She’d thought that Lark couldn’t hear her over the clack of the loom, but the moment she sniffed, the woman stopped her work. “What’s the matter?”

“It won’t come right,” Sandry replied, trying not to whine. “It’s worse than ever, and it clings to everything! Why is it being so bad today?”

“Bring it here.”

The girl obeyed, offering the messy cards to Lark.

“Mila preserve us, you look like you’ve grown a fur coat.”

“When I try to pick it off, it just goes somewhere else.” Sandry frowned at the ivory-colored tufts on her dress and hands.

“It just likes you too much. You have to teach it to mind you.” Lark pinched her fingers together and pulled them back. Instantly the wool on Sandry stood on end, like dogs begging for a treat. An eerie prickling told the girl that the fibers on her cheeks were doing the same thing. “What I expected,” the woman said. “Take a deep breath—”

Eyes closed, Sandry obeyed. Automatically she breathed as Niko had taught them that morning, counting to herself. Lark said quietly, “Pinch your fingers together over your dress, without touching it, then pull them away from you. Pinch with your mind as well.”

With my mind? the girl thought, startled.

But surely that was the same as imagining herself as a tight thread. She made her mind into grasping fingers and pinched with them, then opened an eye to see what had happened. A third of the wool fibers stood, wavering. The rest lay flat on her dress, crawling away from the spot that Lark had called them to.

“Really want it, Sandry. There should be nothing you want more just now.”

Sandry closed her eyes and wanted her mind to work with her fingers, to pull the fibers away from her dress. She peeked again. Now all of the wool had gone flat.

Lark chuckled. “Maybe you should order it, like most nobles order servants.”

Just thinking of that made the girl smile grimly. She’d definitely seen enough of that kind of noble before! She snapped out her hand, as if she were Liesa fa Nadlen banishing Daja from the dining hall.

“We need to work on your control,” she heard Lark say.

Sandry’s eyes popped open. The bits of wool that had clung to her so hard had now jumped to Lark and were huddled together on the dedicate’s breast. Lark was grinning.

“I’m sorry!” cried Sandry. “I didn’t—well—”

Lark patted her hand. “Don’t frighten it. Wool hairs want to come together.” She tried to pull the fibers off her clothes, without success. They were trying to weave themselves into her habit. “I’ll need your help, since you are the one who did this,” she told Sandry. “But gently.”

The girl took up the pattern of breaths, until she was calm. There had been something, when she had dismissed the wool, a feeling that was odd and yet familiar. She found it inside and used it to gently call the fibers.

Softness tickled her palm: the wool now formed a small pile in her hand.

“There you go,” Lark said approvingly as thunder rolled outside. “Now. Let me show you a charm that will keep it out of your face and off your dress.”

Niko came for Tris when the storm was just beginning to make itself heard. She was pacing the main room nervously, wanting badly to go outside before the winds swept over the walls. When she saw Niko opening the small gate, she ran out to him.

“Put this on,” he ordered, tossing her a long, oiled cape like the one he wore. Once it was settled on her shoulders, he gave her a broad-brimmed hat to tie under her chin. The winds gusted through Winding Circle, tearing at curtains and clothes. In the gardens, dedicates and novices hurried to finish their work and get inside as the man and the girl walked briskly to the south gate.

Once outside Winding Circle, they picked their way down the cliff path and entered the cave. Small drops were already lashing the air. On the rocks below, the sea boomed, the waves foaming under the whip of the wind.

As she pushed back her hat, Tris squinted into the gloom. Lightning flared in long strips out to sea, throwing the world into relief. Curtains of rain parted. People had lit the beacons in the harbor lighthouses; they shone a warning to storm-caught ships and boats to steer away from the rocky islands just off Summersea.

“Watch the lightning. Concentrate on it. Think about it,” Niko yelled over a crash of thunder.

“What is it? Lightning, I mean?” Tris yelled back.

“Power builds in the sky and ground in a storm. The power in the ground strives to meet that which is in the clouds. When they connect, lightning shows the path the power takes. Never forget, all power must go somewhere once there’s enough of it.” Thunder growled around them, as if in agreement. “Thunder is air along the path. It heats so fast that the air booms like a drum.” The roar of thunder faded. More quietly he said, “Now that you know what lightning is, concentrate! Try to feel where the next bolt will strike—feel for power building up.”

“What if it decides to come after me?”

“It won’t. Magic only attracts lightning when it’s meant to, thank the gods, or those with magical power wouldn’t live to be mages. Where will the next bolt strike?”

She watched the lightning pick its way across the sea, approaching the harbor islands. “I can’t tell. It just goes any old where.”

“Try!” He almost had to scream to be heard over a thunder-blast. “It’s connected to you—feel for it!” His words rang clearly in the pause between cracks of thunder.