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sign of a cord between you and some twin, real or mystic. You can’t melt your flesh and reshape it.”
“People do that?”
“Not many. It’s a dying art.”
Hedda smiled. “Which is sad. It can be such fun.”
“Today, we learned that you can’t project your voice to the ears of the gods. You make no links between ­objects or places, even with conjuration circles. You do not weave patterns of your Gift into things you make with your hands. You do not send your sight away from your body. You do not affect fire, water, air, or earth.”
“Does that leave anything?”
Doc didn’t answer. Alastair said, “Well, yes, countless things. But they are so rare, and often—I will be frank—so irrelevant that there are no tests devised for them.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “For example, a few years ago, I tested a woman who showed sign of Gift but didn’t follow the usual patterns. I found that her Gift was directed inside her. All her sons grew up to look just like her father. Identical, to the last mole and birthmark.