Free Flecks of Gold by Alicia Buck Page B

tweak?”
    “Tweak?”
    “Um, which strand do I change to heal my cheeks?”
    He nodded and pointed to one of the strands. I quickly created the pattern in my head, twisted the thread, and felt an immediate release of pain in my right cheek.
    “That’s wonderful,” I said, sighing. “What’s the next one?”
    He showed me the pattern for each area that had been wounded, and which thread to change to correct my injuries. Now this is useful , I thought contentedly when I’d finished healing my bruises and cuts. The magic had made me even more tired, but I started to wonder at its other possibilities. I thought I could probably also get rid of my soreness if I could figure out the right patterns and which strand to change. But that was where I was blocked—I still didn’t know how to figure out which part to change without someone showing me.
    Through the euphoria of less pain, I noticed that the man still sat next to me, watching my face intently.
    “Thanks, Mr. uh . . .”
    “Breeohan Irat Ahasan.” He gave a slight bow of his head. Wow, I was going to have to ask him to repeat that one about a million times before remembering it. “And you are?”
    His name had been so long, I decided to give my full name for competition’s sake. “Mary Margaret Underwood.” It didn’t sound as impressive. “Well, thanks for dropping in to lend a hand.” I stood, swayed a little, and then steadied. He stayed sitting, so I moved off to find the innkeeper and bargain for a room.
    The innkeeper flatly refused to take anything but money when I tried to bargain some of my goods for a room and food. My heart sank down to my well-worn running shoes. I was too tired to go anywhere else, afraid that I might get lost again. I sat heavily on a pillow, rubbing my eyes as if that could squeeze out a plan. My elbows thunked on the low table, and I rested my heavy head in my hands.
    The sound of footsteps made me look up. It was the purple-eyed guy. I’d forgotten his name already.
    “Is there a problem?” he asked.
    “No, I’m fine, thanks,” I lied.
    He sat down across from me, and I sighed, exasperated.
    “I wondered if you might have something to trade with me. I tried to find a present for my sister today, but found nothing.” He looked nonchalant, but I realized that he must have overheard my conversation with the innkeeper.
    An ironic smile spread across my face. “I may have just the thing. You seem to be a man of fine tastes.” I flashed a cheesy grin, though the effort was difficult. “Would you by chance be interested in a book?” I heaved my backpack to the table and ripped the zipper open. After some thought, I pulled out my chemistry textbook and handed it to him. He looked just as awed as Ismaha had, carefully taking each page by the edge and turning it.
    “I can even show you the pattern to translate the text, if you want, but I can’t show you which part to change.”
    He looked up sharply at this last statement, and returned to gazing at the colored illustrations. I felt a Cheshire smile spread across my face as he examined the hard cover. Bree-whatever looked to be about twenty, but he struck me as a scholar. After all, hadn’t Ismaha said that mages had to study patterns for years before doing anything useful?
    “So what’ll it be? Do you want it?”
    “Yes.” His breath came out in a sigh of obvious longing.
    “Do you think your sister will like it?”
    “My sister?” Confusion clouded his face, and then he remembered. “Yes, my sister will love this.”
    “So she loves reading too?”
    “Yes,” he said too quickly.
    “What’s her name?”
    He hesitated, obviously trying to think. “Avana.”
    “Ha, you don’t really have a sister, do you?” I couldn’t help but snicker.
    “No.” He looked ashamed, which surprised me. I immediately felt chastised.
    “I’m sorry. You’ve been really nice, and I keep harassing you. You don’t have to do this for me.” I felt like a heel.
    “I