Eliza jumped into bed, excited to go to sleep. Oliver would light a candle in front of her tomorrow… or was it today?… or this morning? which was in what, a few hours?

  She gave up on sleep after ten minutes of pressing her eyes shut, giddy, and happy, and proud in a way she’d never been before. Yes, with a wave of her hand she could ignite every candle in the house, and probably half of Greatwen, but right then she didn’t care about that.

  The boy was, if anything, shy. Would he try to hide it? She couldn’t bring it up without admitting she’d been spying on him, which would lead to confronting him about sleeping against her wall, and all the issues that went along with that.

  But even if he did turn out to be a spy for Thelemule and was planning on murdering her in her sleep, that could wait until tomorrow. But actual tomorrow. Not this morning tomorrow—Songs, she was giddy.

  She would just have to find a way to force candle lighting to come up in conversation, you know, naturally. It would help if there were candles in every room, so she went through all the drawers and cabinets in the house, collecting all the candlesticks into one place.

  But hadn’t there been four silver candlesticks in the library, not three? After a few minutes searching, she gave up. It would show up somewhere, eventually.

  When she was done, every table and every counter in the house held at least one fresh white candle.

  It was still too early to expect Oliver, and she couldn’t bring herself to work on the flame bloom just then, even thinking about it made her sleepy, so she went to the second floor and peered out the library window.

  The boy was down on the road making his way toward the market.

  “Hey Boy! Oliver!” she called after him, rushing out in her housecoat.

  He spun around.

  “Sorry, I’ve been up all night, working.” She caught her breath. “I had no idea people even got up this early.”

  The boy’s eyes were tired, red and bloodshot.

  “A late night for you too?” she asked.

  His eyes were so watery, for a second, she thought he might cry. Instead, he took out a shabby candle and waved his hand over it. Nothing.

  His eyebrows crept together. Then, as the candle flickered to life, a tired tear ran down his cheek.

  “Oh, thank the Song Mother.” Eliza let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in all night. “Thank aardvarks, thank giraffes, and thank Reuben too.”

  “I am really tired,” said the boy.

  “Me as well. How ‘bout a nap?”

  When they got back, Oliver curled up on the sofa in the library. He went to sleep.

  Eliza did not. At first, she tried to pretend it was because she was too giddy. But thinking about it, when she was going through all those drawers looking for candles, she’d found several things out of place…

  The dining room cabinet had been opened, and so had her library desk, and several pots in the kitchen had not been where she left them. She retraced her steps, examining each in turn, but in her rush to find candles, she’d moved things around and now couldn’t tell exactly what she’d moved and what had ‘moved on its own.’

  And she could not, for the life of her, remember if there had been four silver candlesticks in the library or if it was only three.

  She eyed the sleeping boy with concern growing to suspicion, and yet she was relieved by his breakthrough, and proud of him, and glad he was resting. And then she went downstairs and made herself a very, very strong pot of rot brew tea.

  While being overly paranoid wouldn’t help, after a day of feeling strung out from lack of sleep, she had to admit that keeping tabs on the boy while he was on her estate was warranted.

  The burn scars on her legs itched as she placed a ward on the boy’s sleeping spot, and then again on the shed. But wouldn’t it be better not to wonder where he was? And how was using wards any worse than snooping on him during her nightly walks?

  That night, to her surprise, Oliver slept in the garden shed, and true to her conviction, the next day she went out, bought a cot, and asked him to stow it in there.

  A few days later, when Eliza walked by the blast chamber and saw Oliver scrubbing the walls, his clothes covered in soot, everything seemed fine again, the missing candlestick a figment of her imagination.

  “Here, let me show you something,” she said. “This should be easier than the candle.”

  He lowered his mop and came over, looking curious.

  “Now, hold out your hand, and try to feel for the wall.”

  Extending his fingertips, he touched the stone hesitantly, like he was expecting something to happen.

  “No no, sorry. I don’t mean feel with your hand. Feel through it with your spark, if that makes sense.”

  Scrunching his face, he pulled his hand back a few inches.

  “Let your spark flow. You’re not trying to focus on one spot. Try to push spark into the wall and, at the same time, pull it back out. It should feel like… swirling water.”

  He did, and flecks of soot started flitting from the stones. Not enough to make a difference.

  “You want me to do the whole chamber like this?” His brow furrowed. “It’d take forever. It—it’d be faster just to use a mop.”

  “Not if you practice.” She held out her hand, pointed toward the opposite wall, and all the soot fell off in a black cloud that slowly drifted to the floor. “Take your time. I won’t need to explode anything for a few days.”

  She took his mop and bucket before turning to leave. “What?” she said over her shoulder. “And I leave it to you to figure out how to clean the floor.”

  A few hours later, the boy was covered in sweat, his face red, his arms shaking. There was a bare patch on the wall about six inches in diameter.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “You’re trying too hard, boy,” she sing-songed.

  Dropping his arms to his side, he glared at her.

  “Stop scrunching your eyes. It’s like you’re trying to clean the wall with your eyebrows. Look, magic doesn’t make you tired like physical labor. You know you’re working your spark when you feel a chill in the pit of your stomach. You know, that chill that doesn’t feel cold exactly? Push until you feel that, then push some more. You need to learn to use it at the same rate as it returns.”

  The boy went pale.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked like he was in trouble. “I never felt a chill like that.”

  “Really?” Eliza blinked, and as she left the room, she whispered to herself, “That, boy, is a very good sign.”

  ? ? ?

  Later, Eliza was reading in the library when, just for an instant, a feeling—like falling—startled her. She checked her wards. The one on the front door was missing. She ran to the window.

  A fair-haired man waved up, smiling. With fine lines etched in his smooth face, he appeared at once both young and old. Over his lithe body, he wore a black suit embroidered with bronze constellations. He was Drake, third in the guild of wizards.

  She went down and cracked the door open.

  “Not bad.” Drake tipped his hat. “I hope you don’t mind me testing my skills. Your ward took me a minute twenty.” He swung his copper watch up by the chain, depositing it into his breast pocket.

  “Why are you here?”

  “What, no nice to see you? No how’s life with Drake these days?” He mocked a scowl.

  Eliza rolled her eyes. “Nice to see you. How’s life with you?”

  He strode into the foyer. “Fine, Scaggs, thank you, but I don’t have time for pleasantries.”

  “Then—”

  “I’ve come to check on your work,” he interrupted. “The guild wants to see your progress, and so does our client.”

  “Who—”

  “That’s confidential, at least for now. We need to see if it works first.”

  She started, “Then how about—”

  “A demonstration? No. It’d be too easy to control conditions, fudge results. We require a sample.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t have—”

  —Eliza raised a hand and, wiggling her fingers, shot tiny bursts of flame out at random. “That is super freaking annoying Drake. Stop it.”

  He hopped back, smiling, and motioned her to continue.

  “I have one, but it’s not safe to use.”

  “Is it safe to carry?” he asked.

  “Well… yes.”

  “That’ll do. Don’t worry, we’ll take all the necessary precautions. It won’t be tested near civilization. If anyone gets hurt, it will be on us. And we don’t expect it to be perfect. If it was, they would already be in production, yes? We just want to see what you’ve got.”

  “Could you come back tomorrow?”

  “This isn’t a request,” he said, pulling a small black bag from his pocket. He tossed it to her. It jingled as she caught it.

  “We pay full price for the sample, of course.” He winked.

  She narrowed her eyes. Working with the guild always meant bearing a measure of indignation, but she wished they’d tell her what they were going to use the flame blooms for before she turned any over. Still, this was just one sample and would be gone once they’d tested it, and she was fairly confident no one could replicate her work.

  “Fine… wait here.” Eliza left Drake in the foyer and returned with a burlap sack. “Here you go. If it doesn’t go off right away, give it a minute. If it looks like it’s a dud, it’s not, so please come get me, okay?”

  Drake took the bag and, as he peeked inside, smug satisfaction rose over his face. “Thank you, Scaggs. I knew I sponsored you for a reason. It is always a pleasure.” He turned and left.

  ? ? ?

  A few days later, when she was checking on Oliver, he was taking soot off the wall at about the same rate as if he were blowing on it with his mouth.

  “I want you to finish that wall completely before you start on the others,” she said without explanation. Thinking back on her days as a student, being cryptic seemed an essential part of being a master, teaching your pupil to decipher a situation. That, and she wanted to force him to clean higher up to get used to extending his spark beyond an arm’s reach.

  “Yes, Ms. Scaggs,” he groaned.

  By the end of the day, there was a clear strip of stone, about a foot wide, running at eye level.

  He looked to her for approval. She gave none.

  By noon the next day, the entire bottom of the wall was clean, and the boy was up on a stool doing the section above it.

  “Come down for a second, would you?”

  When he did, she picked up the stool and pretended to examine it, putting on her ‘serious teacher’ face.

  “You bought this?”

  “Yes, Ms. Scaggs,” he said, annoyed, already knowing something was wrong.

  “With your cleaning budget? It seems broken. Let me fix it for you.” She didn’t throw the stool, so much as it simply lifted itself into the air, and then hurtled itself against the back wall. It didn’t break.

  “Hmm… Good stool.” She shrugged as it burst into flame. “But extend your spark, boy.”

  Oliver gave a resigned groan.

  That afternoon, he was stretching one arm, cleaning an inch above the clear section, and by that evening, he was cleaning an inch above that.

  The next morning, he was at it again, going slower, but cleaning almost two feet higher, having improved his range even more.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” She smirked at him.

  “Cleaning the wall?”

  She shook her head. “No, not today, today’s the eighth, the auction.”

  A day off should have brought relief. Instead, he looked confused.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I-I must have lost count,” he said, panic in his eyes.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, no ma’am.”

  She looked at him sideways. He hadn’t called her “ma’am” since that first day. She hadn’t planned on giving him any encouragement, that was the tradition after all, but something seemed off. She dropped her ‘serious teacher’ face. “Okay… you do know this is a reward for all the hard work you’ve put in, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was shaking.

  “Well, good job… Oliver.” She eyed him, wondering at his reaction. “Why don’t you take a break, get cleaned up, and we’ll go?”

  “Yes—ma’am.” He nodded. And as he left the room, she wanted to say something, anything… and then the moment was gone.

  ? ? ?

  Their first stop was ‘Miss Fleming’s Fine Dresses for Fine Ladies.’ Eliza smiled once Oliver had on his new gray and red vest.

  “Very sharp,” she told him…

  And then she flashed the mirror an evil grin after donning her own new dress. Yes, the colors were the same muted gray and red that Oliver wore, but the black trim made it pop, and the flaring shoulders gave her a powerful demeanor. The one dash of bright color, orange trim on the cuffs, would remind everyone that she could send all those who oppose her into a torrent of flame the likes of which was seldom seen in Hell… Not that she would.

  “Is it okay?” Miss Fleming asked. “I’m sorry, I took some liberty with the design. I guess I got carried away.”

  “It’ll do.” Eliza nodded her pleasure to the dressmaker, and they set off.

  Their next stop was the bank.

  “You want how much?” the teller asked in disbelief.

  “Four hundred sovereigns should do nicely, I think.” Eliza turned and shrugged to Oliver, but he was distracted, staring at a placard that read: ‘1 sovereign = 21 florins, 1 florin = 8 pence.’

  “Are you sure?” The woman gaped back.

  “Oh, you’re right, how about… five hundred?” Eliza smiled, amused at the teller’s distress. “Yes, that should suffice.”

  “Umm, right… just let me get the manager.”

  A prim, gray-haired woman came out, took one look at Eliza, and nodded to her. A short while later, a very stout man was counting five hundred large gold coins into a sack, one by one.

  After placing the last coin into the bag, he tied it shut and pushed it across the counter. Eliza tried to pick it up, but it was too heavy, so she pulled it over to the edge, and then off, while trying to hold onto it—

  The weight yanked her arms straight down into the skirt of her dress, so she had to sort of waddle away.

  “Umm, Ms. Scaggs. Do you want me to ah…?” Oliver moved in to help.

  “Please,” she groaned, and the boy squatted down. He slid his arms under the bag and forced his legs straight again, lifting it.

  Once he had it positioned near his center of mass, he could walk, though he had to lean way back to balance. Eliza held the door and the two exited the bank.

  “Sorry about the weight, but it’s a coin-only auction. I really should have thought ahead. It’s just I’ve never been to one of these things where I actually wanted to buy something.”

  “Uggghh,” groaned the boy.

  “You’re doing quite well. I suppose all that wall scrubbing paid off?”

  “Aeehhh.”

  “Boy, Oliver? Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Ehhelelel.” The boy began to totter.

  “Oh! Maybe not—” Quickly, Eliza clasped her hands together, then touched the boy’s chest, imbuing it.

  He steadied, and while the bag hadn’t gotten any lighter, and he hadn’t gotten any stronger, he was now able to carry it as well as when he first picked it up.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “I guess.”

  “Well, it is only a couple of miles.”

  I've been keeping track of my score mathematically to figure out what everyone's been rating it:

  Anyway, I won't ask you to rate my story unless you genuinely want to, (but it would be a great help and encouragement given the situation!)

  Instead, I'd ask you to go to the suggestions thread. Last week, I posted an idea that would make this sort of thing impossible (or much harder).

  Here's the suggestion:

  Hopefully, someone can come up with something that will remove this stress for every writer, not just me. And we can all stop living in fear of kids who don't know any better.