In Practice

Cecilia waited until the servants’ quarters had quieted, the last of the night lamps guttering low. The house breathed around her, vast and indifferent, yet every creak and sigh carried a weight she had learned to notice.

She clutched the journal to her chest as she stepped into the narrow corridor. Its pages were brittle, but the words inside seemed to pulse with a strange energy, as though the ink itself were living. Every time Cecilia read from its yellowed pages, it felt like the book was speaking to her mind rather than her eyes.

“Trace the seam that trembles,” one line whispered. “Push gently where the world resists, for the fold hides its weakness.”

Cecilia had spent the day wandering the halls, watching, noting the irregularities—the delayed reflections, the steam that refused to rise naturally, the window where the treeline abruptly ended. Tonight, she would attempt more than observation. She would try to pull the thread herself.

Her first target was the unfinished hedge at the west wing window, the corner where reality ended in stark, impossible white. She approached slowly, heart hammering, and set the book open on the floor beside her. Its weight grounded her, and somehow made the impossible feel… permissible.

Cecilia read aloud, softly, a passage that seemed almost alive—

"See the edge, mark it, and breathe the pulse. Draw your finger along the line, and let your will trace the fold."

Her hand hovered above the glass, trembling. She traced an imaginary line along the edge where garden met nothing. The white blur wavered. She froze. Her pulse felt like it had lodged in her throat.

“Not too fast,” she whispered to herself. “Not too hard. The fold resists.”

Slowly, Cecilia pressed her fingertips against the pane. It was colder than ice, and yet her fingers sank in as though through liquid. The blur rippled, shifting slightly under her touch. Her heart leapt.

The next instruction in the book was more cryptic, written in looping, archaic script:

"A whisper, a breath, a thought—Coax the shape to bend without breaking it."

She exhaled, imagining the garden beyond as it ought to be—A hedge growing, curling, flowing like a wave. A tiny, trembling shift occurred. The white space pulsed like wet paper under her fingers, and a faint green began to bloom along the edges. Cecilia’s stomach knotted with equal parts terror and exhilaration.

She was affecting it.

Her hands shook. She leaned closer. “It’s working,” she breathed. She traced another small motion, guiding the hedge outward, letting the garden creep into the blank void. For a moment, she allowed herself a small surge of triumph.

And then the world rebelled.

The glass vibrated sharply, the room tilting for a second as if the floor had forgotten its own weight. Cecilia stumbled back, dropping the book. Its pages fanned open, the lines of riddles crawling across her vision. She pressed her palms to the floor, forcing her balance. A voice whispered in her head—From the book? From herself?—“Do not tempt the seam beyond its patience.”

Her pulse thundered. She swallowed hard. The hedge had expanded, yes, but now the garden quivered unnaturally, edges jittering like a disrupted reflection. The white void had not vanished. It recoiled, hesitant, resistant.

Cecilia closed her eyes and pressed her hands together, grounding herself, murmuring another passage from the book—

"The fold bends to intention, but only when the heart is steady and the mind unwavering."

She breathed. Slow, deep, counting each inhale and exhale. Then, with trembling confidence, she let her will guide the garden again. Slowly, patiently, the void gave way. A single ivy tendril stretched across the emptiness, followed by another, until the blank corner of the garden softened, filling with faint life.

It was fragile. Temporary. A whisper of control in a world that was never meant to obey her. But it was proof. Proof that the lord’s reality could be bent. That it had weaknesses.

Cecilia sank to the floor beside the book, knees drawn to her chest, stomach churning from exertion and fear. She could feel the strain in her mind as though her very will had been pulled taut. Yet beneath it all, a spark ignited—dangerous, thrilling, unstoppable.

If she learned these seams, if she learned to trace and pull them without breaking the world entirely, she could fight. She could avenge those erased, free herself from this house of lies, and, perhaps, even undo Olrin.

Her hands trembled, her eyes fixed on the first fragile tendrils of green curling into the void. She whispered again, almost a vow, almost a prayer—

“I will find every seam. I will learn every fold. And I will not remain your prisoner.”

The book lay open, pulsing faintly beneath the candlelight, and the hedge trembled as though acknowledging her words. For the first time, Cecilia felt not just fear, but power.