She has a point.

When I give in noncommittally, she and Olani face away to give me a moment of privacy as I retreat to the corner.

I peel off my damp, stained dress with a sigh. My skin itches from being trapped in the wet fabric for so long, and it’s like taking a breath of fresh air. Scrubbing away the mud the rain didn’t get out of my scalp and off my face and legs is another relief. I check that my necklace is still intact and that the knot in the leather cord hasn’t loosened, pull the few strands of hair still clinging to some appearance of a braid loose, and tie it back at the nape of my neck.

Then there’s no more delaying it. I examine my arms.

It’s worse than I thought.

The skeletal flowers etched in my skin are raised and pink and tender, edged with angry red. They reach all the way up from the backs of my hands and wrap around my shoulders, and I don’t know how much of my back they might cover. Brushing a finger lightly over the fronds along my collarbones, I trace the burns back to their origin point: right over my heart.

It could have killed me.

Maybe the lightning should have killed me, but it didn’t. Whether I’m glad for that or not is still being decided.

Once I’ve taken a second to compose myself, I cross the room and perch on the corner of the bed with so little of my weight that I feel like a bird, ready to take flight at any moment. Olani crouches in front of me, studying me with warm brown eyes the color of sunlit afternoon tea. Slowly, like I really am some wild creature that might vanish if startled, she places one graceful hand on my shoulder.

I stiffen, fighting the urge to scramble back as my eyes quickly flicker away from hers. No one but my parents and my sister has ever looked at me like that before—trying to understand what’s wrong and piece together how to fix it.

“You’re in pain,” she says gruffly, surprising me.

My muscles have nearly locked in place, and they still ache with tension. “Yes.”

Her hand doesn’t move from my shoulder. A weird feeling flows through me, like drinking something warm and sweet on a cold morning. Then hotter, brighter pain sparks when her other hand brushes over the lacy burn marks. “That’s strong magic. I can still feel it.”

I hesitate, not ready to take ownership of it. My own magic, turned on me.

By her, something spiteful in the back of my mind reminds me. She should pay. I shove the thought down.

Olani frowns a little in concentration, shifting so her long fingers stretch over my shoulder blade. I don’t know what she’s doing, but I don’t move.

That soothing sensation intensifies until I’m sure I’m not imagining it: she’s doing something to me. There’s tingling just under the skin, the feeling of a foreign magic butting up against mine, and that soft, warm feeling, and then—unexpectedly—relief from the bone-deep pain.