The wax flowed towards the wick, where it rose up and disappeared. Left was only light and warmth that radiated onto little Carryl’s face, her stubby nose, the big cheeks and her blue eyes, all framed by curls of gold that tumbled from her head like shrubbery from the castle walls. 

She knelt before the chair on which the candle stood and observed. Her bedtime had long come but the point of light had drawn her out of her sheets. From afar, it looked like wispy light atop a solid stick, but up close, she could see that neither was the flame a wisp nor was the candle truly solid. There was a gap where nothing was visible, where there was neither wax nor flame, but still there needed to be something, she knew, there needed to be something. 

A tiny black speck floated atop the wax, turning and moving along the flow but not being moved along, like a paper boat in a stream that had gotten in a swirling vortex, turning and twisting, trapped by the flow. Just like the flame danced in the slight draft coming through the window, the little black speck danced in something unseen. Carryl might not be able to see the flow itself but it had to be there, the speck was moved by it and the wax continued to disappear to somewhere, after all, but why was it moved upwards, upwards of all places? The brook did not flow upwards! She leaned closer, she had to see what happened at that place that the wax vanished, that place where the speck was drawn to and as she leaned closer, the door behind her opened, a hand reached through, grabbed her shoulder and yanked her away. 

“GET BACK FROM THAT FLAME!” Carryl’s mother tore her back, into her arms. “What did I tell you about the fire? What if your beautiful hair catches aflame?” She ran her hand through the curls and wrapped them around her fingers. “Your beautiful hair.” Then pressed a kiss on Carryl’s head. 

“Then cut it off, Mam!” she grabbed a fistful of her hair and tore at it. “Why do Oshy and Bannon get to have short hair?!” 

“Because they’re boys and you ought to have long, beautiful hair. Those golden curls of yours.” Carryl’s mother picked her up and carried her over to the wrought-up mess of sheets from which the unruly child had crawled. “Please stop getting out of bed.” She put the girl down and started layering her back up into warmth. “Your feet are so cold, you might get frostbite on your tiny sweet toes like this!” 

“But Mam, I want to see the flame. What happens to the wax? Does the flame drink the wax? How? Where is its mouth?” 

But Carryl’s mother merely chuckled. “Oh your mind is such a voracious thing. I promise you, you will one day learn everything, but for now, you must sleep and rest to be spritely and awake for lessons with the Lady Mother tomorrow.” She put another blanket on Carryl and pushed her down tightly into the soft mattress. 

“That Lady is mean!” Carryl crossed her arms and wriggled backwards up her pillow to sit back up. “She never lets me listen to Pap’s stories!” 

“Well,” Carryl’s mother pulled her back down and pressed her into the mattress again, pulling the blanket even tighter this time. “You are in need of manners far more than stories right now. You can listen to the Lord Father’s stories later.” 

“No I cannot! The Lady said it does not fit a young lady like me!” Carryl made a mocking face of the noble Lady, then pushed her jaw forward in a pout. 

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Carryl’s mother sighed, then looked too the door. She had pulled it closed tightly and nobody else was in the room, still, she leaned forward very close to her daughter and whispered as if in secret. “If you keep your lessons with Magister Norraine up, you can read all of the Lord Father’s adventures in the library.” 

“Really?” The little girl seemed interested, but did not yet let go of her pout. “They are all in there?” 

Her mother nodded. “Those and many more. But you need to learn to read first. Then you can learn all about it. So please promise me, be patient and learn and you shall get what you wish.” 

It became difficult for Carryl to keep her pouting up while thinking about the adventures she could unlock. “Fine then.” She still was determined to be upset about something. 

Carryl’s mother smiled and gave her another kiss. When she leaned back, she saw her daughter was looking to her with an expectant peek and she just had to give in. “Alright, fine then, but after that you have to promise to sleep. And no more candle tonight. And no more getting out of bed!” 

A joy flared on Carryl’s face and she nodded eagerly. “Yes! I promise!” 

Carryl’s mother got up and reached into a pouch hanging from her belt, then drew forth a pinch of a coarse, dark powder with a blue iridescence. With a wink to her daughter, she snapped her fingers and from them, a flame of neither light nor warmth but of iridescence consumed the powder and spewed forth sparks that stretched into glowing panes. They twisted and formed into a butterfly that began to flutter over the bed. Little Carryl held her eyes wide open, dared not to blink to not miss a single beat of the bright wings, her mouth agape with joy and wonder. The apparition kept fluttering across the room, towards the window where it hit the glass panes and shattered into a spectacle of sparks. 

Carryl giggled and squealed. “I want to do that too, teach me, mam!” 

“Not yet, my little goldie. You must wait to learn your magic at the academy, for to work it, you must understand it first!” 

“And then I can?” 

Carryl’s mother nodded. “Of course, you are the daughter of the greatest mage in all the land, you have the gift, but we must practice patience for the right time. Now sleep or you will never be rested enough to learn anything.” 

Carryl crawled deeper under her sheets and nodded. Her mother gave her another kiss on her forehead, got out the door and turned around a last time. “Sweet dreams.” She closed the door and darkness slammed into the room. Only the pale moonlight fell through the window. 

Carryl observed the moon-kissed clouds race above the ocean, a gust of wind rattled the glass window and crept inside. Carryl drew the blankets up further and pushed herself deeper into the mattress when she felt something at her leg, something grating and small. She dove under her blanket and searched for it with her hands and finally found it: a single grain of that dark powder. She held it into a beam of moonlight and observed the iridescence dance across the rough surface. Her Mam must have dropped it from her fingers when she snapped them. 

If you want to work it, you must understand it first. 

Carryl closed her eyes, imagined the flame of the candle, how it had danced and twirled, how the wax had flowed and disappeared. She wanted to understand it. She tried to imagine the sparks struck from an iron and a stone, how they bounced on dry moss or straw for a moment before flame took root. She pressed her eyes shut even closer and finally, with the hardest thought she had ever had, snapped her fingers. 

The grain flew up, for a moment stood still, then exploded into... a spark, a flickering flame, a flash of light. 

It was gone in an instant but it had been there. Carryl looked at the empty air where it had been, her mouth stood open, her eyes were wide. She had found her flame, her own flame. It needed no candle or lamp and nobody could take it from her. From her mind into reality it had leapt and she could draw it forth again, all she needed was more of the powder. With hands and feet she swept her bed but found not a single grain more. It did not matter, she knew she could find more elsewhere. She turned around to sleep, but kept the flame in her mind; she dared not let it go out and all the way into sleep, Carryl’s flame accompanied her and lit her way.