Without waiting for a reply, I extended my hands. The air between my palms began to thicken, filling with lilac light. Heat flowed through my veins, the world froze, and the ice obediently streamed, taking on graceful curves. It was like a dance—fingers fluttered, shaping fragile perfection from emptiness. This time, I chose deep blue with purple shimmers—the color of the sky before dawn, when stars are still visible but the approach of day is felt.
Seconds stretched into eternity, and there on my palm rested a small but perfectly symmetrical vase, iridescent in shades from tender lavender to deep indigo.
"Superb!" Mother exclaimed, and the joy in her voice was so sincere it embarrassed me. "No matter how many times I watch, I never cease to marvel. It's a true gift—to make matter itself bow to your will. Even if only briefly."
A gift. If only she knew how easily this magic comes, how naturally the ice obeys... But why shatter her illusions?
"How was your first day back in the castle?" she asked in a tone as if inquiring about the weather, though we both knew it was about something more.
"Wonderful," I tried to infuse the word with maximum enthusiasm. "Seeing you—that's half the happiness. Talked with Ser Leont de Mortvel. And then... with the princess."
"With the princess?" Her voice took on that intonation women use to extract details without seeming curious.
"The talk was short. And, as usual, a bit absurd."
"Good," Mother said, and I heard a whole symphony of maternal feelings in that word. "Probably time to get ready for bed. It's been a long day; I can see it in your eyes."
Wise advice. The day had indeed been full—saturated with meetings that stirred old wounds and promised new dilemmas.
I lingered a bit longer in the garden, gazing at the solitary purple vase on the bench. It had already begun to thaw, dripping sparkling drops onto the stone. Moonlight played on its facets, and I thought that magic is the only thing allowing beauty to be created on demand. True, it's fleeting.
Isn't that the essence of all beauty—accepting its temporality? Returning home isn't a point, but a process. Every day you return anew, and each time home meets you a little differently. Today, it met me with ice vases, maternal pride, and the princess's enigmatic smile.
And tomorrow... tomorrow will be a new day, full of melting promises and fragile hopes. And I'll be ready to meet it—with wet hands, unclear thoughts, and faith that even the most fleeting beauty is worth creating. Again and again.
So I wrote in the diary.