This is what power feels like. Don’t try to check it.

The thought is unwelcome, and it’s exactly why I don’t mess around with magic—because I can’t say it isn’t tempting. And I don’t know how to control it. I can’t think straight. I’m powerless as the rising wind fills the room, cold and harsh.

My nails scrape up and down my arms, bringing the pain Olani had soothed back to life. I don’t want to hurt myself. I don’t know why I’m doing it. But I can’t stop.

Before I can bring down the entire inn around me, Isolde forces the door open. She has to struggle against the winds to pull it open with a slam. It closes behind her just as loudly.

The wind whips her short hair around her face. From far away, I can hear her voice, but I can’t understand her words.

You can’t do this now, some part of me tries to argue. You don’t get to fall apart. Stop it.

But these thoughts are useless. I’m completely out of control.

“Seelie!” My name breaks through the haze. Isolde pushes toward me, fighting the wind trying to push her away. Her scrawny arms wrap around me, squeezing mine to my sides, like a shield. Like a promise that she won’t let go.

“Seelie, please. Please stop. You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.” Her words are barely a whisper.

The wind stops abruptly, leaving the room uncomfortably quiet and still. My legs won’t hold me up any longer. I collapse onto the floor, and Isolde slowly lowers, too, crouching next to me.

I curl in on myself, squeezing my arms tight around my knees.

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

I taste salt and feel wetness on my lips.

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

I can see everything around me like I’m looking straight through it, like I’m not really here. There’s a gentle hand on my hair and soothing words.

It doesn’t fill that terrifying emptiness inside my chest. A deep, dark emptiness that feels like it’s dragging the rest of me in. I put my head in her lap, burying my face in her dirty shirt.

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself grind out. My voice is raw. “I’m sorry.” And then I can’t stop repeating the words, over and over, as my tears soak her shirt.

“Shh, shh...” Isolde comforts me. Her pickpocket’s hands are incredibly gentle as she strokes my hair. Just like our mother’s hands, soothing away our childhood fevers. She’s so much like our mother.

I will never see our mother again.

Never.

A second wave of sobs rips from my chest.

Isolde sits with me for what might be a long time, rocking me softly and whispering soothing words. Swallowed by the tide of emotions, I lose all concept of time.

My thoughts cycle through the same doubts and fears and self-loathing over and over and over again, and it feels like maybe I’ll be curled up here on the floor, aching and weak and confused, for the rest of my life.