingpulls me awake and I stumble out of bed, straight for the window. Twofigures. A young woman holds up her hands, a smudge of grey coat and fair hair far below. I place my fingertips on the windowpane, narrowing my eyes as her frightened bleating crescendos to a scream. The other figure, cloaked and turned away from Hope, blocks her fully from view and I fling my window open. For a heartbeat there is a slight shimmer around them, threads of magic, but I blink and it’s gone. Then I hear it. The cut and twist, the blade sliding out. She gurgles, slumping over, and the figure turns towards Hope, scanning the near dark.
I duck, breathing fast, placing my fist over my mouth. Did they see me? Are they even now walking across the threshold of Hope Hall, climbing the stairs, searching for my door?
I rise to my feet, knowing what I have to do. Shuffling back to my bed, I pull the switchblade from under my pillow and quickly move to my bedroom door. Sweat slicks my palms, pulse drumming in my temples, but I won’t cower and be picked off. I won’t be the fourth victim. Someone is killing hopefuls, someone who’s not playing by the rules, and that someone is only a few flights of stairs away. If I can make it to another bedroom on the floor above, one with a window that doesn’t face the same way as mine …
I have to move fast, and silently. Forcing a breath through my teeth, I wrench back the door, and find a figure on the other side, waiting—
I gasp.
My training kicks in, and I thrust up with my switchblade, but they twist quickly, blocking my arm against the doorframe and as I bring my knee up, aiming a swift crunch between their thighs, they pin me to the wall.
‘For goodness’ sake, stop,’ Alden hisses. ‘My window was open and I heard a scream. The front door creaked open right after. Someone is in the hall downstairs.’
I hear the footsteps below, the quiet tap and shuffle of someone making their way up. Alden raises his eyebrows and I step back to let him inside.
Alden closes my bedroom door quietly then gets to work, locking it, then beginning to shove the large wardrobe in front of it. I help him shift it into place, then back away as footsteps sound on the other side of the door. They must have seen me at the window, watching them. Alden takes one step back, palms slightly raised at his sides, and we both wait for the person to reach our landing.
The one who’s here to kill.
We hear the metallic click as the door handle is turned. Without realising, I move closer to Alden, placing my hand on his back, just as we were in the tunnel in Alabaster House. He looks down at me, brown eyes shadowy and watchful in the dark, and my heart stutters.
There’s a thud, as though the murderer has thrown a shoulder against the door and my fingers tighten on the material of the shirt on Alden’s back. I have followed murderers for the Collector, I have dealt with the unsavoury, the downright vile in the backstreets of Dinar Tar, but if this person is picking off hopefuls who are better wielders than I am, then I’m outmatched.
There’s another thud and I flinch, trying to control the racing thoughts, the fear flitting electric through my veins as we both move into position, in case they find a way in.
Alden reaches for my hand, drawing me closer, and I lean my forehead into his arm for a heartbeat. I breathe in his scent, all fresh laundry and cedar and something smoky and rich, like that night at the bar. Not the sharp tang of copper, not that awful scent in the Morlagh Woods, or the night Dolly died. No. This is a person, a hopeful, and I’ll be damned if they end my time here.
But then their footsteps recede from my door, and I release a silent breath. Only to flinch again at the sound of a door crackingopen, right across the landing. I open my eyes, looking up at Alden to find him staring at the wardrobe, jaw clenched, entire being poised and ready for a fight. They don’t know he’s in here with me. They’ve gone after him instead.
