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“I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t forget it,” he said, nodding to its hairpin end. “Though if you did misplace it, and had to knock on my door again . . .” He stepped back, his faint smile taking on a twist of longing. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

16

Mist steamed off the roof of the outbuilding as I trudged across the gardens the next morning. Having left the compass locked in my vanity drawer, I’d dressed in a camisole and riding trousers, with only my mother’s coin in my pocket.

Half of my hair was wound up in the embrace of Keil’s hairpin.

“You’re late,” Goren said as I walked inside. Despite the simple drawstring shirt and trousers, he looked ready to fight with his arms crossed and his hair scraped into a topknot.

“It’s dawn,” I replied.

“It’s five minutes past. Tell Keil to send you back to bed with a watch next time.”

Warmth flooded my cheeks. “How do you know where I was last night?”

“I took a guess.” Goren smirked. “You just confirmed it.” He nodded to the center of the mat. “Get in position.”

I ground my teeth, wondering what kind of exhaustion-induced madness had driven me to offer him free rein to order me around. I didn’t need Goren making a mockery of the heated emotion that had passed between Keil and me last night, leaving me confused and frustrated and aching with regret.

But more than that, I didn’t need him knowing just how much his words riled me.

So, I walked farther into the room—then paused as I saw the four leather punching bags hanging from the steel beams in a box-like formation. “Is this an obstacle course? Do you want me to swing around on those?”

Goren strode over, unamused, and shifted one bag aside as though drawing back a curtain. He nodded toward the pocket of space between the four bags, just large enough to fit one person. “Get in the center.”

I glanced toward the door, wary. “It’s just going to be the two of us?”

“You’re training your specter, not training for a theater production. You don’t need an audience.”

“No,” I mumbled, stepping into the little crevice, “but witnesses would be nice.”

Goren let the bag swing free, and I was boxed in, inhaling the scent of leather.

“Am I supposed to fight you from here?” I asked.

Through a narrow gap between the bags, I saw Goren amble backward. “You’re not fighting at all.”

I frowned. “I thought this was a training session.”

“And I thought I was the teacher. You can’t learn to fight until you learn how to properly Wield.”

I drew upright, affronted. “I know how to Wield.”

“Good. Then this should be a quick lesson.” He crossed his arms again, and I begrudgingly held in my retort to let him continue. “You’re going to bring a portion of your power to the surface—no more than you’re accustomed to Wielding—and let it roll over your skin. But don’t let it touch the bags.”

With a deep breath, I let my specter gather across my skin. Though the surrounding space was tight, a fair few inches remained between my shimmering power and the bags.

“Done,” I said, focused on not letting the ripples flow too far out.

“How much power is left inside you?”

“I—I don’t know. A lot.”

“I need something more quantifiable.”

“There’s not exactly a unit system for spectral power,” I said sharply. But as I noticed Goren’s glare, I sighed. “Fine. There’s more inside than there is outside.” My brows pinched as I reached into myself, trying to explore what I was still unused to touching. “Maybe . . . ten times more.”

Goren nodded, seeming unsurprised. “How long have you been confining it?”