The expression of pride and self-satisfaction that floats onto Ieza's face is one essentially unchanged in the nearly three decades of her life, one that finds a comfortable home once that previous ambivalence vacates her features. Buoyed by this triumph, and by Harry's fulsome praise, she sets aside the borrowed experience, flexing her fingers and preparing herself for the next step. This time, she is sure, it will spring into her hand. Soon she will be soaring above the treetops, making memories of her own.
"Up!"
And this time, nothing happens whatsoever. Evidently the second-hand impression Harry's memory leaves doesn't have the power of the memory itself. Evidently you cannot master a foreign discipline in the space of five minutes.
This would be crushing, were it not for the promise implicit to her initial success. Instead there is a flash of annoyance and a flush of embarrassment. "These things take time," she proclaims, as if she were somehow already the pedagogical authority. She twists her lips into a lopsided knot of concentration and reiterates:
"Up!"
Still nothing. Ieza's brow furrows, her impatience palpable. It has been years since she was a student, forced to accept the day-by-day grind of education, and much of the power she has attained since has been by means of speedy (if costly) shortcut. And while the painstaking translation and interpretation that she has undertaken outside the Academy was hardly a swift process, it rewarded investment immediately, each moment dedicated to it producing discrete progress.
"Up!"
And yet nothing happens. It is as if the first accomplishment were a fluke, rather than a sign of her innate reality-spanning talents. This visibly displeases Ieza, who is even now suppressing a desire to kick the recalcitrant broom. Rather than risk damaging the praxis, and potentially upsetting her until-now extremely agreeable tutor, she looks up at Harry and asks a question:
no subject
"Up!"
And this time, nothing happens whatsoever. Evidently the second-hand impression Harry's memory leaves doesn't have the power of the memory itself. Evidently you cannot master a foreign discipline in the space of five minutes.
This would be crushing, were it not for the promise implicit to her initial success. Instead there is a flash of annoyance and a flush of embarrassment. "These things take time," she proclaims, as if she were somehow already the pedagogical authority. She twists her lips into a lopsided knot of concentration and reiterates:
"Up!"
Still nothing. Ieza's brow furrows, her impatience palpable. It has been years since she was a student, forced to accept the day-by-day grind of education, and much of the power she has attained since has been by means of speedy (if costly) shortcut. And while the painstaking translation and interpretation that she has undertaken outside the Academy was hardly a swift process, it rewarded investment immediately, each moment dedicated to it producing discrete progress.
"Up!"
And yet nothing happens. It is as if the first accomplishment were a fluke, rather than a sign of her innate reality-spanning talents. This visibly displeases Ieza, who is even now suppressing a desire to kick the recalcitrant broom. Rather than risk damaging the praxis, and potentially upsetting her until-now extremely agreeable tutor, she looks up at Harry and asks a question:
"How long did it take you to acquire this skill?"
It's unlikely that she'll like the honest answer.