Soft as Spring

I was halfway through pulling a thorn out of my sleeve when my fifth-year score appeared on the Conservatory's public board. The silver letters formed above the long hall, bright enough to catch every eye. ELIANOR VALE: RECIPROCAL BONDING, 0. A laugh escaped someone behind me. It might have been nervous. It might have been cruel. I didn't turn to find out. The thorn had drawn blood. I pressed my thumb over the spot and stared at the zero until the edges of the number blurred. "Eleanor." I knew Professor Wren's voice. I also knew what she'd say. I'd heard a version of it after every evaluation since I'd arrived at Larkspur Conservatory five years ago. You can't pass by keeping your magic to yourself. I turned. She was waiting in the open doorway of her office, her dark green jacket buttoned to the throat and a folder tucked under one arm. "Could you come in?" The hall had gone quiet enough for me to hear someone's shoes squeak on the polished floor. I wanted to run. Instead, I pulled my cuff over the blood and followed her. Professor Wren shut the door. "Your practical work is excellent," she said. "Your control is better than it was last year. Your written assessments are among the strongest in the cohort." "Thank you." "But the board is right. You have not completed a single reciprocal exercise." "I've tried." "You've stood near people and hoped they would notice." The truth of it made my stomach tighten. "I did ask Mason to practice with me." "You asked if he had already found a partner." "He said he had." "He said he'd consider it. You didn't follow up." I looked at the folder on her desk, at the tidy paper edges and the blue ribbon she'd tied around it. I wished I could make myself look at her instead. "My magic isn't dangerous," I said. "It's not like I need a partner to control it." "Not at the moment." Professor Wren leaned back against her desk. "But the license you want requires more than control. It requires the ability to create something with another person. A bond can be temporary, practical, even entirely nonromantic. It still requires you to ask." "I know." "And you don't." I folded my injured hand into my other palm. "I can ask." "Then do it." "I will." She studied me for a moment. "You've said that before." A knock sounded at the door. Professor Wren opened it, and a tall man stepped inside. He wore a faded brown coat, work boots, and a silver ring on a leather cord around his neck. A short scar ran through one dark eyebrow. He looked around my age, perhaps a little older, with the steady posture of someone who was used to carrying heavy things. "Eleanor," Professor Wren said, "this is Noah Bell. He's here for the restoration practicum." Noah glanced at the score still shining beyond the office window. "I saw the board." My face heated. "Congratulations to whoever you were looking at." "I was looking at you." The bluntness startled a laugh out of me. It sounded unconvincing, but it was a laugh. Professor Wren reached for the blue-ribbon folder. "Noah has agreed to be a voluntary partner for your reciprocal exercise. He's a good fit for the work you've been doing." "Agreed?" I asked. "He's volunteered." Noah's gaze stayed on me. "That's right." "I don't want to take up your time." "Then don't waste it apologizing for having some." Professor Wren cleared her throat, a small warning. "You'll need a partner before the midterm review. You know what's at stake." I did. The Conservatory's final licenses required a completed bond exercise. No bond, no license. No license, no paid work with the city's garden wards. My scholarship ended in June. "Why me?" I asked him. Noah touched the ring at his throat. "Professor Wren said your work might help me." "What work?" "That's what I'm here to find out." Professor Wren slid the folder toward me. "A week of supervised practice. If you both want to continue, you can renew it. No binding without two signatures." I looked at Noah. "You understand you can stop whenever you want?" "I understand." "And you'll tell me if you do?" "I'm telling you now. If I want to stop, I'll say so." I knew how to say yes to a question. It was the rest of it that had always frightened me. I took the folder. "Okay," I said. The word was small, but the silver score outside remained a zero. For now, I could live with that.