“Yeah, probably enough to steal them,” Barclay grumbled under his breath.

Nevertheless, on the book’s recommendation, they exited the grocer with bags of wrapped elk, goat, squirrel, and hog meat in hand. They took their meaty feast to the edge of town and stopped amid a snowy patch of trees. While Ethel and Abel collapsed onto a log to watch and organize their card or notes collections, Viola launched into another lesson.

“Lore Keepers inherit several abilities from each of their Beasts, and those abilities depend on what sort of Beast you have, like how I can do light Lore like Mitzi,” she said. “Why don’t you try out some of yours?”

Barclay only knew of two abilities he’d gained from Root: he could run even faster than he could before, and he could summon wind.

He tried running first, though it was hard in the snow, and it made him nervous to have an audience. He slipped on an icy stone and face-planted onto the ground.

Abel laughed so hard, he choked on his cider. “That’ll show Tadg.”

Barclay grimaced and stood up. “But did I go fast?”

“Sure,” Ethel told him encouragingly.

“Faster than the wind?”

“If you say so,” Abel chirped.

Barclay pursed his lips and turned to Viola. “What am I doing wrong? I’ve done it before.”

“Only in dangerous situations, when you were acting on instinct,” she told him. “You still barely know your powers, just like you still barely know your Beast. You’ll be stronger if you summon Root from his Mark.”

Barclay knew, eventually, he would need to do that. If he hoped to place first in the Exhibition, he’d need to do exceptionally well in the practical. He’d need to use the Lufthund.

But the whole reason he wanted to remove his Mark was because he didn’t want to be a Lore Keeper.

“Let me try something else first,” Barclay told her.

He raised his arms like when he had faced Tadg or Soren.

Wind!

The wind came when called. It tore across the Woods, making icicles clack together and snow sweep off branches in billows of dusty white.

Ethel clapped politely. Abel yawned.

“It isn’t bad for a first try,” Viola said gently.

Barclay pouted. “I thought it looked pretty good.”

“But there’s no control. Which direction do you summon the wind from? Where do you aim it?”

Barclay hadn’t considered any of that. When he called, the wind came. In Dullshire, he hadn’t even meant to do it. It felt simple—thoughtless. Thus far, he’d never needed it to be more precise. He didn’t control the wind. The wind simply knew.

Still, he gritted his teeth and tried again.

Wind!

And again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, the wind came from a new direction to a new target. It didn’t matter how much Barclay focused. The wind went where it wanted to go. It wasn’t until a particularly strong gust swept Viola off her feet that she told him to stop.