any kind. She would detest me plotting to kill someone with my gift.” “Is that why you struggle? Because your mother would not approve?” “It’s not only that.” I had always had this feeling that something was churning underneath my skin. Deep inside was a pot of boiling water, a forge fanned by endless bellows, a volcano waiting to erupt. And I had spent my whole life fighting these sensations. Now Brother Thistle wanted me to let them free. “I was taught to hide my gift,” I explained. “Never to use it. When I lost my temper, it was harder to control. My mother called it a gift but …” I
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