Free The Swan Maiden by Heather Tomlinson Page B

spread wide and dimpled into a bowl; the other arched up in an elegant curve.
    Doucette held her breath. Unlike the overwhelming sensation she felt when she donned her swan skin, the wand tickled her fingertips with the barest echo of magic. Was it enough? Would the enchantment hold?
    With a loud snapping sound, her spell came undone. The spoon shape contracted to applewood twig, its bark as knobby as before. Along the twig’s length, tiny leaves drooped as if they, too, despaired of Doucette’s success.
    â€œNot quite,” Mahalt said.
    Doucette groaned with frustration. “I don’t understand. What am I doing wrong?”
    Doucette’s aunt tapped her lip thoughtfully. Sunlight gleamed on her black-and-silver hair; rings glinted on her fingers. “You have the eye, Doucette,” she said. “Your spoons are the right size, and their proportions are good. From Azelais’s first attempts, one would think your sister had spent her life eating with her fingers.”
    â€œI’ve polished enough spoons to know the shape,” Doucette said. “Mother’s particular about her silver.”
    â€œSarpine would be,” Mahalt said.
    Doucette poked the ground with her wand. “Then why don’t my spells stick?”
    â€œThree qualities are required to work magic.” Mahalt ticked them off on her fingers. “An observant eye, a clear mind, and a strong will. It’s no small matter, Niece, to impose your intent over the Creator’s.”
    â€œIs that why clerics frown on sorcery?” Doucette asked. “Brother Martin lectured Azelais and Cecilia no end when he caught them casting spells after a service.”
    Mahalt’s eyebrows drew together. “Depends on the spell, depends on the cleric. Like many other gifts—wealth, or beauty, or an eloquent tongue—sorcery can be corrupted. When we employ our powers without regard to our fellow creatures, we risk our immortal souls.”
    Doucette ran her thumb down the wand. “How do you know whether you’re using your magic wisely?”
    Mahalt’s dark gaze held Doucette’s. “How do you judge any of your actions?”
    â€œBrother Martin says our conscience should guide us.”
    â€œThe trick is to listen to it,” Mahalt said. “As your powers grow, it’s tempting to think you can solve every problem with magic. But does Animating your loom keep the village weaver from earning her bread? Does paying your accounts in false coin ruin your neighbors?” One elegant shoulder lifted. “Transforming twigs into spoons is a fairly harmless occupation. Try another.”
    â€œYes, Tante.”
    Doucette tried again.
    And again.
    And again.
    None of her spoons held its shape for more than a moment. She kept at it, but her eyes were scratchy with unshed tears when a dove fluttered over the castle wall and perched on Mahalt’s shoulder.
    The little bird stroked its beak against the sorceress’s cheek and cooed.
    Mahalt cocked her head at a listening angle and nodded once. “Thank you, my lovely,” she said, smoothing the dove’s gray feathers. “Go your way. I’ll see to them.”
    â€œWho’s come?” Doucette asked as the bird took wing.
    â€œYour sisters.” Leaning against an apple tree, Mahalt stood and shook out her skirts.
    Worry and anticipation battled within Doucette as she tucked her wand into her sleeve and followed her limping aunt across the courtyard. Over the past few days, she had wondered whether Azelais and Cecilia knew about her swan skin. Would they be surprised? Pleased to see her? Or would they be angry that she, too, had come to stake a claim on their aunt’s crown?
    Mahalt stopped and rested her ringed hand against the far wall. She murmured words Doucette couldn’t hear.
    With the blur that heralded magic-working, a pair of tall wooden doors appeared within the stone blocks. Noiselessly,