He closes the drapes, or what is left of them, and the shutters. The room is cast in thick shadow and it takes her a moment to understand what he is asking of her. He does not simply want her to light a candle with a tool, but with her power. She watches him, just slightly wary, her hackles still raised, and is uncertain how to proceed.

This is not the reaction she predicted.

After a moment she looks to her shelves, they are half a room away but there are candles on them. She is no talent with flame, but she knows the motions that bend power to her will--a twist of fingers, a release of muscle, a gesture and water will all but beg to obey her. Fire fights against her--a blithe wave makes the candles smolder, makes a spare spark or two jump along the wicks, but they do not burst into flame.

"I am no deft hand with fire," she admits and, with a more forceful gesture, with more focus behind it, she manages to light three along the bottom shelf. One snuffs out completely within moments, but the other two catch and remain lit.

"It is not my gift."

Why is she explaining this? He does not need to know. If he hates her for this, if he turns on her, she will have no secrets left.