Chapter 12: Skills
I have never felt clumsier.
Grace turns out to be five years younger and about five hundred times more graceful as she twists the fibres into long, smooth cords. My attempts—when I don’t shred the fibres outright—are scratchy with jagged lumps or so loose they unravel as soon as I let go.
After a couple hours of failed attempts, Susan pokes her nose in, shakes her head, makes us tea, and wanders back out to her garden without comment. My fingers are raw from the damp fibres and my wrists ache from the twisting. My temper’s about as frayed as the cords.
“I’m so bored,” Cadence announces, echoing Grace’s sigh.
I slam my hands on the table, letting my latest attempt unknot itself in a flailing whirl. “I can’t do this.”
Grace smirks. “Infant.”
“I’m here to get my powe
