Nikolay led Jane out of the mess hall, up a wide flight of stairs, and then up a second, narrower spiral staircase without a railing. The stairs were dusty and silent, the only sound their footsteps and Jane's occasional gasps for air. Thin pillars of sunlight lanced through the darkness from arrow slits in the wall.

Jane's muscles ached from her earlier beating on the practice courts. Every inch of her protested the climb. But each time she tried to pause for breath, Nikolay's magic dragged her forward, painfully, unrelentingly, and she knew she had to keep moving.

After the sixth twist of the staircase, she'd had enough of being stoic. "Are we – almost there?" she gasped. "Please—"

Nikolay shot her a disgusted look. "If you cannot even manage one more flight, I could levitate you."

Jane remembered the man he'd levitated during the battle, the one he had dropped to his death. Her stomach gave a terrified lurch. It did not help that she had just glanced over the edge of the staircase and they were very, very high up. "No—no," she panted. "Just—a little rest. Please?"

Nikolay continued walking, and for a moment Jane thought he would ignore her. But then, to her relief, their pace decreased marginally, and Jane was able to pant her way behind him up the remaining flight of stairs.

The stairs ended in a tiny landing beside a chestnut door. Unfamiliar symbols decorated the wood around the handle. In the soft light from the window, the runes shimmered as though dusted with silver. As Jane gasped for breath, Nikolay tapped a complex pattern around the handle. The door swung open soundlessly.

"Welcome," said Nikolay, in a cold, insincere voice that told Jane she was by no means truly welcome, "to my study."

The room was nothing like the dark stairs they had just left. It was large, airy, and circular. Light streamed through tall windows, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. On the sunniest side, a jungle of hanging plants in silver planters cast labyrinths of shadow on the floor. Next to the plants sat a wall of shelves, replete with jars whose substances glittered or oozed or glowed fiery crimson; beside the shelves, a series of tall bookcases threatened to collapse beneath mountains of books, which spilled over onto an ornate armchair. Jane guessed the gold-gilt ladder on the opposite side of the tower lead to an auxiliary bedroom, a sky loft of sorts, though she was not tall enough to say for sure. All manner of strange things hung from the ceiling on the east side—bunches of roots, polished white stones that gave off faint, pinkish light, and what looked to be a mummified parrot in the corner by the loft. Jane was reminded of her Uncle Bauer's study, except with creepy preserved things instead of electronics.

Uncle Bauer's study was always cold, too. Jane shivered and peered out the nearest window. Below them lay the city of Tolsk, a forest of copper roofs and narrow houses, and beyond that, rolling hills and green farmland, the long river sparkling on its lazy course from the mountains. It was the same view she had seen during her ride to Somita by wyvern, without the sulfurous, smoky breath.

She put a hand on the window-glass, about to ask Nikolay if she could close it, but a warning hiss made her freeze. A cobra lay coiled on the armchair at her side, forked tongue tasting the air with obvious interest. It had scales the color of cedar, and large, golden pupils, which were currently trained directly on her.

"An azdaja," Nikolay said, as though the word was supposed to mean something to her. His back was to her; he seemed to be chalking marks on the floor. "She won't bite. I rescued her as a baby. Her venom's quite useful in potions."

It was the least-comforting attempt at reassurance Jane had ever heard. But the cobra did not seem inclined to chase her. It eyed Jane demurely from its chair, half-hiding behind two whitish pieces of cloth—no, those are wings—this creature has wings—

"You are the Avtorka, yesss?"

"You can talk!"

She immediately regretted the exclamation. Nikolay let out a disdainful "Hm," as if she had just shouted "Grass is green!" or "Magic is real!"

"You are ssstrange, little ssshe-human." The azdaja's speech was silk and gravel, the low whisper of scales over sand. It raised itself up—she took another involuntary step backward – and rearranged its massive white wings. "Are there none of usss in the world you come from?"

Jane shook her head. "In my world, animals don't talk. At least... not in ways that humans can understand. Erm... what's your name?"

"You would not be able to pronounssse it."

"Azdaja, unlike most humans, are known for their insight and intellect." Nikolay straightened. "She will not bother us during your lesson."

He nodded at the azdaja, who inclined her head and then – to Jane's relief – slithered to the open window and took off. Jane watched the azdaja's slender form arc toward the clouds, white wings whirling. She fought the urge to shut the window in its wake. No – she'd better not – the creature would surely be angry if she tried to lock it out –

"Now," said Nikolay, with a smile Jane didn't like at all, "it's time to see if you have any magical aptitude."

Jane realized that while she spoke to the azdaja, Nikolay had chalked a circle on the floor, large enough to encircle both of them, along with most of the room's center. Nikolay's fingers twitched, and a shimmering barrier sprang into view, extending from the chalked circle all the way to the ceiling like a glowing, translucent curtain.

"For safety... That is, for the safety of my possessions... your magic will not leave this ring until you learn to control it."

Jane touched the barrier. It was solid beneath her fingers, smooth like glass. She snatched her hand back, trying not to think about how the barrier trapped her along with her magic. She attempted to call up the earlier excitement that had filled her at the thought of learning magic. Now all she felt was nerves. "What can't you do with magic?" she asked.

A cool smile twitched across Nikolay's face, and she noticed his fingers hovered over his left forearm. "Rewrite the laws of the world, create things out of nothing, open portals into alternate dimensions, bring the dead back to life, heal... certain illnesses."

Jane's mind jumped to her visit with the tsar. I am dying...

"As for what magic can do..."

The air shimmered, and a gold water goblet materialized near Jane's hand. She caught it as it fell, trying to stop the water from sloshing over the edge. It was cool in her grasp, thick and solid, heavy with embossing, full enough to quench two peoples' thirst, and Jane stared at it with wonder—

—until it vanished from her grasp, melted away as though it had never been, and Jane was left staring at her empty palms.

"How—"

The goblet reappeared a few feet in front of her and began to fall again. But this time, when Jane lunged forward to catch it, its image passed through her hands as if she tried to catch a ghost. She fell to her knees as its likeness melted away into the grain of the wood.

"Transportation, illusions, barriers, levitation, fire—these are the staples of a battle-mage's arsenal."

Her head snapped up. Nikolay watched her, sourness twisting the corners of his mouth. Jane thought again that he looked ill; the pallor was creeping back into his skin, and the shadows cast by the hanging vines made his face look almost skeletal, but he sounded as irascible as ever. "Master these skills," he said, "and any enemy with less magical talent will be bewildered, distracted... easy prey."

Prey.

Jane stared at the place where the illusory goblet had vanished, trying not to think of the Kanachskiy boy he'd imprisoned. "How far can you transport things?"

"It depends on the size of the object."

"What about transporting yourself?"

A shadow of a smile crossed his face. "Fifty verstas at my strongest; less when I am tired." He must have sensed her confusion, for he gestured to the window. "Those mountains are twenty verstas away."

So teleporting around the castle was probably nothing to him. Jane moistened her lips, her spine tingling. "Will I learn to transport myself?"

"Not today. Maybe not ever." The smile left his face. "Any farmhand or peasant can learn magic. But only a few learn more than the paltriest charms. Unfortunately, avtorka have more affinity for magic than most, and power in the hands of those who don't understand it is disaster looming.

"Magic depends on your mental aptitude, on strength of will. Judging by your earlier performance on the stairs, I am not optimistic, but perhaps you will surprise me. To make anything happen, you have to know what you want and want it so much it becomes reality, and furthermore that other less-desirable realities are suppressed. If your intention falters, for even a second, while levitating or teleporting yourself, it will likely be the last botched magical working of your life."

Jane fought the urge to bite her nails. She had a decent opinion of her strength of will, which had got her through many tedious exams and boring essays. But if she missed a question on a problem set, she wouldn't die. If she messed up doing magic –

"You won't do spells that could kill you – yet." He summoned a chair and sat down. "Today you will start with the simplest task possible – calling up magefire."

Nikolay held out his right hand. Fire sprang to life in his palm, a beacon of it, silver and shifting. He tossed it from one hand to the other, and then held it out for Jane's inspection. Jane reached forward, mesmerized. Too late, she realized her flawed reasoning, that even if the fire wasn't burning him, it could still hurt her. Heat seared her fingers, and she yanked her hand back.

Nikolay brought his hands together, extinguishing the flame. "You really know nothing of magic," he said, disgusted. "Even the simplest child knows better than to touch another mage's fire."

"We don't have magic on Earth. You already know that."

He took her hand. Silvery magic flickered over her skin, and the blisters on her finger-pads faded from angry red to mild pink. The blisters still hurt, but the pain was damper than before, a dull ache instead of a sharp throb.

Why not heal them fully? Jane thought. You could do that much. I know you could. You could probably have stopped the fire from burning me, if you really wanted.

Out loud she said, "What now?"

"Try calling up magefire. Picture fire rising, see it in your hand, will it into existence."

"That's it? That's all I need to do?"

His lip curled at the word 'all', but otherwise he was silent.

Jane closed her eyes. She tried to block out the thought of Nikolay watching her, grim and amused and skeptical. She thought instead of orange-gold-crimson spires of flame. She thought of summer campfires, of those rare, warm evenings in the woods with Sandra and Phillip and her parents, marshmallows browning over dry heat, as they told stories beneath the hum of cicadas and the soft purr of flames licking tinder.

The minutes ticked by in silence.

Her hands remained depressingly fire-less.

Sweat dripped down her back, an uncomfortable trickle that made her want to itch it away. As the seconds sped on, the thought of fire faded from her mind's eye, displaced by prickles of discomfort and unease. Her calves were stiff from the workout and her earlier climb, her arms burned with the effort of holding up her palms. She shifted, adjusting her feet. The boots Kir had found for her that morning were not broken in, and blisters blazed on her heels from the earlier run. She wished she could sit.

Nikolay sighed. The sound was irritated, almost a huff. "You are far too distracted. Focus. Think of fire, only fire. You have to want it."

Jane swallowed and tried again to do as Nikolay commanded. She desperately did want fire to appear in her hands, to end this awkwardness if nothing else, but apparently that kind of wanting was not enough.

She did not know how much time passed – not enough to produce magefire, but more than enough to fan her nerves into an inferno. Time seemed to stretch, as it does when you want a thing to end – and through it all, she was still fireless, still without any sign of magic, and at some point, thoughts of fire were replaced with thoughts of her godstest and how she might fail – would fail, if she did not get this thing to work. Nikolay watched her, impatience narrowing his eyes, and did he have to watch her like that, it truly was not helping –

"Very well," he said at last, in cold, clipped tones, and she would have breathed a sigh of relief had she not been so unhappy. "Since we're getting nowhere with magefire, perhaps I should start you off differently. Perhaps it would be a better use of our time to practice shielding instead."

Panic fluttered in her chest. She had tried calling up the shield again last night, in the evening just before bed, but it had been an unmitigated failure. "I don't know how I made it the first time," she said. "I don't think I can—"

"Picture a barrier between yourself and the rest of the world and believe it exists. Surely it can't be hard to recapitulate something you've already done,even for someone of your limited capabilities."

Jane closed her eyes, fighting back rising anxiety, trying again to call up the image of the shield she had made in the garden, to recapture her initial sense of wonder. It sparkled in her mind's eye, gleamed like a soap bubble. She pictured it expanding outward, surrounding her –

Something bounced off her abdomen. Her eyes flew open in time to see a pebble clatter to the ground, inches from her feet.

"What the –"

"Added incentive," said Nikolay dispassionately. "If you really want to stop it, you will shield."

He flicked another rock toward her, laced with silver fire. It smacked her on the arm.

Jane yelped. That one had actually stung.

Annoyance filled her, but she forced it down. Nikolay was a powerful mage; the tsar had assigned him to teach her; and as unpleasant as he was, he was her best hope to learning magic and surviving her godstests. He needed her to pass her godstests so that she could save his life. Surely, he must be doing this for a reason – surely, he didn't want to see her fail—

"I'm trying." Her voice was steady at least; that was something. "I'm trying to do what you said, but is there anything else I should be doing? Like waving my hands in a certain way or – Ouch!"

The third rock had sharper edges than the others. Jane stared at the cut on her hand, which was starting to ooze crimson, and then looked up at Nikolay, who met her eyes, unremorseful. A book rose from the floor to hover at eye level, and she gulped – was he going to send that flying at her too?

"If you are speaking to me, you are not focusing." His voice was lilting.

"I'm just trying to get clarification, that's all – hey! –"

The book smacked her across the temple, narrowly missing her eye. For a moment, she saw stars. Her hand flew up to the place where it had struck her.

"Pathetic." His voice was like knives. "You cannot summon an ounce of magic defend yourself; you lack even the willpower to stop small objects coming toward you, let alone an enemy's blade. I suppose it is to be expected; the people from your world are soft, coddled, useless –"

She sucked in a breath. Her hands shook. Her head throbbed from where the book had hit it. Blood from the cut on her hand trickled over her skin to drip to the floor. She watched at the red drops splash to the carpet, and then glanced up at Nikolay. Another book hovered over the ground, ready to launch.

Jane sucked in another breath, shaking, trying again to envision the shield. If wanting magic to happen was all it took, she should have produced a dozen shields by now. She wanted magic, she wanted it, to stop this abuse, to pass the godstests and get home – why wasn't it working?

The book hit her in the side. She caught it as it fell, fighting the urge to hurl it back toward him. A second later she gasped as a water goblet hit her. Water splashed over her, seeping into her clothes, chilling her even further. It splashed into the cut on her hand, stinging.

"How much additional incentive do you need?" He strode toward her, grabbed her by the wrist, and bent it backward. She gasped and tried to pull her hand away but his grip was strong, and he had the advantage of magic on his side. "Must I break all your fingers one by one before you show some hint of power?"

She stared at him in horror. He was not bluffing; she could see it in his eyes. She tried to back up, but her feet collided with the barrier spell, and his hand still grasped her wrist.

"Let me out," she whispered. Again, louder. "Let me out. I'll find some other way to access magic – there has to be some other way, I'm good at figuring things out on my own – just let me out –"

He ignored her and clasped her wrist tighter; with his other hand he reached forward, grasped her fourth finger, tilted it back. Jane shut her eyes, heart pounding in her ears. She bit her tongue, tasted blood. The air filled with the smell of ozone –

A chime filled the air, and a sound like beating wings.

Nikolay's grip on her lessened.

Jane opened her eyes again. A small piece of paper fluttered in the window. It was almost translucent, light, and glowing, lacy and iridescent like a butterfly's wing, and it drifted toward them, as though it weighed almost nothing.

Nikolay reached through the barrier and caught the paper. He unfolded it and glared down at it as though it had personally offended him. Then he crumpled the note in his hand.

"We are done for the day," he said. "You're to report to the lower levels of the palace for your next lesson."

"Right now?"

"Now – in three hours – I could care less, as long as you leave my study and stop bothering me."

He vanished the barrier with a wave of his hand and glowered at her, eyes snapping with annoyance. A spot on his sleeve smoked and sizzled, charred and black, and spirals of smoke twisted over them.

Had she done that?

Jane swallowed. Her eyes leapt from the charred mark on his sleeve back to Nikolay, who still eyed her as though she was a miserable burden –

And then she whirled on her heel, fled the room asfast as she could, not caring that the door banged shut after her. The stairs passed in a blur of stone and sunlight. She had forgotten her stiffness, her exhaustion, all of it; she had even forgotten to ask Nikolay who she was supposed to meet next. She hadn't wanted this badly to cry since –

She didn't want to think about that.

She should have been lost when she reached the bottom of the tower, but her feet seemed to find their way, as though the castle was guiding her steps. Her pace was fast and furious, and she only stopped when she realized she'd reached a dead end – or rather, that her way was blocked by a simple oak door with an old copper handle.