Looking around for the bucket that Hadrian had brought up, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Boiling water, while harder than making a person sneeze, took a short, simple incantation, one she had attempted without success hundreds of times. She cleared her mind, relaxed, then reached out, sensing the room—the light and heat emanating from the candles, the force of the wind blowing above the roof, the dripping of water from their wet clothes. She opened her eyes and focused on the bucket and the water inside. Lukewarm, it lay quiet, sleeping. She felt its place in the world, part of the whole, waiting for a change, wanting to please.

Arista began to hum, letting the sounds follow the rhythm that spoke to the water. She sensed its attention. Her voice rose, speaking the few short words in a melody of a song. She raised a single hand and made the motions, only this time she added a simple sweep of her thumb. It felt perfect—the hole that evaded her in the past. She closed her hand into a fist and squeezed. The moment she did, she could feel the heat, and across the room steam rose.

Hadrian stood up, took two steps, and then stopped. “It’s bubbling,” he said, his voice expressing his amazement.

“Yeah, and so are our clothes.” Royce pointed to the pieces of wet clothing hanging on the line, which were beginning to hiss as steam rose from them.

“Oops.” Arista opened her hand abruptly. The wash water stopped boiling and the clothes quieted.

“By Mar, that’s unbelievable.” Hadrian stood grinning. “You really did it.”

Royce remained silent, staring at the steaming clothes.

“I know. Can you believe it?” she said.

“What else can you do?”

“Let’s not find out,” Royce interrupted. “It’s getting late and we’ll be leaving in a few hours, so we should get to sleep.”

“Killjoy,” Hadrian replied. “But he’s probably right. Let’s turn in.”

Arista nodded, walked behind the wall of blankets, and only then allowed herself a smile.

It worked! It really worked.

Lying on the little cot without bothering with a blanket, she stared at the ceiling and listened to the thieves moving about.

“You have to admit that was impressive,” she heard Hadrian say.

If Royce made a reply, she did not hear it. She had frightened him. The expression on his face had said more than words ever could. Lying there, looking up at the rafters, she realized she had seen that look before—the day Arcadius had reprimanded her. She had been leaving his office when he had stopped her. “I never taught curses in this class, boils or otherwise. Did you cause them by mixing a draft that she drank?”

“No,” she recalled saying. “It was a verbal curse.”

His eyes widened and his mouth gaped, but he said nothing more. At the time, she had thought his look was one of amazement and pride in a student exceeding expectations. Looking back, Arista realized she had seen only what she had wanted to see.