In contrast with her journey to the shrine, Saphienne thought about very little on her way back to the village. Her head ached and her limbs felt weighed down by gold, though her weariness didn’t impede her from enjoying the twilight hour, the scent of drying earth and springtime, floral fragrances more distinct than usual. She wasn’t experiencing the same saturation of sensation that the mushrooms had endowed: she simply noticed more, felt more, and thought far less.

So little was she thinking that, halfway into the village, she stopped and closed her eyes in a deep and lengthening groan, then dragged herself toward the east. The backpack of baking supplies was still where she had left it, and she grunted under the additional weight, muttering to herself as she made her way to the library.

Filaurel was sipping from a cup by a windowsill when she came in, enjoying the sunset. The librarian’s smile for Saphienne became fragile as she watched her troop over to the fireplace and sit down heavily, dropping her belongings with a sigh.

“You look like you’ve had quite a day,” Filaurel said, coming to sit beside her. She inhaled, nose twitching. “That smell… you’ve been at a shrine?”

Saphienne sniffed herself, catching the acrid stink of smoke and stale sweat. “Ugh. I didn’t realise I was that bad.”

For some reason that Saphienne couldn’t understand, Filaurel was grinning broadly, and regarded her with great endearment as she offered her the tepid tea she held — which was accepted with wordless thanks and gulped down. “You don’t smell too bad… the incense is just distinctive.” She was obviously being kind. “Is your head sore?”

“It’s not that bad.”

Her former mentor knew better than to believe her. “I have willow tea, if you like.”

Aware that she looked pathetically grateful, Saphienne nodded.

“Come on, then. You can leave your bags here.”

* * *

The same door that led to the stairs also opened into the private area of the ground floor, off-limits to children. A large storage closet held the materials for repairing books, and the door beside it led to a windowless kitchen that Filaurel had never allowed her to enter. The librarian ushered her in now, and bade her sit on the tall stool beside the narrow countertop as she fetched out the bagged willow tea, a sieve, and a fresh pot.

Saphienne studied the restricted space, its décor white and well illuminated by colourless, enchanted lights, barely large enough to fit them both. “I always thought this looked bigger…”

“Everything does, when we’re denied it.” She was smiling as she tilted the sink’s enchanted pitcher for cold water, filling her kettle. “You were too young to trust with making the tea… and that was a good excuse to have some time to myself.”

Surprised by the admission, Saphienne laughed, then felt deeper surprise at herself when she realised the words hadn’t wounded her. “Was I a difficult apprentice?”

Filaurel shook her head. “Children are difficult. They’re always watching the adults around them, even when they don’t know they are. How we carry ourselves… it rubs off on them.”

Folding her arms on the counter, Saphienne leant on her cheek, sighing as she relaxed. “Being like you wouldn’t be so bad…”

Filaurel laughed sharply, her fondness for Saphienne showing as she set the kettle to boil and turned her way. “You’re sweet tonight. Did you have the holy brew?”

“Too much.” She closed her eyes. “I drank the whole cup. That was–”

“Thewhole cup?!” Filaurel looked like she would have dropped the kettle, had she still been holding it. “You’re far too young for more than–”

“I know.” Saphienne’s ears drooped. “The priest said to take a sip, the spirit told me to drink deeply, and I apparently don’t measure out my life by halves…” She opened her eyes, staring mournfully up at Filaurel. “I think I know what that really means, now.”

Concerned, the librarian was slow to find her smile again, and she placed a hand on Saphienne’s back as she leant down to kiss the top of her head. “Fools rush in where spirits fear to tread… how did you find it?”

The question lay with her until the kettle gently whistled, and while Filaurel went to work on the tea Saphienne sat up and rubbed the end of her nose, and then thoughtlessly massaged her ears. “…I don’t believe in the gods. The philosophy was interesting, and I appreciate what religion does for people who follow it, but it all seems like a pretty story to make sense of a world that’s quite ugly.”

Studying her, Filaurel let the filled teapot steep. “Did you say that to the priest?”

“No, but… I think she knew.” She laughed at herself. “I’m not subtle; not unless I’m intentionally lying to people.”

Her self-awareness won a wry look from Filaurel. “When you’re unintentionally lying, too. You’ll get better at it as you grow.” She fetched out a teacup as she went on, “When I was your age, everything was black or white. You’re lying – deceiving – or you’re telling the truth. The gods are either pretty lies, or they’re real. No grey areas; no middle ground.”

“I have more nuance than that,” Saphienne complained, a little indignant. “I can see things from other people’s perspectives–”

“But they’re ultimately right or wrong,” Filaurel said, flatly. “Or you haven’t made a decision, because you don’t know enough to decide. Am I mistaken?”

Saphienne was uncomfortable being seen for who she was… and yet, strangely, she felt very warm toward Filaurel. She sat with her contradictory feelings before she replied. “…No. Does that…” She tried to fathom what was to come. “…Will that change for me, as I get older?”

“For you? I don’t know.” She held the sieve over the cup as she poured. “You’re growing quickly, but you’re still the Saphienne I remember from when you were very small. Less reserved now, more confident, but still you. You were always trying to make sense of things.”

They were quiet for a time, Saphienne wondering at the woman who knew her, Filaurel adding a touch of cold water to the tea. As she accepted the cup, Saphienne tilted her head. “Intellectually, I know there’s shades of grey. There’s limits to knowledge… and I think…” She sipped the willow tea. “…There’s shades of grey in people. You said it’s never simple — to know what someone thinks or feels. That includes ourselves, doesn’t it?”

Her old mentor’s gaze grew bittersweet. “It does. The more you realise that, the less the world is one way or the other.” She studied her eyes, hands clasped where she leant against the counter. “You know, I didn’t ask what you thought about the gods, or religious philosophy. I asked you how you found the holy brew.”

Saphienne shrugged. “Sorry, I misunderstood–”

“No, you didn’t.” Filaurel wasn’t upset, her amusement showing. “By default, you take people quite literally, Saphienne. You were quiet before you answered, too. You didn’t just duck my question: you wouldn’t let yourself contemplate it, and unconsciously substituted another. You deceived yourself.”

She was silent as the words sank in, and felt herself tremble as she made herself focus on what she had too long avoided. Saphienne looked down. “I don’t know. I told the priest it was amazing, and that I never wanted to do it again. I heard things… imagined things…” Just talking around Kylantha would have been impossible, before, but even now she still felt the pang of loss and the ache of loneliness. “…I blacked out after a while. I don’t know what happened, but I feel…”

Saphienne wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and met Filaurel’s gaze. “I feel more at peace with things… and Idon’t like it. I don’t like convenient fictions, or reassuring lies. Whatever happened, it was just another form of Hallucination.” What coiled within her heart stirred as she spoke. “What’s the point of feeling better, if the world remains the way it is? I might as well waste my life with a fascinator.”

Swallowing, Filaurel’s voice was thick. “That’s a very hard way to live, Saphienne.”

She studied the willow tea in her hands, abruptly nauseated by it. She set it aside as she admitted to herself the totality of what she understood. “I know why the ancient ways are kept from us until we’re older — the real reason. And it’s not to do with maturity. There may be a lot that’s too adult for young children, but it’s not what’s really going on. I don’t think most people can see it for what it is–”

“Careful.” Filaurel’s warning was quiet, urgent, and sounded like a plea.

Studying her, Saphienne recognised the confirmation, and slowly inclined her head. “You say I see things as black and white, and you imply that’s common among the young. That’s why they’re kept back, until we’re older; they’re kept back until we’re old enough to justify them to ourselves.” Her voice grew harder, her vision more shadowed, and she smiled viciously. “Because if I learned them all now, I’d lack the nuance to appreciate how necessary

they are, wouldn’t I? I need to be old enough to doubt whether I really know how I feel about them. I need to have become comfortable with my life. Because otherwise I would see that–”

“Saphienne,” Filaurel interrupted, panic rising in her eyes, “don’t ever say it. Not aloud. Not even to me.”

And that was when Saphienne knew why Filaurel had shown her such true, selfless kindness, and a little of why the librarian had once loved to listen as she read aloud to her best friend.

Standing, Saphienne took a deep breath. “Then, I won’t. But Kylantha was exiled in accordance with the ancient ways. That much I know for certain. And that’s enough.”

All the breath went out of Filaurel, who hung her head, crossing her arms to rub at her shoulders as she clenched shut her eyes. She seemed to be in a great deal of pain. When she managed to look at Saphienne again, her vision glimmered with unshed tears. “You mustn’t talk about this to anyone else. No one. Not even Faylar. They wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t want to, and what you’re thinking–”

“I can pretend.” Saphienne thought about Hyacinth, and the conversation that would soon follow between them. “I will pretend. That’s why you’ve made such an effort with me, isn’t it? You’ve been trying to protect me.”

Her mentor only nodded.

Tempered by her recent trials, Saphienne could trace out the path behind herself, seeing herself through Filaurel’s sea-green eyes. She saw the friendship she had shared with Kylantha, the love that underpinned the way they played together, and the innocence that would, inevitably, be shattered. She beheld the agony that was forever recurring in the library. She saw herself as the abandoned girl she once was, bereft of any attachment, and heard the spite in her own voice when she repeated to the librarian the sweet, false promises her mother had made. She saw that nothing would ever undo what had been done. She could see she would never be able to lie to herself, never make fair what she knew, indisputably, was wholly and irredeemably foul.

“I hoped,” Filaurel sniffed, “you’d have a few more years.”

“Wizardry.” Saphienne saw, too, the intended way ahead. “Enough time to be on the path of wizardry, and granted respect… trust…”

“Apprentice wizards may ask questions,” her mentor said, “that would be inappropriate for others to voice. They’re allowed to stand out from the crowd, be eccentric, because wizards are expected to test the boundaries.” She paused; there was more there, but Filaurel wouldn’t say it aloud. “I hoped… if you had been a few years into your apprenticeship when you found out…”

Filaurel coughed back unshed tears, and her voice was insistent. “I wasn’t trying to make you invested in everything, Saphienne; I just wanted everyone else to be invested in you, so that they’d have patience when your anger arrived.”

Saphienne stared at her, more moved than she knew how to show.

“…But, you’re too intelligent for your own good.” She laughed, bitterly. “I’ve fucked this up pretty badly, haven’t I?”

“No.” She spoke mildly, quickly, without thinking. “No, Filaurel, you haven’t.”

Wary, the librarian regarded the girl who she had sheltered, in so many ways, with uncertainty. “Then, even as you pretend… what are you going to do?”

But that was why she had avoided the question.

What could she do? What could anyone do, with the entire world stood against them? She had only taken a sip from the cup of suffering that awaited if she defied the ancient ways, and that small measure had nearly ended her. Hyacinth had, in the end, successfully staged a mystery… and Saphienne had learned its lesson.

She was powerless. Even with mastery of magic, she would remain powerless. She was but one among too many.

And yet, even though she couldn’t stop it, she was forever responsible. To live among elves was to be complicit. She was accepting that it would be done again, and again, without end, for as long as some were born condemned to old age and death.

She closed her eyes.

Why should she have the right to live, if her life came at the expense of Kylantha’s?

“I…”

What would Kylantha want for her?

“I’m not sure I…”

What did she want for herself?

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

She had no answers, not then. There was nothing to be done.

Her brow twitched, the crushing despair settling into her bones. Saphienne sighed as she sightlessly reached for the willow tea, and she drained the cup, absently noticing it was far less bitter than the holy brew.

“Nothing,” she concluded, setting the teacup aside. “I can’t change things. I couldn’t have stopped it when it happened, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. So I’m going to do nothing, and live with it.” She opened her eyes on Filaurel, and forced a smile that harboured both love and derision. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Shamed by her, yet relieved for her, Filaurel burst into tears.

* * *

There was no verbal agreement, but they made a covenant all the same: neither Saphienne nor Filaurel would speak about how they felt toward the ancient ways. They would each proceed performatively, affirming what had to be affirmed in order to continue in good standing in the village. The reprimand that awaited for apostates – which Saphienne knew too well – would not find them, for they would not be apostates in any way that mattered.

Nor would Saphienne seek others who felt as she did. She was not afraid for herself, but she didn’t wish Filaurel to worry… and anyway, she was pragmatic about her situation. What was the point in sharing her troubles, when there was nothing to be done about them?

Still, as they went back through to the library, windows now dark, Saphienne had to ask Filaurel one short, yet very important, question. “How… how do you manage, day to day, on your own?”

Well accomplished at hiding her heart, the librarian hummed as she lifted Saphienne’s satchel; she veiled their real conversation with her reply, lest they unknowingly be overheard. “You mean, without an apprentice? I focus on what I can achieve. There’s always good work to be done around here — even little things. Every small child who comes to love reading may become a better person… and everyone who uses what they learned here to help someone else justifies my effort. I can’t really know the difference I’ll make, but I live in the hope it matters.”

There was slight comfort in that, to Saphienne. She thought then of Holly, and the reform for which she and other spirits prayed — the great hopes she lay on Saphienne’s shoulders. She accepted her satchel and lifted the backpack. “That’s a very hard way to– to keep a library.”

“Well,” the librarian added, “having an apprentice does help.” She held her gaze, ensuring her meaning was understood, before moving on with deliberate levity. “I really ought to find someone else to help out. There was this one girl – quite talented, good calligraphy – but her heart wasn’t really in it.”

Saphienne’s humour was dry. “Maybe she was better suited to baking.”

Filaurel snorted. “Laewyn? Laziest girl I’ve ever tried with. You know, she’d put books back on the shelves upside-down?”

For Filaurel’s sake, she filled her voice with mock horror. “Unthinkable. How is this place still standing in her wake?”

They shared a gentle laugh.

Numbed by the willow tea, Saphienne felt somewhat better. Remembering why she had originally came in, she asked, “Is Faylar upstairs? I need to tell him I’m not fit to study tonight.”

“He is.” The librarian went back to her desk, lifting returns bound for the upper collection. “He came in late as well, about thirty minutes before you. When I last saw, he was frantically writing an essay…”

Saphienne winced. “…For me. I better give him the bad news.”

“I’ll watch,” Filaurel replied, playfully, and she went ahead to the second floor, her steps lighter than Saphienne had ever seen before.

* * *

Faylar was far less diplomatic when Saphienne set her bags on the table. “You’re late… and you look like shit.”

She sagged, giving him a withering look. “My thanks, Faylar. You have such a way with words.”

Flicking his short locks as he rose from a mock bow, he smirked and pointedly sniffed. “My pleasure, Saphienne! And you also smell like–”

“Shut the fuck up.” She threw herself into a chair.

Hovering nearby, Filaurel tried and failed to smother her laughter as she tidied a shelf.

Faylar belatedly noticed her, and his eyebrows lifted, pleased to not be reprimanded but puzzled why the librarian ignored their antics. Saphienne knew from his ensuing shrug that he’d found an explanation — that the librarian was less uptight when there was no one else in the library. “Well, I was late along as well. Since I wasn’t home this morning, I wanted to see my mother, but she was delayed in the woodlands.”

Saphienne hadn’t forgotten her awkward first meeting with Alavara. Keeping calm, she asked “What was it that kept her?”

“Unusual migration patterns,” Faylar answered, leaning back in his chair. “Nothing important. But she did mention that she had occasion to meet a friend of mine–”

Burying her face in her hands, Saphienne sighed.

“–And she told me all about the impression you made.” Through her fingers, she could see he was faintly blushing, though his friendly, mocking smile was undimmed by his embarrassment. “Sounded like things went about as well as I thought they would. She made me stay for dinner, asked me a hundred questions about you.”

Well, if she was going to pretend she belonged in the woodlands, there was no time to start like the present. “Gods give me strength…”

“She did mention you were headed toward a shrine.” His mirth diminished. “Anyway, thanks to you she now knows all about–” Faylar’s eyes flicked to Filaurel, and he lowered his voice. “…All about what we discussed last night. She wouldn’t leave the topic alone; that was a fun conversation. My thanks, Saphienne.You have such a way with words…”

She kept her palms on her face. “How annoyed are you?”

He stretched, feigning a casual lack of concern, and looked as though he would have kicked his feet up in a show of that false insouciance, were Filaurel not close by. “I’m not. She actually had some good advice for my situation. And despite your best efforts, she apparently approves of you — made me promise to bring you home for dinner some time.”

Inhaling, she sat up, lips curling weakly. “Did she tease you much?”

“About you? Mercilessly.” He laughed. “But not about… the rest. Though she would have preferred it if you had slept on our couch, rather than the other way around.”

“Noted.” Saphienne didn’t plan on any more late night meetings. “Well, I’m glad you haven’t been waiting all evening, because I attended a performance at a shrine–”

“You don’t say?” He folded his hands behind his head.

Glowering, Saphienne leant on her elbows and propped her chin on her palms. “Before you make fun of me: I drank the whole cup.”

Nonplussed, his expression froze. “…You’re joking.”

And if she had to perform piety, she was going to have fun with it. “With gods as my witness: I was out cold for eight hours.”

“How are you even standing? Sitting, I mean.” He looked on her with newfound respect, then shook his head. “My mother told me I’m too young to have a sip. She doesn’t much approve of ecstatic rites… says the wardens are busy enough, without having to fetch ritualists down from trees.”

She could imagine how the rite might have gone, were she not closely supervised. “I found it quite informative. I learned how the ancient ways were founded.”

“Engrossing stuff, I’m sure.” Yet Faylar was more interested than he pretended, and brought his arms down. “Which language did they recite it in? Elfish?”

His question gave her pause for thought. “…That implies it’s recited in others. The tongue of sylvan creatures?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “along with older varieties of Elfish. The stories were originally passed down orally, in ancient Elfish and the sylvan language, but they translate them for each new generation.” He chuckled, eyes glinting with remembered resentment. “One of the ways I had to study the sylvan tongue? Translating the stories back and forth.”

Idle curiosity made her squint. “Are the translations precise, or poetic?”

“The things they emphasise are specific,” Faylar explained, “and there are key details that are very deliberately preserved. The rest is open to creative rephrasing, but I understand the translations are argued over until the elders are satisfied nothing has been lost or accidentally introduced. To have a translation approved is a high honour, so I was told.”

As she reflected on the recital, Saphienne’s brow furrowed. “Faylar… twice now, I’ve noticed something about translation from the sylvan tongue. The first time was when a spirit was speaking to me, and I thought she was just taking liberties to fit her rhymes, but it came up again today, so I’m wondering…”

Intrigued, he shifted forward. “Go on: what did you hear?”

Saphienne had to think to remember the quotes. “The first time, the spirit said ‘Alive with poetry, my tongue has stood since all the world was bathed in dragonflare.’ Then today, I heard the priest say ‘When the woods were young before the mountains, and all the sky alive with dragonflare.’ What does ‘dragonflare’ mean?”

“Oh. I’m pretty sure that’s just an archaic term for dragons’ fire.” He grinned, full of petty mischief. “That means ‘old,’ Saphienne.”

But another voice intruded. “You’re incorrect.”

They turned to Filaurel, who had been taking her time arranging the books while she eavesdropped. Her eyes were on the shelves.

“…Well,” Faylar pouted, “Saphienne told me that’s what–”

“About dragonflare,” Filaurel clarified, slotting the volume she held back into place before she turned around. “Dragonflare isn’t a dragon’s fire.”

Saphienne shifted sideways in her chair, better to give her mentor her full attention. “What is it, then?”

Unsure of how much to share, Filaurel cast her gaze up to the skylights as she pondered, weighing her options as she studied the nighttime reflection of the upper floor. “…I imagine your master will teach you about dragons, eventually, and I don’t want to give him cause to be testy with me…” Her lips twitched, and Saphienne recognised her mentor had decided: if Almon was going to dislike her, there was no reason to hold back. “…But, this isn’t teaching you about magic, so he can complain about me if he likes.”

Across from Saphienne, Faylar craned forward. “So…?”

Filaurel strolled to their table. “Dragonflare is an astrological phenomenon that accompanies dragons: coloured lights fill the sky, rarely visible in the daytime, usually seen at night. No one is sure what causes it to appear – supposedly, not even dragons – but the older and more potent a dragon, the more expansive the dragonflare that arises above them. Dragons believe it accompanies significant events in their lives, such as births, or deaths, but what it portends is unclear.”

Saphienne tried to parse the significance to what she’d heard. “…So, a long time ago, the world used to have many dragons, and frequent dragonflare is evocative of ancient times?”

“Not quite,” Filaurel replied, half-sitting against the tabletop as she shared a little of what she knew. “There are still plenty of dragons in the world, but they don’t encroach on us anymore. Have either of you seen a full map of the woodlands? That’s why the lands beyond make note of the presence of dragons.”

“Why don’t they come here?”

“Supposedly, dragons hold the Luminary Vale in esteem equal to an ancient wyrm, consider our territory claimed, and leave us well alone.”

“My aunt,” Faylar spoke up, “was told that dragons taught magic to elves — she heard that at the Luminary Vale.”

“Perhaps it’s true.” Filaurel was unsurprised. “Dragons are very magical beings. Elves with the talent can learn greater magic, but all true dragons wield greater magic as easily as we sing our craft magic.” Her lips twisted. “Well, as easily as most of us can sing it…”

Saphienne spied an implication in her choice of words. “True dragons?”

“As opposed to lesser dragons? Drakes? Wyverns?” The librarian saw that neither of them were familiar with draconic taxonomy. “Well, it’s related to dragonflare. In areas where dragonflare is frequent, creatures can take on dragon-like features. Birds can hatch as wyverns, while four-legged animals can give birth to drakes. They’re sometimes called false dragons.”

Fascinated, Faylar’s voice was childlike. “Do they look like miniature dragons?”

“They can. They’re not common in the woodlands, but some wizards keep them as pets, especially when they’re born from domesticated animals.”

“I’ve seen one.” His voice was wistful. “Back when I was a toddler. We were visiting with my aunt, and someone called in on her. I remember running away from my mother, into the lounge…” Laughing, he stretched. “…She didn’t believe me, but I knew I’d seen a dragon.”

Yet Saphienne’s mind was on the possibilities. “What about people? Does dragonflare affect them, too?”

“I don’t know.” Filaurel stepped back. “As far as I know, half-dragons and the like are all descended from true dragons in the usual way. But this is probably something for your master to explain,” she finally conceded. “The point of both phrases is just to say that it all happened long ago, when the world was younger and wilder, under the direct influence of dragons.”

Turning to Faylar, Saphienne found new enthusiasm. “Faylar, since we’re about done with Dwarfish–”

“Hold on,” he objected, “I don’t actually speak the tongue of dragons. We should really study it last, when you have more experience with languages.”

“I was going to say,” she retorted, rolling her eyes, “that I’d quite like to learn the sylvan tongue next — maybe read the original versions of the myths? There may be more recorded in them than I realised.”

Yet before Faylar could agree, Filaurel breezily interrupted. “That’s a shame; I was sure you’d want to learn the common trade tongue next.”

Saphienne blinked; Faylar was equally bemused.

The young linguist folded his arms. “Why did you think that?”

“Well,” she answered, studying her fingernails, “I was going to invite you both to come with me on a short trip next month, but if you would rather–”

Saphienne was out of her chair. “What short trip? Where? Out of the woodlands? Why would we need the common trade tongue?!”

Filaurel’s sides shook with restrained laughter. “Not that far! Just outside our vale. But if you can’t speak the common trade tongue, you wouldn’t really be of any use–”

Faylar stood as well. “Humans. You’re meeting with humans, aren’t you?”

Giving in, the librarian stood and faced them both directly. “Every springtime,” she explained, “I shut the library, and I go to trade for new books. There’s a human merchant whom I patronise, and he’s permitted to enter the woodlands to show me his wares. Assuming the two of you won’t embarrass all of elvenkind,” she emphasised, “then it might be useful for you to hear the common trade tongue spoken by someone other than an elf. But only if you can both speak it well enough to maintain appearances.”

Faylar switched to the language, rattling off an excited, nasally question.

Filaurel shook her head, and answered in kind. Then she switched back to Elfish. “Saphienne apprenticed under me — I’ll only take you along with her, and only if she learns enough to be decently conversant.”

All thoughts of her existential struggles fell away before the new challenge. Saphienne drew herself up to her full height, and put her hands on her hips as she addressed Faylar. “You will teach me well enough — won’t you?”

Daunted, but caught up in her enthusiasm, Faylar performed confidence as he flicked his hair back behind his ears. “Well I have to, don’t I? You’ll never forgive me otherwise.”

“One month,” Filaurel cautioned them. “Twenty eight days. And no neglecting your other studies, Saphienne, or I’ll leave you both here.”

“We’ll start tomorrow,” Saphienne replied, and lifted her satchel. “I’ll head home, get a good night’s sleep, and Faylar can plan where we’ll begin.” She gave them each a perfunctory bow, then spun away, mind on the prospect of actually meeting a human as she headed for–

“Your pack?” Faylar called.

…Reluctantly, Saphienne returned to the table.

Filaurel held the backpack out to her, grinning. “What’s in this, anyway?”

She groaned as she shouldered the supplies. “…It’s a long story.” She glanced toward the stairs as she searched her memory. “I saw that you’ve reorganised some of the shelves downstairs… could you tell me where to find the books on baking?”

To the interest of Filaurel, Faylar was the one who answered. “Fourth row from the back, right side, two shelves in. Has Laewyn inspired you?”

She had to accept it: sometimes, she did find him funny. “…Something like that.”

* * *

Her first attempt at a loaf refused to rise. Following a recipe without explanations was, Saphienne discovered, much harder than she expected. Still, she made good use of the time while it was baking to write out her conjecture from the morning, sat at the kitchen table and stuffing herself with food from the pantry while she recorded her observations. She discovered she had gained a considerable appetite from all she had been through, and was relieved to find that her fatigue eased with every bite.

While her flat failure was cooling on the counter, her mother drifted in.

She peered across Saphienne’s stiff shoulder at the metal tray, then at the book laid open nearby. “Bread? Is this a new pastime?”

Saphienne pulled away, gathering up her notes as she replied. “I was just experimenting. It doesn’t matter.”

“Would you like me to–”

But Saphienne was climbing the stairs, intent on a warm bath before bed. She never saw how her mother stared after her, or the way her mother’s gaze lingered on the book. She wouldn’t have paid any attention if she had.

The wizard’s apprentice had more important things on her mind than enduring her mother’s fair-weather parenting. Most pressingly, she was concerned with the question of her apprenticeship itself, and the apology she would have to convincingly deliver — when she next saw her master.

Yet her meeting with Almon would not go as she expected.

End of Chapter 48