Ms. Onlarion lowers her conducting baton. She exhales through a pursed embouchure, then smiles at me. “I am pleased to confirm that you have regained excellent control over your vocal capacity.”

She had insisted on listening to my singing for the last two years like an owl listens for rodents. Since my voice first cracked, Ms. Onlarion punished each wrong note with a single-octave scale. Some sessions, my singing was so fraught we would stop singing altogether and play the mandolin; not for nothing, she deemed me a mandolin mistress the summer after my fourteenth birthday.

Ms. Onlarion seemed to enjoy the shift, but mundane music lessons didn’t prevent her from sneaking in some insights regarding the “cosmic design,” or “arcane interplane,” or whatnot. Once we returned to singing, she stressed the fundamentals as if I were learning them for the first time.

I bow to my teacher. “Thank you very much, Ach’erti Onlarion.”

Despite how beyond pleased I am to hear that our efforts have finally paid off, I chafe at how little magic I’ve actually produced. Ms. Onlarion has shown me diagrams of common mystical patterns. She’s explained, even demonstrated, conventional scores that weave through and around the cosmic design.

But Dimitri was already studying and casting minor spells by his teens. I have yet to pull, pluck, or even touch the fabric of magic. Perhaps Ms. Onlarion is proficient in teaching only the elven traditions of magic, but I won’t live as long as she will.

Ms. Onlarion closes the music folder on my music stand. “As impositionists, our power does not come from what surrounds us. Our magic is rooted in our will. We have no need for libraries of arcane symbols or shamanic rituals to tell us how to affect the world and those in it. We need only to know ourselves, to control ourselves, thoroughly. If we can glimpse the cosmic design around us, we can exercise our will to alter that design, in even the most minor of ways.” A smile creases her thin lips. “Would you like to touch the design, now, Klóe?”

My jaw drops open. I look to Judah at the rehearsal room doors.

He looks up from his notebook, to my teacher, then back to me.

“Yes!” I squawk before Ms. Onlarion can retract her offer. “Yes, absolutely!”

Ms. Onlarion broadens lifts her chin and comes to my side. “Do you remember the attunement pitch we discovered for this room last week?”

I nod.

“Begin at your leisure. I will be right here to guide your weaving, as well as to bolster your song, should the need arise.” Ms. Onlarion sweeps an open hand in front of herself, as if inviting me into her home.

I bob my head in another nod. I turn from Ms. Onlarion and suck in a ragged breath. I shake the nerves out of my hands. I can’t afford them right now if I intend to feel the design on my own. I need clarity. I need purpose. I need control.

I clench my fists and relax my throat. I open my heart and sing out a warm, lower-middle tone toward my music stand.

A wave collides into me at a thousand-million points, from my crown to my soles to my soul. The rehearsal room and its contents are clear and present, but they seem covered by semi-separate, veiled, almost crosshatched versions of themselves. Even the space between objects is filled with lines making shapes that flow into and out of barely distinct forms.

I buckle. Although none of it hurts more than an itch, the flash of insight nearly rips the air from my lungs. My note falters, and the room begins to collapse into unity once more.

A matching, sturdier note joins the one I manage to hold. The veil reasserts itself, and the doubled sight is clearer than before. I glance to my side.

Ms. Onlarion stands tall and patient by my side. Her hands are folded in front of her, one over the other. She holds her mouth open with her head tilted slightly toward me, as if supporting my attunement note presents no burden to her at all. Her practiced, perhaps routinized, demeanor is clear on her surface; her veil is another matter.

A steadily pulsating white-blue column glows from her head to her waist. Thread-like tendrils reach out from that center line in all directions, but most of them reach into the gauzy air toward my music stand.

Ms. Onlarion glances at me through the corner of her eye. From within her song, she intones a single word.

“Focus.”

I release my note in a huff and nod. I breathe in and sing out. The veiled world clarifies again, but loses some of its fine detail when Ms. Onlarion stops bolstering me. I can hold the vision and the sound on my own for now, and each informs and reinforces the other. Too nervous to move, I focus on the stand in front of me and listen to my teacher.

“As you sing, notice how the air around you moves. It will vibrate or waver, shimmer or curl. You will not need to pitch this note to affect the cosmic design in the future. I want you to see it in order to affect it. Sharpen your pitch.”

I do as she says. The crosshatch patterns disappear from the music stand, from the floor and walls, from the bookcase. I continue to pitch my voice higher, and more crosshatches disappear, until I sing two-and-a-half notes higher than where I started. I can see the veil only in the air around me.

Ms. Onlarion matches my note and twirls her wrist in a small, slow circle to cut me off. I release my note and relax for two beats before matching her note once more.

“For typical rooms, the strings of the cosmic design are perceivable within this range. Our imposition allows us not only to sense, but to affect the space around ourselves. We could also affect others’ perceptions of this space, but those are lessons for another, later time.

“Now, subdivide your tone. See, feel, the movement in the air around you. It may be too subtle for you now, but it will become more obvious as your skill, perception, and confidence grow.”

The hairs on my bare arms twitch upward each time my tongue taps against my teeth. They buzz with the thrum in the air I can just barely see in the design over the material world.

“These movements,” Ms. Onlarion continues, “are the basis of what you will use to weave magic into the world. Pitch, rhythm, tempo; these are your tools in shaping your pocket of the cosmic design. Where would you like to start?”

I don’t glance at Ms. Onlarion. I’m not even sure I can handle what form reveals itself in this refined sight of mine. Instead, I focus on the space above and behind my music stand.

I sneak in a new breath and slowly increase my tempo. The veil pulsates, and my skin vibrates in time. Half-notes become quarters, which become eighths, and the hatched lines around the spot I focus on begin to bend downward. I walk up the vocal scale, and the bending space curves outward and upward in fits and starts. I sing up and down, playing with my tempo and tone until I feel a bare puff across my skin. I hold my final note for a full bar, release it, and close my eyes.

I take a deep, calming breath. I open my eyes, and the rehearsal room is a single, cohesive vision once more. Just behind my music stand, though, shimmers and twists a sphere of translucent air the size of one of Judah’s fists.

To keep from hopping in place, I turn to my security chief and point at my achievement.

“Do you see that?”

Judah’s voice is more cautious than curious. “Yes.” He focuses on the ethereal charm and tilts his head. “I see it.”

“I did that!”

I turn back to my spinning charm and sigh. I clasp my hands under my chin and take a single step forward. I stop and turn to Ms. Onlarion with raised eyebrows.

To my relief, she nods once. She glows with pride. She isn’t literally glowing as I saw in my mystic sight, but she smiles almost enough to show some teeth.

I approach the music stand. My charm makes a soft, hiss-like sound, pitched perhaps a tone-and-a-half above where I left the interplane. I reach toward the swirling mass, but it dissipates like whispering steam.

I frown in confusion. Behind me, Ms. Onlarion stifles some laughter.

“You find new ways to impress me, Klóe DiRossi. I hadn’t expected you to begin shaping for two or three more sessions, let alone anchoring any effects.”

“So, I did it correctly, then? That… bubble was supposed to disappear that way?”

“Imposition magic is, by its general nature, ephemeral. To have set such a long-lasting and uniform airsphere is quite the feat for a first-time songcaster.”

“Well, I have a first-rate music teacher to thank for guiding me.” I approach Ms. Onlarion with open arms, but stop beyond her reach. “Thank you, Ach’erti Onlarion, for training me. I could not have come this far otherwise, and I look forward to going further with you.”

I know I’m asking a lot. Our only two hugs were initiated by me, and by surprise.

After a few seconds of hesitation and wary appraisal, Ms. Onlarion steps forward to embrace me. It’s brief, but also surprisingly strong coming from such a wiry elfom. Once we separate, she tugs at her vest to straighten it and clears her throat.

“Now that you know how to perceive the cosmic design on your own, I encourage you to practice doing so throughout your home. Give particular effort in the areas with the most familiarity to you. Do not tax yourself. Knowing your surroundings will benefit the learning process, but pushing yourself beyond your knowledge or ability without proper guidance may disrupt your efforts, or harm you and your home. Trust your companion,” she says with a glance at Judah, “and if it senses a strain in the interplane around you, or any danger from your practice at all, heed its warning.”

The casual referral to them as mere objects irks me. I suppose I should feel less offended, since Judah and his classmates refer to each other as such all the time.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Judah calls to me from the door.

“Young Miss, our lunch appointment draws near. We should withdraw to your quarters and prepare for it, as well as for your afternoon class.”

My shoulder twitches. To dwell on irksome things, those are another two for me to contend. Fencing class is a frustrating and exhausting tradition that all of my brothers, even Angelo, participated and excelled in. Despite Mom’s protestations, Daddy made me continue what his father impressed upon him and his sister. “No child of mine will be caught defenseless on the streets by some ruffian cutpurse,” I believe he had insisted. Aside from my making a few new close acquaintances, the last four months of twice-weekly foil-swinging have been largely unenjoyable.

As for the other nuisance, Judah and I have come to a compromise. When Daddy or any of his associates are present, Judah may refer to me as “Young Miss,” as he insists he must. If we’re alone, with my friends, or with Dimitri and Lisani, he must address me by my name. I refuse to respond even to “Miss Klóe” under these circumstances. I hate the pretension, especially after I pried from him that we are roughly the same age. I hope to ease him into more casual exchanges, but that could only be fixed with time. Thankfully, Judah cares much less how I refer to him. At least, he says so.

“Okay, Judah.” I curtsy for Ms. Onlarion. “Thank you again for the wonderful lesson, ach’ertolek <my teacher>.”

Ms. Onlarion holds up a hand. “Do you know the meaning of my dismissal?”

I wring my hands and stande.

“Sur’irwenim ilsolyasta elt prit? It translates to ‘may this experience serve you well,’ does it not?”

“Yes, it does. Now that you have these experiences, how do you want them to serve you? What goals do you wish to achieve with them?”

“Oh, sure! Well, I…”

I blink twice. For an alarming amount of silent seconds, no answer comes to my mouth or my mind.

“I would like… to… help people?” I look to the buckles of Ms. Onlarion’s boots, then to the closed piano nearby. “I would listen to their stories, and sing their songs back to them so that they can… hear…”

That miserable excuse feels false in my mouth, not to mention my ears. I slouch and meet Ms. Onlarion’s gaze.

“Honestly, ma’am, I just love the learning of it all. I love unlocking each new little insight and mystery regarding the cosmic design. It feels like I’m opening up a whole new part of myself each time. It’s just – the singing, the moving, the very little weaving I did today are all worth the experiences that brought me to this point. I…”

My next words stop in my throat. They could endanger any chance I might have for further tutelage under Ms. Onlarion. Be that as it may, I simply cannot lie to her again.

“I have no goals for my magic. I simply want to learn it, to improve my singing with it. I want to pursue magic for its own sake. For my own sake.”

Ms. Onlarion stares at me, as usual, awaiting whether or not I have anything left to add. She raises her eyebrows and looks away.

“I appreciate your candor, Miss DiRossi, but I encourage you to consider your goals more thoroughly before our next session. You have already touched and manipulated the veil. To know your own desires beyond the moment is to know your limits, and how to surpass them. Sur’irwenim ilsolyasta elt prit <May this experience serve you well>. You are dismissed.” Ms. Onlarion goes to the piano and rummages through her satchel.

I stare into the empty space near her. I don’t move. I can’t; I’m too stunned by my own vapidity. Just trying to imagine what I would want to do with songcasting beyond performing is staggering. Do all of my years of work and practice may mean nothing of consequence or value?

“Young Miss, we must hurry. Are you ill?”

I feel sick to my stomach.

“No. Ye—Well, it’s…”

I clench my fists and my eyelids. I take a shallow breath in through my nose and push it out of my mouth. I force a smile to my face and turn around.

He watches me, still yet always pulsing, with a tilted head and his arms straight down by his sides.

I nod. “You’re right, Judah. We should get going. Maisey wants us to make a good impression on Adelaide, and there’s no reason to be anything but punctual when an appointment with a new acquaintance is on the books, especially when a meal is involved, wouldn’t you agree?”

Judah looks down to my feet, then back at my face.

“I would agree.”

I nod, walk to the door, and try not to look over my shoulder at my tutor or my bodyguard. If I can act natural between now and the moment I get behind my changing screen, maybe I can prevent at least Judah from realizing how much of an enormous fraud I’d exposed myself to be in.