It’s an impossible task—every meal looks the same except for the menu. I’ll know what I’m seeing, but not when. I swallow. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe Kyra suspects me, and she’s carefully designed this exercise to force me to reveal my abilities.

“Are you cold?” Master Kyra asks, her head tilted to one side like a quizzical bird.

I’m confused until I realize my hand has gone—unbidden—to my upper arm. My palm covers the mastery tattoo hidden beneath my sleeve. It’s an intricate knot design with three corners. One for each Sight.

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “A little,” I say, pulling the cloak back around my shoulders, grateful for yet another layer between Master Kyra and the tattoo beneath my sleeve.

“You may start whenever you’re ready,” she says.

I take a deep breath and place my fingers over the bones. The room tilts slightly, and I squeeze my eyes closed. The familiar pull low in my stomach greets me like an old friend. I direct my focus to the dining hall, and a vision forms behind my lids. Servers carry large dishes filled with meatballs in a rich cream sauce, and platters of boiled potatoes and roasted vegetables. Small bowls of sugared berries sit at even intervals down the length of the table, along with pitchers filled with cider. I look around for some indication of the day, or time, but find nothing to suggest either.

I nearly pull myself from the vision and tell Master Kyra that I couldn’t see a thing—it’s a much safer course of action than describing the meal only to realize I’ve reached too far forward or backward. But maybe there’s another option. Maybe with a little more focus, I can find out what day this is. I think back to the tour Norah gave me the morning after I arrived. To the enormous kitchen adjacent to the dining hall.

With my shift in focus, the scene changes and I’m plunged into the middle of chaos. Undercooks stand on both sides of a long wooden table, chopping bundles of herbs and slicing vegetables. A small, round woman—probably the head cook, judging by the way everyone moves a little faster whenever she looks in their direction—shouts orders. On the back wall, inside the huge hearth, are three giant cauldrons bubbling with fragrant fish stew. Loaves of dark bread—dozens of them—cool on another table.