Claire stared down at her plate, her mind racing.
Marie cleared her throat. "But I'm sure it will be fine. I believe it will. And then after that, you will demonstrate your hunting ability and your long-distance hearing." A pinched look crossed her face. "We will have to separate the ceremonies somehow. Nothing is killed at a naming. I'll have to figure that out, too, I suppose."
Claire wasn't the only one under pressure. They all had to play their roles or the baby would suffer.
But not because of me. I'm not going to have my ear cut off, and I'm not going to be responsible for dooming Victoria's baby.
She'd light the fire at the ceremony, no matter what it took.
Chapter Ten
ONCE IT WAS deeply dark, Claire followed her mother into the woods. The skin on the back of her neck stung with the embarrassment of needing her mother's help. The noise of the dried leaves beneath her feet sounded like snickering, like the forest was laughing at her ineptness.
They ended up in a small clearing, much like the one Claire usually practiced in.
"I'll go find some wood," Marie announced.
"Wait." Claire looked around. "There's plenty of stuff here already." She bent down and picked up a few small twigs, stacking them in the middle of the clearing.
"But that's nothing." Marie frowned. "The ceremonial fires are much larger than that—they take more energy, more concentration, to start."
Heat crept up into Claire's cheeks. "But if I can light the twigs, then they'll feed the larger fire," she countered.
Marie shook her head. "That is true when you are using matches or a lighter. But to do it with your mind, you must have enough power to shift the energy of the whole pile or the spark you create won't take. It will sputter and die."
Claire's shoulders slumped. "I didn't know that."
Marie smoothed back her hair. "Well, why don't you go see what branches you can find, and I will do the same. We'll make a proper pile and see what you can do with it."
It didn't take long for them to build an average-size stack of wood in the middle of the clearing. Marie stepped back, leaning against a tree. "You may begin when you are ready," she offered.
Claire crouched down in front of the branches, pushing at their heaviness with her thoughts, struggling against the cold inertia of the wood.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, but it was just like the new moon gathering. Her heart began to race with the memory of it.
"You must be calm, chérie, or it will not work. You must be confident and focused."
"How can I be focused when you're interrupting me?" Claire burst out. Marie straightened, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. "I'm only trying to help, Claire."
"Well, staring holes into my head isn't exactly helping! I was doing better on my own." Claire shoved her hair back from her face.
Marie went still as stone. "If you want to be left to practice alone, I will go. It is your ear. It is your future. I leave the responsibility in your hands." She turned to leave, looking defeated. A sharp sliver of regret pierced Claire, but she was too proud to call her mother back.
She'd just have to do it on her own. Claire listened to the near-silent retreat of her mother's footsteps and turned her attention back to the pile in front of her, trying to control her panic.
She could do this.
Except she couldn't. Hours later, even though her eyes and knees and brain ached, nothing had happened.
Exhausted and frustrated, Claire threw back her head and roared, her human voice echoing startlingly off the trees. She slumped over, her head buried in her hands.
She sat that way, listening to the stunned silence of the forest around her, wishing the trees would swallow her up. Claire practiced on her own every night. Her fingernails were permanently dirt stained from being dug into the forest floor, and her back ached from spending so many hours hunched over like an old woman.
Her mother hadn't said anything to her about the fires since she'd left Claire in the forest, but Claire could see her aching over Claire's failure. Claire knew that Marie could read it in the set of her shoulders, in the deepening of the circles beneath eyes. It just made her practice harder, determined to save herself.
Saturday night, she stumbled home. When she made it back to the safety of her room, she called Matthew, aching for his warm voice the same way she ached for a hot shower— wanting something that would unknot her.
"Hello?" His voice was vague with sleep.
"I woke you up—I'm sorry," she said, her voice too loud in the quiet of her room.
"No—well, I mean, yes, but it's okay." She heard his sheets rustle in the background and wondered briefly if he slept shirtless. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," she spat, pacing the floor. "Really nothing. The same sort of nothing that's been going on all week."