Soft as Spring

Chapter 2: The Invitation

I spent the next morning in the glasshouse with Noah and a tray of sleeping seeds.

The Conservatory's restoration practicum took place in the oldest building on campus, a half-collapsed conservatory of green glass and rusted iron. Every fall, cold pushed through its roof. Every spring, the rose vines found a way inside anyway.

I'd been assigned to coax the roots away from the broken panes. Noah was supposed to repair the iron supports. He knelt beside one of the cracked posts, a small hammer resting across his palm.

"You're staring at the seeds," he said.

"I'm working out how to start."

"They're seeds."

"I know what they are."

"Then you have a head start."

I set the tray down on the stone ledge. A dozen pale seeds sat in the soil, each one no larger than a lentil. My magic could wake them with a breath. The trouble was that waking magic alone never counted toward my reciprocal score.

"What do you know about the exercise?" I asked.

"Only that the Conservatory wants us to grow something together."

"It's not quite that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because there are forms."

He glanced up. "Of course there are."

"There's a shared intention, a spoken invitation, and then each person has to consent to the same goal. If one person's magic changes the other's, it's not reciprocal."

"That sounds reasonable."

"It is. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

I hesitated. "People get competitive. They start acting like the score is the point."

"Isn't it?"

"No." I brushed soil from my fingertips. "It's supposed to be the evidence that the work was mutual."

Noah's attention shifted to the seed tray. "What would you like to grow?"

"Something small."

"Why?"

"Because I've never done this with anyone."

"That doesn't mean you need to start small."

"It feels safer."

He held my gaze a second longer than I expected. I looked down first.

"What about these?" he asked.

"Winter jasmine. It's hard to kill."

"Good. So am I."

The seed in my palm warmed. I nearly dropped it.

I took a slow breath, the way my mother had taught me when I was a child and afraid of my own magic. "I'd like to ask you to help me wake the jasmine. You can say no. You can change the plan. You can leave."

Noah set his hammer down.

"I accept."

"Then we need to choose what we're trying to do."

"Flowers," he said.

"More specifically?"

"Flowers that don't c***k the glass."

"That's a good goal."

"Now what?"

"Now I ask you to offer something you want to contribute."

He touched the seed tray with two fingers. "I can give the roots a path. I know how to make room without forcing the structure to move."

"I can give them a reason to grow."

"Then that's our plan."

Our hands hovered above the soil, close but not touching. I felt the heat of his magic before I felt his skin: not a flare, not a rush, but the low warmth of a banked fire.

When I let my power flow, a narrow green line curled around the seed. Noah's warmth followed it through the soil. The first root emerged, pale as a thread, and turned toward the small gap in the stone.

It didn't break anything.

The rest of the seeds stirred. Tiny stems lifted from the soil, opening like green commas.

I laughed, startled by the sound. "It worked."

"It did."

His smile changed his face. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but I'd been told not to confuse curiosity with permission.

Instead, I looked at our hands.

The silver thread above the soil brightened. One point on the Conservatory's hidden ledger, I thought. Maybe two.

Noah withdrew first. The thread faded.

"Still good?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Would you do it again?"

"I'd do another exercise." He stood and dusted soil from his trousers. "I have to get back to the west arch."

"You're restoring the whole building?"

"That's the assignment."

"From the Conservatory?"

"Something like that."

His answer had the shape of a locked door. I didn't push.

When he left, I knelt over the jasmine. The stems leaned toward the light as though they knew where the windows were.

I touched one leaf with the tip of my finger.

For the first time in five years, the score board was not the only thing I could think about.