The labor of learning the art of Pore Seepage proved to be the pinnacle of magical frustration for Hermi. A day had passed in a blur of concentration, and she had shown no measurable progress.
On the bedside drawer, half-hidden in the gloom of the room, the pot of chamomile continued to wilt. The polluted water of Ferramonte had proved to be a more efficient plant-killer than Hermi had ever expected. The only thing keeping the flowers clinging to life was the sunlight that filtered into the room whenever Macrina spread the heavy velvet curtains wide.
Next to her pillow, the ever-whiny Grim began its relentless complaining once more. Flip-flap, flip-flap went its pages.
"You are lucky you had your husband bring you back to a fortress to tend to your wounds, sequestered and protected like a precious heirloom. Had the previous Witches taken this long to learn how to manipulate their blood after returning to life, perhaps this planet of yours would have gone extinct aeons ago!"
