The next morning Saphienne was quieter than usual, and she could tell Celaena had assumed she was in another bad mood from the space that the older girl gave her. Yet as they walked through the village and passed by the storehouses she shut her eyes and swallowed, her face otherwise expressionless, which Celaena obviously noticed. She felt her friend struggling with how to respond as they passed through one of the central meadows, keeping silent in the coolly overcast, early light, and Celaena might have not said anything at all — were it not for the solitary magpie that flew across their path.

“Saphienne,” Celaena asked, “is something wrong?”

Saphienne had expected the question, dreading it, and her prepared answer was superficially mild. “No. I slept poorly.”

A few steps away, Celaena frowned. “…I know you’re closer to Iolas. Is it something you’ll talk to him about?”

She wanted nothing less. “Weren’t you listening? I told you: I just slept poorly.”

Now a peevish flicker tugged at the corners of Celaena’s eyes; yet she refused the provocation. Saphienne watched her face forward and breathe, her pace slowing as her steps became meditative.

When they reached the western side of the village, Celaena closed the distance and reached for Saphienne’s hand — holding on when she tried to pull away. No words followed, not at first, her firm grip saying everything that was needed, forcing Saphienne to feel even though she didn’t want to listen.

Saphienne’s heart was very weary when she stopped resisting and leaned in. “…I don’t want to talk about it.”

Celaena accepted this. “A wizard keeps his own counsel on his personal affairs,” she said, and Saphienne knew her father was speaking through her. But then her tone eased, like strings being loosened upon an instrument. “…But… Iolas was right, the other day. I was thinking about father. About how we relate to each other… and all the ways we’re so very alike. He holds so much of himself back.” Her palm was sweating against Saphienne, her lips quivering beneath the strain of honest speech. “I find it hard to be with people–”

“But you’ve always been popular,” Saphienne said, hearing the faint pang of lonely resentment in herself after she had interrupted.

“…Have I?” Celaena stopped walking, halting them both. “Have I?” She spoke as though waking from a dream. “I’m not sure that I have. I’ve just been the way my father presented himself, when in public. Like a little wizard: putting myself in front and assuming everyone will do what I want them to.” The ghost of denied sadness haunted her self-reflection. “And of course they would, wouldn’t they? Father is such an important man. And my home is so impressive…”

Her grief shocked Saphienne, who realised she was now holding Celaeana’s clammy hand just as fiercely. “You’re good with people.”

“No…” Celaena snorted, then laughed. “No, I’m not! If I was, I wouldn’t be saying this… we’d be talking about you. I’m just…” She drew a deep, aching breath, which she held until it burned.

When she let it out, her certainty returned. “…I’m going to be a wizard.” She turned to Saphienne and took her other hand. “And you’re going to be a wizard, too — better than me. I should hate you for that; I don’t know why I don’t.” She held Saphienne’s gaze. “I wish I was more like Iolas… like Laewyn, too. They can just talk to people. Really talk to them. And the things they say, they’re always helping.”

Saphienne had never noticed before, but Celaena’s eyes were not perfectly blue, streaked through with grey. “Celaena, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yes.” Her smile was appreciative, her gaze longing. “I just want you to… know that you could?”

She wanted to be her friend, like Faylar was to–

Saphienne realised too much about Celaena in that moment, enough to make her own, bright green eyes shine and then spill with soundless tears.

Why were Celaena and Faylar friends? Because they were the same. Neither of them knew how to be themselves, and hid behind the person they had each learned to be, Faylar with his insistent irreverence, Celaena with her performance of importance. On the night they had all been introduced, Celaena had represented herself as knowing more than she did, as being schooled in ways she was not — which she no longer did, at least not to Saphienne, against whom it would never work. And Faylar, too, had been denied his usual defences by Saphienne.

Why was Celaena close to Laewyn? Because the mere baker’s apprentice didn’t care for who Celaena pretended to be, but for the girl beneath the costume. The lonely girl, isolated in her towering tree, befriending birds because she had no one else she could talk to. And Laewyn was unlike Faylar — who wouldn’t joke about the birds, but who Saphienne knew would be too meticulously insincere to let himself enjoy feeding them.

Why was Celaena close to Saphienne? Because she had so few friends.

“…Faylar said you knew Kylantha.” Saphienne had trouble seeing. “He said you asked about her, after…”

With a wounded gasp that betrayed her misunderstanding, Celaena hugged Saphienne, almost smothering her against her shoulder as she rubbed her back. “I’m so sorry–”

Why had Saphienne said that?

“We used to play together–” Her touch stilled. “…I used to make fun of her. But she never let me get to her. Whenever I called her names, she called me names too. No one else was like that.”

Anger seeped into Saphienne’s tears, and her face became a rigid mask against the grey cloth. “You made fun of her. For being a half-elf.”

“But, I wasn’t the only one–” Her voice cracked. “…I didn’t understand what it really meant. I didn’t really mean it. But I don’t know if she knew that, or if I was just like the rest to her…”

Pulling herself away, Saphienne contemplated Celaena — seeing clearly now that her tears had dried. Her rage toward the elf was peerless. Yet the face that stared back was lost, alone, and full of regret, lit from beneath by confused shame that was trapped under the weight of the shadow cast by her parent, and thereby obscured, knowing itself but dimly.

She looked like Saphienne had felt before.

“Why did you do it?”

The wizard’s daughter sniffed. “Because everyone expected me to.”

“Why did you ask about her?”

Celaena wilted. “…Because I realised I missed her. And I thought no one else did.”

What had roused within her heart peered into the older girl, searching for the slightest portent of betrayal. There was none. Against every instinct that guided her, Saphienne had to accept: the cruelty had been in childish ignorance. That which had uncoiled within Saphienne diminished, receding back into the redness that hid below her depths.

“Saphienne, I’m–”

“You didn’t know any better.” She pulled Celaena against her, committing to the embrace. “I don’t know how she feels about you.” Her heavy eyelids fell shut. “She might have forgotten you. She might hate us all. I can’t forgive you, but I won’t hate you. You were just a child.” She relaxed; her last words would be easier to say. “And, you’re my friend.”

Never would Celaena be able to admit what she meant, but as she leaned upon Saphienne she murmured two words – so strangely feathered with affection – that were close enough to suffice.

* * *

They held hands, and Saphienne remembered Kylantha.

They didn’t talk about her. Celaena, being self-centred by disposition but not by intention, had assumed Saphienne had been angry at her when she heard the half-elf’s name invoked, and the guilt she felt was too painful to address. This suited Saphienne, who had no opinions she could share, and who had been successfully distracted from what had troubled her since the night before.

In her own way, Celaena had helped.

But they were not silent. The two talked with growing ease about everything that didn’t really matter, walking with a looseness that foretold of a deeper friendship to come with more accuracy than any Divination spell. There were giggles, and laughter, and as they entered the outskirts of the village Celaena wiped the salt from Saphienne’s nose and asked after her own appearance.

“You look fine,” Saphienne promised.

“Good.” Celaena squinted, and reached out to adjust the ribbon that tied back Saphienne’s hair. “Do you think I would look good with eyeliner?”

Saphienne blinked. “Why?”

“Laewyn thinks I would.” Having fixed the way her ponytail hung, Celaena took Saphienne’s hand and resumed their stroll. “She’s been experimenting with cosmetics… only in private. She wants me to try them as well.”

“That makes sense.” Saphienne knew nothing about makeup, though she liked some of the styles that Gaeleath sometimes wore. “She probably feels too nervous to wear it alone, and you’re her…”

“Girlfriend.” Celaena blushed, her ears scarlet.

“Does this mean you’ve–”

“Saphienne!” she cringed. “You can’t just ask someone that! Whether or not we’ve gone to bed together is none of your concern.”

Smiling, Saphienne finished her sentence. “…You’ve decided it’s okay for everyone to know?”

Celaena choked.

“I wasn’t going to ask about that. Why would I care?” Her smile became a grin. “I told you before: you’re allowed a love life. Weren’t you listening?”

About to answer, Celaena was saved by a shout from behind, and the two girls spotted Iolas hurrying to catch up with them. The sight of him pre-empted further conversation about Laewyn, instead causing Saphienne and Celaena to share a surprised glance before they laughed together.

“…Yes,” Iolas sighed as he drew to a halt, “laugh at the early turner. Very mature.”

Saphienne admired the threads of gold that had appeared among his brown hair, strands grown blonde overnight from root to tip. “We’re barely halfway through spring! You look like we’re nearly in summer.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Iolas anxiously adjusted his hair, which he’d braided in a vain attempt to downplay the change. “This happens every year.”

Celaena shrugged. “Mine started turning early for autumn and winter last year. Madris says that we’re all disposed toward different seasons, according to our nature.”

“Are we?” Saphienne wondered. “Filaurel said that stress makes summer colours slower to grow in…”

Iolas snorted. “Well that can’t be true, the week we’ve had.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his outer robes as he fell in beside them. “All my family turns early for summer, and late for autumn. My sister turned as well — she was very upset. Thessa had plans for today, but she wants to dye her hair before the summer change. She was begging our mother to go to the storehouse for her when I left.”

Celaena pursed her lips. “…Why would anyone dye their hair?”

“Why?” Iolas grinned. “Of course you’d ask why — you’re much too proper for that, aren’t you?”

Saphienne went a little ahead as Almon’s home came into view. “I can see the appeal,” she admitted. “What colour is she dyeing it? And why not dye it after?”

“Partly? Vanity. She’s hiding the change.” Iolas sounded unenthused, but he contemplated his own hair. “Then again, if she left it too late she wouldn’t be able to… no one’s supposed to have dyed hair on the summer solstice. Winter’s not really a good time of year to be seen out and about, so I suppose during the summer or autumn turn is best.”

“And her colour?”

“Indigo? Some kind of purple.” He squared his shoulders as they approached the door to the classroom. “I’m sure we’ll all see soon. She won’t be easily overlooked.”

* * *

* * *

Terror pounded in Saphienne’s heart as she stared at the paper before her.

Upon entry, Almon had directed them to be silent and sit at their writing boards, which were spread out further apart than usual. As they had settled in he had unfurled and hung a large, strange scroll from the bookcase behind his chair, arcane symbols written upon it in three mystifying lines that the eye struggled to follow. Then he had passed them each a sheaf of papers, moving quickly, retreating to his chair and lifting an hourglass.

“This is to be a test of all you have learned about the Great Art,” their master had said. “You may not confer, and the questions have been tailored to your particular strengths and weaknesses. Follow the instructions exactly. You have ninety minutes,” he had declared, turning over the glass, “in which to answer as much as you can. Your apprenticeships depend upon a passing grade.”

Alarmed, Celaena had almost risen to her feet. “But, you gave us no–”

“Do you think a wizard is always forewarned of peril?” Almon had been unsympathetic. “You were told the importance of study. If you are not prepared, then you are simply unsuited to wizardry — no matter who may believe otherwise.” He had addressed them all with sadistic glee. “If you wish to debate the ethics of this, by all means: you may use the remaining time as you choose.”

As one, they had set to work.

The first page of the examination paper had held a single line in workmanlike script:

This page left intentionally blank.

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The next had instructed Saphienne not to write on the provided material, to number and write her name at the top of each sheet of paper she used, to write out each question before beginning her answer, and to read all instructions before proceeding. That the direction not to write on the examination paper came after the first, unnecessary page hadn’t been lost on Saphienne, who appreciated the irony.

Resolving to read all the questions through before she attempted any, Saphienne had readied her pens, cleaning purple ink from her preferred nib as she looked over the first question.

With specific reference to the work of Shanaera, detail the noteworthy characteristics of ley lines, summarise their effect on the resonance of spells cast upon their intersection, and propose a theoretical underpinning for this effect.

She had nearly dropped her pen.

With mounting tension, she had scanned the second question.

Diagram the resonance of any one spell you have scrutinised within the past seven days, marking the key features by which the spell’s discipline(s) might be reasonably inferred.

Her gaze had risen to the wizard — who had been watching her with amusement. “You never taught us–”

“Everything you witnessed was educational.” He folded his arms. “You saw more than either Celaena or Iolas, and so more is expected from you.”

Angered, but aware of the hissing of the hourglass, she had returned to the questions.

Expound upon the flaws in High Master Elduin’s ‘Meditations on the Aether,’ and offer two alternative explanations that do not share the same flaws.

“Each of you have ten questions to answer,” Almon had said, “and subsequent questions rise in difficulty. You must successfully answer any five to proceed in your apprenticeship.”

Celaena had given a sharp gasp of dismay; Iolas had cursed.

Unnerved, Saphienne had pointed to the scroll. “This is some kind of trick.”

“Indeed.” The wizard had nodded at the strange markings. “The answers to all your questions are written here, if you can decipher it.”

At that, Iolas had put down his pen. “A different kind of test? Is this a lesson on wasting our time pondering the unknowable — or about the necessity of proceeding as best we can when–”

“If you fail to answer enough questions correctly,” Almon had decreed, “your apprenticeship will end. If you have the talent to read the answers, copy them out; but even if you cannot, then whether you fly or fall, you must attempt to justify your worth as an apprentice by answering them.”

“This is–”

“About eighty-five minutes left, I think? What say you, Peacock?”

The bird by the window had concurred.

And so, without any other choice, Saphienne had read the remaining seven questions, the last of which took up an entire page and incorporated what she imagined were the glyphs with which spells were symbolised. She had wondered, then, if there was some relation between them and what was on the scroll — but they were entirely distinct. Nor had she been able to find any other clue in the questions, or even her surroundings, that presented a key to reading the script; nor had she found any other instructions hidden anywhere she could see.

Perhaps, she had thought, the scroll really was a trap of some kind. She had abruptly turned her back to it, ignoring the wizard’s laughter as she had taken out her coin, clutched it hard, and set to work on the first question.

Now, only a handful of minutes remained, and she had answered barely six questions, none of which she felt confident in. A small pile of frenzied writing was in front of her, and the side of her hand was stained by ink where she had smudged the page in her haste, too short on time for fine calligraphy. She hoped what she’d written was legible enough, that it would be enough… and feared that she knew better.

Celaena was quietly weeping.

Saphienne had failed. There was no denying it. Whatever the test was, whether entirely as it appeared or replete with deeper meanings, it had eluded her, and she couldn’t escape the conclusion that would surely follow. Unless Almon had lied– no, this was unlike his usual pageantry. While his delight in her torment was entirely his own, the crushing imposition of the examination felt like the demand of the Luminary Vale.

Perhaps she had brought this on herself. Perhaps High Master Lenitha had a twisted sense of humour, and had intervened to put Saphienne in her place — to slam shut the door to wizardry ahead of her.

No, that was fanciful thinking… wasn’t it? But even if Saphienne hadn’t brought about her own doom, that she immediately imagined such a wild scenario was only further evidence that she didn’t have the temperament to be a wizard. She was too immature, too conceited, too unwilling to face the reality that she was powerless in life, and so unable to grasp her full potential. Anything else was the fantasy of a child.

The coin ached in her hand.

“Stop writing, Iolas — your time has elapsed.”

She heard her fellow apprentice slump, and she took a steadying breath as she shifted around to once more face the front of the parlour. Iolas had written about a third as much as she had, Celaena far less, his expression of anguish just as much an admission of hopelessness as Celaena’s tears.

Almon gathered in their answers, casting a disparaging eye over Saphienne’s scrawl as he sat back down. In an act that didn’t surprise her, he dropped all their writing on the floor beside his chair, and leant back with his fingers steepled.

“Your outcomes were divined before you arrived.” Languidly, taking his time, he withdrew a sealed letter from deep within his robe, breaking the wax with a flourish before he read the contents.

Whoever had performed the augury was distant to Almon, Saphienne guessed, and had taken care to minimise their interaction with him, maintaining the accuracy of the spell by keeping its prediction a secret. She knew there was a chance what was written there was wrong– or at least, she thought she knew, her failure giving her cause to rethink how much of the lesson on Divination she had really understood.

The small smile of victory on his lips presaged what he had read about Saphienne.

“One of you has passed.” Almon stood and bowed — to Iolas. “Congratulations, apprentice, and well done.”

For his part, Iolas was pale, dazed by what he heard. “…I did?” He shook himself, horrified as he turned toward her. “…Saphienne didn’t?”

“Nor Celaena,” her former master replied, “which will be quite awkward. I expect your father will have difficult questions, girl.”

The daughter of a distant wizard had no more emotion left in her. Frail, she was staring blankly at her calligraphy set, her mind on whatever hard ground was rushing up toward her as she fell from grace.

The wizard in the room with them faced Saphienne. “No argument from you? No incisive barbs? Wherever has your defiance gone, child?”

Inside she surged with anger– only to feel it fade into despair. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

“Ah, you think I am unsatisfied?” He sat again, crossing one leg upon the other, elbow on armrest, leaning his chin upon his knuckles. “…I must confess: I am. This is anticlimactic.”

Stoically, she began to gather up the contents of her writing kit. She averted her gaze from anyone else. Saphienne always took care to clean the nibs: Filaurel had gifted her the set, wrongly believing–

“I do have the discretion to allow you both to continue,” he admitted, musing aloud.

Celaena jerked as though struck. “You do?”

“I have authority over who I keep as my apprentices, limited only by the stipulations of the Luminary Vale.” He nodded to her. “Just as I can terminate apprenticeships as I see fit, I have the right to give an apprentice a second chance.”

Bitterness boiled on Saphienne’s tongue. “How fortunate for Celaena.”

“Now, Saphienne,” Almon chuckled, “don’t be so defeatist! You are far younger than any others I have taught… your failure could be a reflection of that fact.” He sat forward, animated by malevolence. “Let us say I am willing to consider it. What would justify your continuance? I’m inclined to give you another chance, child, if you will but do one thing.”

Her hand felt the coin throbbing. “…Which is?”

“Admit to me that you don’t deserve it, and ask nicely.”

The throb became a sharp, piercing pain.

“Come now — of what worth is your dignity, without the Great Art?”

Everything in her screamed. Around her, the silence of the room boomed with the beating of her heart in her ears. She strained against herself, raising her now hateful gaze to him, his evident relish only deepening her desire to do anything but–

Yet, what else was there? Without magic, she couldn’t do anything.

Her lips worked soundlessly. Tasting blood, she swallowed, then pursed them. “Pl–”

* * *

A frayed cord finally snapped.

Saphienne blinked, barely hearing Peacock give a whistle.

“Ah, but your pride is too great.”

Blurry, as though she had just woken up, Saphienne’s vision focused — and she saw Almon regarding her in approval and barely discernible relief by the lamplight, all signs of his combativeness gone, his tone utterly flat as he kept speaking. “No, you are no longer my apprentice. We are concluded, child.”

Iolas couldn’t hold himself back any longer, and exploded with anger. “That’s ridiculous! Just because she won’t humiliate herself, you’re going to punish her?!”

Saphienne would have interrupted, but the scroll behind her master had her full attention, the words in purple ink now legible. Three large lines of calligraphic script were plain to read, each written in a different hand.

You cannot make sense of this writing.

Well done. Your apprenticeship is safe.

Say nothing. Read the blank page.

Saphienne recognised her own handwriting in the final line, and as Iolas argued back and forth with a detached yet uncomfortable Almon, she retrieved the sheet of paper she had first received, finding that the single line of writing had been expanded upon. Above, in ink that matched the scroll, she saw an instruction not to see anything on the page that was written in that hue; below, she silently read a letter to herself.

* * *

Dear —

I’m not sure how to address this.

By now you know you wrote this. You must have worked out the rest already, but Almon demands that I write it all down for you in tedious detail. You have been subjected to a Fascination spell; you consented to being fascinated.

I say I’ve consented, but we weren’t given a choice. Every wizard’s apprentice has to go through this. To refuse was to end my apprenticeship. I know you’ll forgive me… probably.

Since I apparently need to write more, I’ll say what you’re thinking: there’s no way to know that I actually consented. If you were fascinated, then what’s to say that I wasn’t? Perhaps a Fascination spell is making me believe that I’ve consented. What’s to say that I’ve not been fascinated into writing this letter? Almon could be dictating it to me. The fact I’m using his name makes it less likely… but he is

adept at deception, and could have instructed me to use his name to make this letter more credible.

I know you’ll hate this, too.

I’m told that you won’t remember anything from the time I entered the classroom until the Fascination spell is to be cast, and that this is deliberate. I’m assured that the point of this lesson is not as straightforward as it appears, and that the subjective experience is more profound than I can imagine. You’ll know whether or not Almon was right about that, whether or not you’re sure about the rest.

I’m supposed to finish by writing something only you would know, but as we’ve already established, that would be pointless. Either Almon is an evil wizard or he isn’t, and right now I don’t think he is — for all his flaws.

I’m curious whether you feel differently. Only one way to find out.

Kind Regards? Best Wishes? Be Well?

Yours Faithfully,

Saphienne, of the Eastern Vale,

Apprentice to the Wizard Almon

* * *

Reviewing the rest of the pages, Saphienne found that what had appeared as questions were all commands written in the same violet, the first instructing her to see the most difficult question she could conceivably be asked about the Great Art — a question that she could try to answer, but that she would fail to answer fully. Each subsequent command told her to repeat the preceding instruction, but make the question harder.

The realisation that she had been made to torment herself was deeply unpleasant.

The fact that she admired the ingenuity of it was troubling.

Meanwhile, the dispute between Almon and Iolas was reaching its climax, the wizard speaking in uninflected monotone as he glanced to the dark window. “If you feel so strongly about it, boy, why not forfeit your own apprenticeship?”

Iolas glowered. “If that lets them continue, fine! I’ll give up my place.”

Saphienne bit her tongue to avoid speaking — only to discover that she’d bitten it before, and quite hard, causing her to give a small gasp of pain.

Beside her, Iolas heard her differently. “Saphienne, don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“In that case,” Almon said, his lips downturned in unease, “I accept.”

His answer surprised Iolas, who needed a moment to find his mettle. “…You’ll let them continue as apprentices?”

“One of them.” Almon rose. “You decide which.”

Iolas turned white with fright, and then crimson in outrage. “You can’t do that! I’m not going to choose between them.”

“Then I’ll fail both, boy. Pick one, or neither will proceed.”

Iolas wavered, glancing toward Saphienne–

And then he convulsed, as the Fascination spell lost its hold on him. Peacock whistled again.

Almon paced to stand beside the scroll, being sure to give Iolas the opportunity to collect himself and read it before he continued. “No? A pity you don’t have more will, child. You are unworthy of the Great Art. It should really go to someone better suited…” He glanced to Celaena. “…How about you, Celaena?”

Her voice was small. “What about me?”

Iolas was studying Saphienne, stricken, his letter to himself half-read; she nodded back. Had they not been sat far apart, she would have squeezed his arm.

Almon pressed Celaena. “Are you willing to take Iolas’ place? Continue in his stead?”

Appalled, her friends waited while Celaena hesitated.

“If you don’t,” the wizard emphasised, “then your future as a wizard is lost.”

Yet while she was still enthralled, Celaena still possessed enough of herself to look mournfully over at Saphienne. Her throat was hoarse with anguish. “Take Saphienne. She deserves it.”

Perplexed, Almon rocked back on his heels. “…She already had her chance.” Yet he changed tactics as he advanced toward Celaena. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to earn your father’s ire. You would need to write a letter to him, explaining that I gave you the chance to continue, and you forfeited it for Saphienne.”

Managing a smile that Saphienne found gut-wrenching, Celaena nodded, and stood without her belongings, turning to leave.

Saphienne couldn’t bear to watch. “Celaena–”

“You’ll be a better wizard.” Her friend bowed her head, wracked by a sob, and hurried for the door.

“Master,” Iolas said, “please… stop.”

Mercifully, their master relented, snapping his fingers as Peacock whistled for the third time.

* * *

Once Celaena had turned back in confusion and laid eyes on the scroll, Almon announced that he would fetch them all tea, and called Peacock after him as he hurried up the stairs. Saphienne immediately went to hug Celaena, and Iolas found the letter she had written to herself and brought it to where she was thoroughly lost in Saphienne’s arms.

She read slowly. Her panic attack began halfway down the page.

By the time the wizard returned with his familiar, carrying tea and followed by a hovering tray of biscuits, Celaena was sat on the floor – face covered by with the sleeves of her outer robes – with Saphienne squeezing her shoulder. Iolas was moodily staring out the window into the disconcerting night.

“This is the last time you will ever be taught in this way,” Almon promised as he set the tea down next to them. “The first lessons on Invocation and Fascination are the only ones with a specified format. And before you say anything, Saphienne, know that today’s lesson always weighs heavily on my conscience.”

“How nice to hear.” She pushed her cup away.

He ignored her as he reclaimed his chair with Peacock.

Iolas faced him. “What were we doing all day?”

“You will never know.”

Clenching his fists, Iolas smirked. “Of course. You could have done anything to us. Made us do anything.”

“Not anything,” Almon corrected him. “The spell was not that powerful. You and Saphienne broke free because I compelled you to do what was antithetical to yourselves, rousing your will to resist. That was by design.”

Saphienne felt Celaena tremble.

Iolas let himself accept the tea, but he drank as though it had steeped for too long. “You could have made us write the letters with magic.”

Peacock chirped, and he quoted perfectly in three different voices — starting with Iolas. “‘How will we know we wrote these ourselves?’” Saphienne answered, “‘We won’t — and that’s going to be part of the lesson.’” The voice of Celaena was dismissive. “‘It won’t be any worse than the spirit was.’”

Distraught, Celaena faced the figment. “Fuck you.”

Saphienne let go of her, rising. “All of this, just so we know how it feels? What it is to be violated — and the fear of not knowing?”

“Not just.” Almon inclined his head. “This is but the first part. The only way to understand the lesser danger of Fascination is to be enthralled. What suffering you each have experienced ensures you will always be aware of its impact, should you use it carelessly, and so be able to fully contemplate the greater danger.”

“The first part?” Iolas crouched, setting down his cup. “So there’s worse to come?”

“…Yes,” Almon sighed, “but the remainder isn’t a direct experience. You will only be listening.” He gestured to the drinks and biscuits. “I advise you all to drink and eat before we proceed. The forest is cold after sunset, and you have had a long day.”

Saphienne stepped around her teacup. “We’re going outside?”

“For a walk. Our destination isn’t far.”

Celaena took up her tea, and took to her feet as she sipped. She exhaled, replenished by the bitter green, and fixed her master with a steely glare, hardened by her inner pain. “It must be the middle of the night. What are you going to teach us?”

Upon her question, a little drama was rekindled in the wizard. He gripped the arms of his chair as he rose. “About witchcraft, Celaena. Now that you have passed through your ordeal, I must tell you what elves won’t speak about; it is nigh time for you all to learn about witches.”

End of Chapter 55