His hands cocoon mine in heat. Slowly, his fingers guide mine to circle over the tea. “It’s not just moving it around. It’s not pulverizing. It’s not cutting. I will the metal to dissolve.”
“Dissolve?”
Our hands keep circling together. I craft the metal to move fast and the particles swirl. But it’s like grains of sugar in a real cup of tea, stubbornly refusing to melt.
“It’s focusing on the inner workings of the silver and breaking it down,” James tries to explain. “Don’t push or pull the pressure.” He pauses. “It’s like flattening it, smearing it, diving beneath it.”
I try to envision the pressure. In my mind’s eye I’ve always imagined crafting as a ball of weight I hold, toss, even juggle. Now, I visualize dropping that ball and pressing down. I drag our hands away to inspect the water, hoping for a beautiful gray. Nothing. Without manipulating the metal to move, the flecks sink like gravel, unappetizing to say the least.
Frustration brings a sigh to my lips. I thought this was going to be easy. One insider tip, and then I could get it. I’ve assumed this form of crafting was hidden from copper, tin, and iron users, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s not concealed as much as too advanced.
Suddenly, James’s hands are on mine again. This time he isn’t only covering them. He’s holding them. “Maybe this is easier. We’ll go step-by-step. Start by thinking about pressing. Like with the hatchling egg.” He directs my fingers up and down. “Break through and keep pressing.”
I glance up at him. Big mistake. It seems for some reason my brain has decided in this moment to notice how James’s auburn curls fall over hisforehead as he leans toward me. His freckles scattered across his cheeks. How nice his voice sounds.
He’s just holding your hand, I reason with myself.You’re appreciative he’s trying to teach you. That’s all it is.But the air feels snatched from my lungs. My heartbeat thumps in my ears. And my insides—my insides flutter like a whole colony of riled-up Feylings. He’s absorbed in the lesson, so he doesn’t notice how I’m reacting to him. And it’s the first time I’ve reacted like this to anyone. I thought all those descriptions of attraction were overdramatized.
Apparently not.And apparently, I’m feeling them for James Murphy.
He recites the third step and while I capture the rich, low tone, I can barely process what he said. The wordcirclemust have been in there somewhere though because he moves my fingers in a delicate circular motion. Then he lets go and the warmth, the nice firm pressure, disappears. I almost reach forward, my hands yearning to be back in his. Then I notice the cup. The silver spins, seeping into the water, clouding the color until it’s a light sparkling gray. Perfectly crafted.
Wait. Perfectly crafted. “Did I?”
“Sorry, that was me.”
He shakes out his hands. “I kept thinking how to explain the technique better and I kind of, well…”
“Were so skilled you couldn’t help yourself.”
He holds up his hands in surrender while stifling a grin. “I wasn’t going to say it.”
So charming.
Wait. No!
I will myself to refocus.Look at the tea, Farren. So pretty. Remember when you would give anything to learn this, to help Shelly instead of being consumed with James holding your hands? Remember!
Like I’m willing myself to jealousy, a pang of envy does shoot through me. I do want to learn. And more so, I want to prove that as a gold-crafter I can do anything, even if it’s in secret.
“Might as well drink it.” He holds up the mug like an offering, a gift.
“No,” I say, too forcefully.
He drops the cup back to the table. A defeat. “Walsh, I’m not going to report you. I was just teaching you how to make it. And you must know it’s not going to hurt you.”
“Still. I don’t…”
“Why do you want to learn so badly, then?”
I sigh. This isn’t my secret to tell, but then again, it’s not really a secret either. It’s fact. “You’ve met Shelly, right?”
“Jeffrey’s fiancée,” James says with a nod.
“She’s um…” This shouldn’t be so hard to say. But watching Shelly fight this again has been the cruelest of fates. Voicing it still makes my throat close up. “When I was nine and she was twenty she was diagnosed with lymphoma. She’s been in remission, but it’s back and it’s spread. I want to be prepared in case she needs medicine like this.”
Silence stretches. I imagine he’s thinking back to the night of the hatchlings’ birth. The last time Shelly needed to be rushed to the hospital. The night I was already scared to death, and then Nity called for assistance and fear enveloped me like a cage.
“Then we should bottle this up for her.” He rises.