Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Over the next half year, life is good. Silvius seems to cross my path whenever he can arrange it. His laughter feels like warmth breaking through my chill, leaving me giddy and glowing. His kindness stands in sharp contrast to his keen martial skill, and I know deep in my heart he only uses force when he’s exhausted all other paths to peace.
His smile, however, slays indiscriminately. Something that has me often shaking my head—though not without a grin of my own.
He’s snuck me out of my home more times than I can count, careful Father never catches on. With his cloak draped over my shoulders, I can walk into Thinking Hall or Pavilion Library as if I was born with the right, without so much as a second glance from the guards.
But . . .
He never comes inside with me; he always lingers in the shadows. It’s as if there’s a line he refuses to cross, some secret he’s hiding.
He doesn’t share it.
Instead, he takes my hands in his. “It’s been forever since I could trust someone,” he says quietly. “It’s nice not to feel so alone anymore. It’s nice to have met you.”
And then, as always: “I have to go again. For a while.”
For the last month, I’ve headed to Pavilion Library alone. Without Silvius, it feels riskier—I have the soldad to grant access, but I don’t have the breeding or the trappings to belong here. A borrowed cloak may conceal that, but it’s like a thin skin over a quietly festering wound. Every step is weighted by the sense that any moment, my truth might burst out.
Yet, the lure to learn is too strong.
I devour the theoretical texts, memorising the five foundations of medicinal magic until they’re etched into my very bones. By spring, I’m immersed in the preservation and transportation of vitalian spells—concepts that seem to pulse with promise, even as shadows of doubt creep closer.
Hours blur together. I haven’t slept much lately; exhaustion has me resting my eyes atop my books. Just for a short moment. When Taffy’s purring wakes me, I blink in the hazy light of dawn.
I stretch up from a dense essay on capsulising magic and spell away a faint ache in my neck.
Soon I’ll have a way to send spells to Frederica—handy to have on her farm estate. And then there’s the one I’ve been working on for Megaera’s father.
There aren’t enough spells in the world to ease my guilt over the lies I’ve been telling my family. But if I can move someplace no one knows me, start a vitaliary and send money back, I could make sure they never have to give up our home or struggle for complex healing again.
Evander’s fur-lined cloak lends me countenance as I head into the garden for some practice. It’s risky—the wrong spell at the wrong time and I’ll be carted off to the courts—but it’s early, and I need more room to perfect this technique.
The spell is hot, steaming in my hand, and I release it hurriedly. It’s supposed to hover in a ball before me, condensing slowly to the size of a pebble. Instead, it veers wildly, striking a plum tree. A thousand delicate blossoms shiver loose, raining to the grass.
I scan the area—and let out a breath of relief. No one seems to have noticed. Yet. Resolving to be more careful, I try again. The spell forms steadily, faint pulses of light condensing to a pebble-sized orb in my hand—
A bark splits the air. My fragile spell wobbles as a dog bounds toward me; I shove the magic aside, but it implodes mid-air with a sharp bang. The dog yelps and bolts towards an elegantly dressed woman rushing into view.
“What did you do to him?” she cries, glaring as she kneels to calm her frightened pet.
“It was an accident,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “He’s not harmed.”
“An accident?” Her voice rises, drawing the attention of two men emerging from the trees. “You spelled my dog!”
One man hesitates before stepping closer, his grip firm on my arm. My heart ticks faster.
“The spell wasn’t meant for the dog,” I say evenly, forcing my mind to race ahead. “It’s a practice spell.”
She narrows her eyes.
“My master ordered me here,” I lie smoothly, “he can confirm. It was an accident. He won’t take kindly to his servant being unjustly accused.”
Her companions exchange a glance. One clears his throat.
“Let’s meet this master of yours,” she demands.
The men loosen their grip, and I lead them toward the library, silent prayers on my lips.
A few scholars are perusing the books, but there’s no sign of Skriniaris Evander, or his cat. I search every room, Mistress and her men growing increasingly impatient behind me. Not outside either. No one here, except—
My breath catches in my throat. There, in a rose-draped pavilion, sits Quin, his impeccable attire at odds with the faint smirk playing at his lips. That same unforgettable arrogance. He’s just as I remember him.