Violet Shadows

12

In What Wish So Haunted, Nicol's father hated his son for the gift he received. But it wasn't that Nicol's father despised him, it was more disappointment and a lack of interest that severed their bond. Winnowers were meant to cut wood. Send letters. Sail boats. Useless applications at most. It was a much weaker gift—to call upon wind and harp it to one's joy. If only one could see it, and have some other fulfillment than to help with low-class needs. Above all else, the gift was never meant to become the head of House Rumiere, so Nicol was deemed a mistake. Ostracized for a gift he did not want, and burdened because he did not receive the Wintersong gift that carried through his family name in the Valltore Courts.

That, of course, was all negated because he was the male lead. Of course he was emotionally damaged—what sort of male lead wasn't?—but it also signified that he was able to find use in a lowborn gift. Use what others would not expect, and one that the villains would never suspect.

A month ago, Christine would never have expected to see it herself, not that she could actually see something, but in moderation. He'd ask her to fight. She, a pruny nineteen-year-old who'd been on death's door her entire life. How was she supposed to do that? How could he have expected her? It's not like she knew if Roma received formal training, and it wasn't as if Nicol would know.

She understood it then:

Nicol couldn't control his power.

When Christine was rethinking all the character's gifts—Clara's gift Divinity was the most powerful with few limitations—she thought the author's sparse weakness of the male lead's gift obvious, and a sign of his importance. But she never expected how challenging it actually was to not be able to see your own power.

He was greedy, but he had some sense of pride not to be able to admit that he didn't expect to destroy the buildings as much as he did. That, and the battering guilt she swore roamed through his eyes before returning to his cooling grace.

Compared to everyone else in this world, they could see their power. Nicol was only going off of sensation—that sense within a raw thrum of power. He never saw what was meant to be wielded, and so he suffered. A destroyed square was evidence enough.

He did find a way to turn his gift into a set of claws, but what good were claws if they weren't sharp? Christine was no different. Even if Nicol wanted her help she was useless without her gift. Now thinking about it, what would he want her to do?

She could think of nothing more than playing bait. And even then, the idea of it left her skirmish.

Bathing relieved her of those worries. She allowed a maid to pamper her in a bath of rose water; also embalmed in oils. Only after imagining the maid as a hospital worker, and considering the act routine like a doctor's appointment.

Christine stirred in against the couch, the soft nightgown shifting against it. She still smelled of rose an hour after. The cleanliness of herself was strange, she'd never once considered it a luxury. She'd gotten used to smelling like dusty papers after the years of piano, fingers thin and worn. And at most, she'd rub store-bought perfume onto her wrists and neck to soften her scent. Nothing like this.

She ought to have called Issac earlier, at least not so late in the night. But she couldn't sleep. It must have been her body still alarmed after today, even so, her attempt at continuing paperwork to tire herself out left her brain muddled instead. Wasted, but not tired. So with the bell in her hands, she rang it twice.

Issac was also in his nightclothes, the loose white robes making him look as if he were carved from the moon. He bowed, and coming up there was a daze in his eyes that spoke of clouded thoughts.