To test the feeling, I levitate the silver tray just a whisper over the palm of my hand.

I thought I was imagining the feeling, but it’s unmistakable now. It’s weaker than before, but the spark is there. I could cry in relief.

The tray lifts, as easy as breathing. For once, my magic comes when called.

It’s not perfect. It still feels a little strange and sore, like pulling a muscle in a direction it doesn’t want to go in. That strange, sharp, buzzing feeling is still present too. It’s in the juncture of my jaw, right behind my ear, vibrating like I just touched an electric light that’s been wired wrong.

But it’s working. It’s finally working.

I have to stop myself from skipping to the kitchen, I’m so happy. The relief has physically made me lighter, I think.

I pick up a full tray of salmon blinis and return to the drawing room, where the men are finishing their drinks in preparation for dinner.

Maxine and Lena are making their rounds as well, looking mostly bored. Playing Finn’s jailers tonight isn’t fun. It’s mostly just tedious.

He and Oliver are by the massive fireplace with a man who looks to be about forty. He’s handsome in an understated sort of way, the kind of handsome that is easy to be with money. He’s skinny, with a long neck and a pointed little beard that reminds me of a picture I once saw of William Shakespeare in a textbook. He’s gesturing to a portrait above the roaring fire. On second glance, it’s clear the portrait is of him. This must be the man of the house then, the duke. He’s younger than I thought he’d be.

It’s a good sign Finn and Oliver have already cornered him. They appear to be in deep conversation.

I need to get closer to hear what they’re saying. I don’t know what is happening with my power, but there’s something strange about this place. Finn may have been right, and I don’t have the patience to wait for him to decide and tell me himself.

I tuck my elbows into my sides, and use magic to balance the heavy silver tray just a breath above my fingertips to ensure I don’t drop it as I cross through the crowd and give my aching arms a rest.

There isn’t much of the conversation I can make out over the din of the room, even this close. The duke gestures to the painting again. “It must have been done twenty years ago,” he says. “You’re kind to compliment it.”