Hama’s Hands, The Stacks
Niccolette had the talent for living conversation. Niccolette was forever being told that she had the talent for living conversation. She had known this for years; and, too, she had worked hard for years, and it had not yet disappointed her, not in the sickbay nor on the dueling field. Of course she had failed; of course she had backlashed. These things did not trouble her, nor did they touch upon her sense of her own talent. Backlash happened; it happened when a galdor pushed themselves, when they strove to become better. It came from attempting a spell which was too hard, or casting in anger, or a thousand other mistakes; but to make mistakes was to learn from them.
And so – it was not that Niccolette did not have the skill.
But…
Even at the hospital, Niccolette had found, she was missing something. She liked the work very much, but what appealed to her was that it was interesting. There were so many ways in which the body could be injured; one had to work very hard indeed to discern the right problem, and even harder to find the right spell – let alone to cast it properly!
But somehow that interest did not seem to translate into Niccolette being able to cast in the way expected of healers. Niccolette’s spells worked, yes – but they hurt. Sometimes, she had been told, they hurt worse than the injury themselves, for all that it was fixed afterwards. She had not understood it, just a few years ago, and it had been a tangled mess inside of her, like a knot in her chest. And... now, she did not know what to do for it, but at least she could diagnose it. The first step, Niccolette thought.
But –
Uzoji did not mind.
There was a secret warmth in her chest when she thought of it; Niccolette did not know it, but she smiled to think of it – of him – smiled, a soft, silly, happy little smile, her eyes distant, a faint redness creeping into her cheeks that was not just from the heady whiskey. She had healed him, and Uzoji had laughed. In the worst moments with her professors, with those who came for healing, she could think of that – of his laughter, of the look in his eyes, and she could know…
Niccolette took a slightly longer drink. She was not sure, precisely, what she knew, but she was sure that it was something she needed. It ached to think of this, just now, and the little smile left her face, faded slowly away.
Jean was back on the subject of healing.
Niccolette shrugged. She took another drag from her cigarette. “I have studied healing,” she said, with all the casualness she could manage. “We heal at the hospital, of course, but I would not say I am a healer.” They were strangers, were they not? Niccolette decided she did not care what Jean thought of her; she did not care to keep herself secret and small and hidden. She would say the truth, at least this once.
“In fact, I prefer dueling,” Niccolette straightened up a little, stuck out her chin, and stared at Jean, lips pressed together, as if daring him. She was not quite sure what she was daring him to do; she did not know. But she held, waiting a long moment, her eyes steadily on the self-professed wastrel.