Over the bed there was a sigil painted on to the ceiling and it glowed gently, its power drifting down into China’s body. She lay with her eyes closed, hands folded on her stomach, her mind attuned to the sigil, manipulating its properties. The ebb and flow of magic raged like a storm-tossed sea, and yet none of that was evident from outward appearances. Instead of a storm-tossed sea there seemed to be a still lake, not even a ripple on the water’s surface, exactly the way China preferred it to be.