Then I turn to Bram, dipping my head toward the back of the room, where a few stone basins sit on a narrow wooden table. “Would you mind grabbing one of those?” I hope he misses the tremble in my voice, the way my eyes slide away from his.

Master Kyra and I haven’t worked on using flame in readings—it’s an advanced technique that she hasn’t introduced yet.

But I already know how to do it. My mother taught me not so long ago.

I think of the desperation in her voice when she offered to train me. Teaching you would violate my code of ethics. Yet she had done it anyway. She risked everything to protect me.

Bram doesn’t hesitate before hefting the heavy basin into his arms. I chew the inside of my cheek as I watch him. I can only hope that none of my friends are aware that I’m not supposed to be doing flame readings yet. Since I know very little about the details of their training, I doubt they know the intricacies of mine. But when I think about how much trust I’m putting in Bram, a wave of apprehension goes through me. Why would he follow me without being asked?

“Why are you helping me?” The question comes out more harshly than I intended, and a flash of irritation darts across his expression.

“Um … you’re welcome?”

I sigh. I wish I could find a way to break down the barriers separating us. To bridge the gap between what I know and what he does. At least then I could test my feelings to see if they’re real or just a relic from a life I never lived.

“You just don’t seem the type to help for no reason.”

He flinches—it’s a tiny movement, barely perceptible, but his mannerisms are so familiar that I know I’ve wounded him.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “You don’t even really know me.”

And now it’s my turn to flinch.

It was like this on my other path too—a tension between us until we finally saw each other clearly. I search my memory for what finally made the difference. Maybe I can use what I know about my other path to connect with Bram here?

“Do you remember that time the prison boat docked in Midwood when we were children?” The question seems to catch him off guard and he shifts the basin from one arm to the other.

“Yes,” he says, his tone guarded. “What about it?”

I swallow. This is going to be harder than I thought. “I was unfair to you back then. The prisoner frightened me, and”—I stumble over the exact words I said in my other path—“I was scared, and I made assumptions. I’m sorry.”