"Like what?"
Sandry tried to remember how Niko had explained it to them. Briar had chosen a carved wooden rose, Sandry a drop spindle, Daja a smith's hammer. Tris had never said what she had imagined. "Well, it could be one of the rocks here—,"
"Why ever would I want to fit into a rock?"
"Then maybe something you use at home," Sandry told him, trying to be patient. "A candle holder, or a baton. Anything, as long as it's small. You have to learn to pull all your power within your skin, so it won't escape you."
He remembered the pattern of counting and breathing, which pleased her. Getting him to empty his mind remained a struggle. She had to wonder if she and her friends hadn't needed meditation to harness their power. The first time they had tried fitting their minds into something small, they had done it easily. Pasco pretended to try, then complained that it was too hard. He had to scratch, he fidgeted. She called his attention back to meditation. At last, the Citadel's giant clock struck the hour, completely destroying the mood.
Sandry got stiffly to her feet and took up her warding. "Will, you at least think of something to fit into?" she asked.
"I'll try, my lady," he told her, His look made her think he might agree, but he wouldn't do it. What would make this exasperating boy learn, the things he needed to?
Lark had, suggested bribes. Busily Sandry shook out her skirts, driving the wrinkles from the cloth. "Pasco." she said craftily, "the sooner you learn to pull in your magic, the sooner you can dance without surprises. You might want to think about that. And if you learn to control your breathing, you'll be able to dance longer." Guiding him out of the courtyard, she asked, "Do you know Fletchers Circle?"
He frowned. "Between Spicer Street and Fountain Street, off Bowyer Lane?"
"That's it," Sandry replied as they entered the castle. Fletcher's Circle was closer to East District than to Duke's Citadel; she would have to travel longer to get there, which was just as well. The easier things were for Pasco, the less chance that he would try to skip his lessons. "There's an eating-house—," she began.
"The Crooked Crow," he said promptly as they walked into the front hall.
"Yes. Let's meet there tomorrow at this same hour." That would give her time to ride with her uncle and have breakfast before she had to meet him.
Pasco nodded. "May I go now?"
"Fletcher's Circle—don't keep me waiting," she added. "Yes, go."
He trotted out of the residence, his step light. Sandry ran to the door and called after him, "No dancing!" Pasco, halfway across the courtyard, waved at her and kept going.
She sighed and drooped against the heavy door. I am not a teacher, she told herself for the dozenth time. I am much too young. And it's so hard!
"Excuse me, my lady." It was one of the maids. "You've guests. I took the liberty of putting them in the rose sitting room."
Sandry thanked the woman. Who might have come to see her? When she entered the room the maid had spoken of, she found Lark and a stranger.
Lark beamed at her. "Sandry, Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, this is Yazmin Hebet." Yazmin curtsied deeply.
Sandry almost goggled, but caught herself in time it was unladylike. Instead she returned the curtsy. Yazmin Hebet was the most famous dancer around the Pebbled Sea, where the troupes she belonged to had toured for years. Because she danced in public festivals as well as in the castles of the rich, she was popular with all classes of people. Everyone talked of the great Yazmin, from the clothes she wore to the men she was supposed to be in involved with.
"This is an honor," Sandry told her. To Lark she said reproachfully, "I didn't know you were friends with the dancer Yazmin. All you ever said was you had a friend with that name."
Lark grinned. "I assumed you knew most of my friends outside the temple are performers."
Yazmin smiled. She was pretty, with a tiny nose, large brown eyes, and a small, pointed chin. A mole on one smooth cheek accented a broad mouth with a full lower lip. She wore her tumbled mass of brown hair pinned up, with artful curls left to frame her face. When she spoke, her voice squeaked a little, as if she'd spent years raising it. "I'm honored," she told Sandry. "Larks told me so much about you. She says you're the only mage she's ever known who can spin magic."
Sandry blushed. "It was spin magic or die, the first time I tried it," she explained. "I was just lucky I figured out how in time. Please, sit down. What can I do for you?"
"Lark says you have a student who's a dance-mage," replied Yazmнn, arranging her skirts as she sat. "He needs a teacher?"
Sandry looked from Lark to Yazmнn. Was help for Pasco in sight? "You know a dance-mage?" she asked.
"I've never even heard of one," said Yazmнn. "I've seen shamans work dance spells, just as Lark has, but that isn't the only way they do their magic."
Sandry told herself she should have known she hadn't gotten that lucky. "Then you can recommend a teacher for his dancing? I'll pay his fees," she assured Yazmнn. "I can't teach him myself—I know very few dances, and I'm not any good at them."
Yazmнn folded her hands in her lap. They were covered with designs in henna, Sandry noticed, and henna had been used to put red tones in the dancer's hair. She painted her face, too, using kohl to line her eyes and a red coloring on her mouth.
"Actually, I hoped to teach him myself," Yazmнn explained. "You see, I retired this year. I've been a traveling dancer for—,"
"Twenty-three years," murmured Lark.
Yazmнn wrinkled her nose. "You had to remind me. I would have been content with just a long time.»
Sandry giggled, and Yazmнn smiled at her. "You aren't like most nobles I've met," she commented. "Lark said you weren't." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "This summer I opened a school on Festival Street. It's an old warehouse, not fancy, but it's a place where dancers and acrobats can stay and train during the winter. And I've tried to learn the local dances everywhere I've ever been. Your boy could study with me. Between you, me, and Lark, we can craft the kind of spells your boy could do."
"I think you're the answer to my prayers." replied Sandry with relief. "The longer I know him, the more of a handful he is."
"Tell me," Yazmнn ordered.
Sandry did, starting with what she had seen on the beach of the fishing village only two short mornings ago, and going straight on through the foul-up that had set three people hanging in midair. She had finished de scribing her conversation with Pasco's formidable mother at the end of her visit to House Acalon when the door opened and the duke came in.
"My dear, I heard Dedicate Lark was with you and came to say hello," Vedris explained as they all got to their feet.
Lark bowed slightly—temple dedicates were not expected to show great courtesies to nobility. "It's very good to see your grace," she told him with a smile. "You're looking well this morning."
The duke smiled back at her. "The loan of my great-niece has much to do with that, I believe."
"It's good to know she's valued as she ought to be," replied Lark. "Your grace, may I present my friend Yazmнn Hebet?"
Yazmin curtsied deeply, so graceful that Sandry was envious: while she could curtsy well, she was always afraid her knees might creak. When the dancer rose, she offered a hand. The duke bowed and kissed it, then released her. "I am a very great admirer of yours," he confessed. "I've seen you dance on many occasions."