Page 58 of Sharpest Court

“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?”