She was certain of only one thing—she could boil blood. The thought sobered her.

What if I lose control? What if I boiled the blood of our men … or Emery?

When she had boiled the water at Sheridan, the nearby clothing had sizzled and hissed. Magic was not easy. Perhaps with time she could master it, but already she sensed her limitations. Now it was clear why Esrahaddon had given her the task of making it rain. Previously she had thought it an absurd challenge to attempt such an immense feat. Now she realized that making it rain was easy. The target was as broad as the sky and the action was natural—it was the equivalent of a marksman throwing a rock and trying to hit the ground. The process would be the same, she guessed, for any spell—the drawing of power, the focus, and the execution through synchronized movement and sound—but the idea of pinpointing such an unruly force to a specific target was daunting. She realized with a shudder that if Royce and Hadrian had been on the hill that night, they would have died along with the seret. There was no doubt she could defeat the garrison, but she might kill everyone in Ratibor in the process. She could possibly use the Art to draw down lightning or summon fire to consume the soldiers, but it would be like a first-year music student trying to compose and orchestrate a full symphony.

No, I can’t take such a risk.

She turned her mind to more practical issues. Did they have enough bandages prepared? She had to remember to get a fire going to have hot coals for sealing wounds.

Is there anything else I can do?

She heard a soft rapping and pulled the covers up, as she wore only a thin nightgown borrowed from Mrs. Dunlap. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” Emery said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Come in, please,” she told him.

Emery opened the door and stood at the foot of the bed, wearing only his britches and an oversized shirt. “I couldn’t sleep and I thought maybe you couldn’t either.”

“Who would have guessed that waiting to see if you’ll live or die would make it so hard to sleep?” She shrugged and smiled.

Emery smiled back and looked for a means to enter the room.

She sat up and propped two pillows behind her. “Just crawl on the bed,” she told him, folding her legs and slapping the covers. He looked awkward but took her offer and sat at the foot of the mattress, which sank with his weight.

“Are you scared?” she inquired, and realized too late that it was not the kind of question a woman should ask a man.

“Are you?” he parried, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He was barefoot and his toes shone pale in the moonlight.