“Bah, you’re whining. Most unseemly for a man of your station. Why, Lady Markham can stay still for hours-and in far more uncomfortable circumstances too, I might add.”

Rurik glanced at me, both startled and pleasantly intrigued.

“Don’t move! Look back here.”

Rurik’s leer faded as he turned back toward his king. Dorian’s canvas faced away from me, so I had no idea what his masterpiece looked like. I started to walk around and check it out, but he waved me off with the brush.

“No, no. Not until I’m finished.”

Shrugging, I pulled up another lavender chair-the entire room was that color, actually-and slouched into it. Dorian spoke without looking up from his work.

“So what have you done today, my dear? Anything entertaining?”

“Not really. Slept in. Banished a shade. I actually read for most of the day. Kind of lame.”

“What are you reading? I really enjoy that one human’s works…oh, I forget his name. He was very popular for a while. Shakemore?”

“Shakespeare?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Has he written anything new?”

“Um, not in, like, four or five centuries.”

“Ah, pity. So what did you read about instead?”

“The weather.”

He paused midstroke. “And what did you learn?”

“Storm-formation stuff. How water molecules build up and condense, how charged particles discharge to form lightning. Oh, and there was something else about high and low pressure, but I’ve got to go back and reread that. Kind of confusing.”

Both men treated me to brief, blank looks, and then Dorian returned to his work. “I see. And do you think this will facilitate your learning?”

“Not sure. But I kind of like knowing what the end result is supposed to be.”

Silence fell as Dorian continued painting. Rurik persisted in looking miserable, occasionally sighing loudly to express his discontent. I’d never entirely forgiven him for the ice elemental thing, so seeing him suffer had its perks. Unfortunately, it grew boring after a while. I crossed my arms and slumped farther into the chair, catching his notice.

“Sire, your lady’s restless. I’m sure you have more interesting things to do with her. We can work on this another time. I don’t mind.”

“Nonsense. I’m almost done.”

The first happy expression I’d seen since arriving showed on Rurik’s face. It vanished when Dorian turned the canvas around to display his work.

We stared.

“Sire, am I…wearing a bow?”

I cocked my head. “It does kind of look that way. But the rest…man, that’s actually pretty good. I didn’t know you could do faces so well.”

Dorian glowed. “Why, thank you. I can paint you too someday if you’d like.”

“It’s a bow,” protested Rurik.

Dorian glanced at the canvas, then back to the warrior. “It matches the chaise. I had to add it; otherwise you would have clashed.”

Back in his bedroom, Dorian went through his usual motions, flinging off his silver-gray cloak and pouring a glass of wine. He drank some type of blush tonight.

“Ready to start?”

I nodded, sitting down in the chair in the middle of the room. As I’d said, I didn’t really think the meteorology books would give me that much of an edge yet, but I felt more empowered after reading them. Like I was starting to take my training into my own hands.

He took another drink of his wine, procured more cords, and approached me. Putting one hand on his hip, he surveyed me carefully, not unlike how he’d scrutinized his canvas.

“That’s a very pretty shirt.” I glanced down. It was a black tank top with a chain of red daisies embroidered near the top. “Hmm. Let’s try this.”

He abandoned the pastel-colored ties he held and replaced them with red and black ones. Placing my arms flat against the chair’s arms, he wrapped each of mine down with black first, making X patterns. The style reminded me of the way a ballerina’s slippers laced up. When that was finished, he went back over each arm with red.

“These are more like ribbons than your usual ones,” I observed. “Or maybe sashes. Do you own, like, every possible form of constraint known to man?”

“Nearly,” he said. “All right. Let’s get started. The water’s over there.”

He indicated a table near the window where my old friend the pitcher sat, but I’d already known it was there. Settling as comfortably as I could in the chair, I stared at the pitcher and immediately let my mind reach out to the water. It flared like a beacon to me. Beyond it, I could sense all the other water in the room too. Me and Dorian, the wine, water vapor. I directed my attention to the pitcher’s water.

I can feel you, now come to me.

But, as many practices had already demonstrated, wanting didn’t make things happen. God, that pissed me off. I honestly didn’t know how Dorian could stand waiting around through all of these sessions. It had to be boring as hell. I was bored, and I actually got to do something. Sort of.

No, no. That was a bad attitude. Forget the boredom. Focus on the task at hand.

Hours passed again. If Dorian was still awake-which I doubted-I knew he’d close off the session soon. The knowledge irritated me, but I understood. I was already feeling tired, my eyes bleary. I kept blinking a lot to regain focus and keep them from drying. I think that made me notice what happened next.

“Dorian, look at the pitcher.”

He sat up right away and followed my gaze. A moment later, he walked over and touched the pitcher, brushing his fingers along its side. Water quietly ran down the ceramic surface, pooling on the table’s glass surface. A slow, delighted smile spread over his face.

“You’ve seized it. It’s listening to you. Now make it come farther-all the way out of the jug.”

With tangible progress before me, my excitement grew. I thought hard about what I’d been doing, trying to repeat it. About a minute later, I could see water spilling down the sides of the jug, much faster and in greater amounts. The puddle on the table grew too full, dripping onto the floor.

“I’m ruining your carpet.”

“Never mind the carpet. Bring it farther.” I could hear the anticipation in his voice.

Some logical part of me saw carpet as tough terrain to navigate, and the water’s progress slowed. Soon, I decided, that was only in my head. The carpet had nothing to do with anything. Only my control of the water mattered.

As soon as I made that leap, the water shot over the carpet in a curving rivulet, almost like a snake. It reached my feet, and I could feel it waiting for some further instruction. Only, I didn’t know what to tell it. I simply wanted it to come to me.

I’d barely given form to that thought when the water sprang up before me and hovered in the air. My mouth dropping, I watched it splinter into hundreds of drops. They hung there, suspended like strings of crystal beads. I gaped, fascinated, but had no idea what to do next. My grasp on them slipped away, and the drops disintegrated further into a fine fog. Seconds later, the cloud dispersed altogether, evaporating into the rest of the air. As they faded, so did the tingly, euphoric feeling racing through my blood.

Neither Dorian nor I did anything right away. Then, I started laughing. And I couldn’t stop. It was too wonderful. I wanted to do it again and again but had no more water. The wine would be too messy.

An idea occurred to me. Sensing the moisture in the air, I sent my power out to the air right in front of me. Suddenly, tiny flecks of water condensed on my skin, like I’d been sprayed by a light mist. I laughed again.

Dorian, grinning as broadly as me, walked over and ran his fingers over each of my cheeks. Touching his fingers together, he rubbed the water into his skin, almost as if testing it was real.

“I did it.”

“You did do it.”

His eyes shone with unadulterated pleasure. You might have thought he’d been the one to do this. Funny that he should take such joy in this, I thought, when it was a paltry thing compared to his magic. He untied me and clasped my hands to help me rise.