They wandered the shore of the lake for an hour, Iolas listening as Saphienne recounted – in exacting detail – almost everything she had done to prevent their master from learning the truth. She omitted her last conversation with Taerelle, seeing no reason to worry him; and if the senior apprentice had betrayed her trust, Iolas would find out about it soon enough.

He spoke little, asking only a few careful questions. His silence worried her at first, but then she understood that he was thinking very deeply, and wrestling with both his instinct for honesty and his desire for fairness. Sharing with him made Saphienne feel better, for all that she was careful to add an uncertain, tentatively religious gloss to some of her comments about the larger situation.

“…And then Peacock left.” Her steps slowed as she reached the conclusion, and she looked up from the sand to see they had come back to where the water was overgrown with lilies, scanning over the treeless island nearby. “I would have asked my tutor in sculpture for advice about how to approach Almon, but they weren’t at the studio.”

Reaching down for a flattened stone, Iolas turned to skim it across the lake, but stopped as he noticed the island. “…I’m assuming you weren’t going to share everything with them.”

“No. They wouldn’t pry too far — they respect my privacy.”

He nodded, tossing the stone up and down in his hand. “Then why come to me? You have a better read on Almon than I do.”

“You’ve given me good advice so far.” Her lips twitched, her eyes rueful. “Including advice that I should have listened to. We wouldn’t be in this mess–”

“Not your fault.” He dropped the stone as he faced her. “Do you really want my thoughts on this? They’re not helpful.”

Sensing that he was judging her, Saphienne folded her arms. “…I do.”

“Then I’ll say this: Hyacinth isn’t a good influence on you.”

Hearing someone else use the spirit’s name gave Saphienne pause; she realised she had shared it without noticing. “She’s been helping–”

“No.” He was quite certain. “I think she’s using you. If our master had traced the blood back to you, and the story had come out that way, it would have been worse for the spirits than for the rest of us.”

“We would have lost our apprenticeships.”

“You don’t know that for sure.” He sat down on the sand, unlacing his shoes as he challenged her. “You weren’t the only one being compelled, remember. I think there’s every chance Almon would have went to Celaena’s father before reporting back to the Luminary Vale. Politics might have kept the two of you out of trouble.”

She frowned as she watched him taking off his socks. “The situation would have been too unpredictable. And even if we were excused… would he have excused you?”

“Who knows? Does that really matter?” He looked up, his eyes mirroring the green-blue of the lake. “Hyacinth has drawn you right into the middle of things. You have to know that she’s stripped you of your only defence, right? You can’t say you weren’t in control when you spoke to him. If you’re found out now…”

Considered from his limited perspective, Saphienne had to admit that everything Iolas said was correct. He didn’t know that – for all Saphienne had been manipulated – she hadn’t been compelled to break the tree. To him, Hyacinth was making her wilfully complicit in hiding the spirits’ shame. “I had to do something.”

“Did you?” He rolled up his leggings. “And if so, did it have to be deceit? If you had come straight to me, we could have talked it over and found another solution, one that didn’t involve you lying to his face.” Iolas leapt up and waded a short distance from the shore, picking his way through the bobbing plants. “Did you ever stop to think that covering it up could be worse for your apprenticeship? He might have forgiven bad judgement, but bad character–”

“I had good reasons–” she snapped “–and if you’re telling me I’m a bad person for trying to cover this up, then you’re a hypocrite. You were prepared to deceive everyone through your silence — even Thessa.”

He stopped moving. When he looked back at her, the thin line of his lips showed his displeasure. “Don’t bring her into this.”

Saphienne approached him with gathering wrath, her hands clenched by her sides and her voice cold. “‘A lie will always remain a lie.’ We all agreed to lie about it: I’ve just been honest with myself. You’re uncomfortable with subterfuge, but you’re playing along all the same. And you’re right,” she finished, splashing into the water in her anger, “this isn’t helpful.”

Iolas and Saphienne studied each other, both bristling with resentment.

Then, sighing, Iolas inclined his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

His apology brightened the green in her gaze, and as the heat went out of them she became aware of the water soaking into her socks.

A blush crept onto her cheeks. “So am I. These are good shoes.”

Iolas snorted… and then grinned as she smiled back, until the two of them were laughing together — and Saphienne promptly splashed his shins, causing him to flee through the knee-high water until she chased him onto the island.

* * *

“So what the fuck do I do, Iolas?”

They were sat together on the far side of the isle, near where a swan was warming her eggs: the pen was unconcerned by the presence of elves. Saphienne had taken off her shoes and socks and set them down on the grass in the vain hope they would dry out, and she had wrung the hem of her skirt until it was damp, aware that the greenish stain would take magic to remove.

He leant back on his palms and studied the restless sky. “I don’t know. If he knows you lied to him, I can’t see this ending well for us. But if he doesn’t…” He glanced at her, tongue in his cheek. “…You could always challenge him to a calligraphy contest? That won me around, after a bad first impression.”

She rolled her eyes. “Taerelle said he likes arguing, and I know he cares about the truth, so there might be a way to push him into keeping me on…”

“By coming clean?”

“No.” Refusing to commit felt more dangerous than keeping to the path, however narrow. “If he doesn’t know what really happened, I’m not going to make things worse for you and Celaena by telling him. No,” she convinced herself, “he likes to be right, but he has to believe he is right for it to count. My only hope is to convince him that he’s wrong to end my apprenticeship.”

Iolas sucked air through his teeth. “…I don’t know how you would make that argument. I’d end our apprenticeships, if I was in his shoes. We’re only a few days in, and neither of us has acted very wisely.”

“That might be my argument — that it’s very early on.” She mulled it over. “How are we meant to learn, if we aren’t allowed to make mistakes?”

“I could see that working with my old master,” he admitted, sitting forward, “but not Almon, at least not from you. Maybe if he liked you as much as those senior apprentices, things would be different.”

Saphienne leaned her head on his shoulder. “I wish we had a different teacher.”

“No point in dreaming.” He accepted her leaning. “I think you just have to rove out into the forest and see if it’s on fire. If he denies you the path of wizardry… I don’t know. What else do you want to try? You’d be a master calligrapher.”

Her gaze was lost in the reflection of the sky. “That isn’t enough; that won’t be enough.”

“I know.” He leaned his head against her for a moment, then nudged her away. “Whatever happens… we’ll probably look back on this, one day, and laugh about how important it all seemed at the time.”

The thought amused her. “Do you think we’ll still be friends, when we’re full adults?”

“I don’t see why not.” He smirked at her. “You know, the day after our trip to the teahouse, I spoke to my mother about you. I was feeling self-conscious — I don’t have any other friends your age.”

Curious, but feeling a little vulnerable, Saphienne brought her knees up to her chest, reading his expression as she leant her head against them. “What did she say?”

“She told me we’re the same age.” He chuckled at her confusion. “A few years between us seems a lot right now… but ten years from now? Fifty? One hundred? Gods keep us well — a thousand?” His smile was exasperated. “The longer we live, the more trivial the gap between us will become. She told me that, as long as I made allowance for your current age, and set appropriate boundaries, no one would think it strange.”

“That’s ironic…” Her mind was on Tolduin. “…An elder assumed that Faylar was interested in me.”

“He’s really not.” Iolas had correctly read their relationship. “He doesn’t look at you like– he doesn’t see you that way.” And he’d also noticed how Faylar felt about Celaena.

“Speaking of how people see me,” Saphienne said, straightening up as she changed the subject, “what’s so remarkable about my hair? Is it because I don’t braid it? Lots of people tie theirs back.”

Iolas was surprised, and there was quiet joy in his voice when he answered. “Saphienne… I’m not making fun of you, but do you really not know?”

Glancing from her brown, springtime tresses to his, she shook her head.

“Your hair has waves.” He traced a finger down his own, utterly straight hair.

She blinked.

“You’ve never noticed the difference? How often do you have to brush it?”

Her mother had the same hair as her, Saphienne realised; she never knew the waves in their hair were unusual. “…Daily, but only so it sits well. If I leave it for a week it starts to tangle. Is that strange?”

“It’s distinctive,” he admitted. “Some people would guess it comes from a distant ancestor who wasn’t an elf, but my father says that’s seldom true — that there are plenty of small differences between people. He said there’s even some elves with facial hair–”

“You’re joking!”

“Really!” He rubbed at his chin. “He told me half-elves sometimes have it, so it’s commonly shaved off, but there are elves with well-attested, clearly recorded lineages who have facial hair. He said there’s even a god who’s sometimes depicted with a beard, though he couldn’t remember which one.”

Her lifelong feeling of standing out was, to a minor extent, beginning to make sense. “I don’t know who my family are on my mother’s side. Maybe I am descended from a half-elf…” She found herself grinning as she wound a rivulet of her hair around her fingers. “…That would be amazing.”

“So long as you don’t age like one,” Iolas agreed.

Her delight drained away… yet, for reasons she couldn’t explain, the thought of her growing old and dying wasn’t what leeched her joy. “I suppose that would be awful, wouldn’t it?”

Before Iolas could say more, Saphienne climbed to her feet, lifting her shoes and socks. Conveniently enough, another swan – the cob mated to the pen – was serenely approaching from out on the lake, territorial.

“We should head back to Thessa,” she announced. “And I should stop putting off the inevitable.”

Saphienne could tell that Iolas had read the change in her mood… and that he mistook her impending meeting with the wizard as the cause. Thankfully, he said nothing as they picked their way back through the water, Saphienne balling the hem of her skirt in one hand as she held her shoes in the other. She had enough to think about, without trying to explain the feelings that–

Her sudden dart forward drew his attention. “Saphienne?”

She stood ahead of him among the lilies, grinning at the long-tailed amphibians retreating from her feet. “Frogs… maybe even toads… I didn’t see them last time.”

Iolas caught up and peered over her shoulder. “Closer to tadpoles right now; they’ve only just begun their metamorphosis. You like them?”

Saphienne was glad he couldn’t see the heartache in her face. She took a moment to decide, and then a moment more to find the words and steady her voice. “…I had a friend who liked them.”

“No one’s ever too old to like animals,” Iolas misunderstood, reassuring her with a pat on the shoulder as he slipped past. “Thessa’s always sketching the wildlife, and she loves squirrels.”

Though slow to follow him, when she eventually did, Saphienne’s steps felt lighter than before.

* * *

As it turned out, Thessa also liked to draw figures: she had composed a view around the scene of Saphienne and Iolas sat together on the small island, her elven eyesight able to discern them clearly against the glare. Yet she had left off any identifying features, such as Saphienne’s hair, depicting the swans with more fidelity.

“A bit sentimental for your work, isn’t it?” Iolas teased his sister.

“I liked the juxtaposition. Anyway, shouldn’t we give people what they want?” She tapped her cheek with her charcoal, unconcerned by the shadow it left behind. “I might make it romantic when I paint it — put a couple of adults there, set it in summertime, that sort of thing.” She glanced to where Saphienne was lacing her shoes. “If you don’t mind? Sorry, Iolas is very used to me using him for reference. I’m not implying–”

“I’m studying sculpture,” she replied, “so I understand. You work with what you have in front of you, which isn’t the same as what it becomes. Paint what you like.”

“You know what? I like you.” Thessa enjoyed her own pun.

The three made small talk for a few minutes, and then Saphienne took her leave, heading south with a clearer head.

On her journey home from the lake, she realised that Faylar’s other birthday gift was far more valuable than her first book — and that he would probably make fun of her, should she share that. She resolved to tell him anyway, assuming she ever found a good moment.

But even if good moments still lay ahead, first she had to survive her meeting with Almon.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

* * *

Dressed now in her apprentice’s robes, perhaps for the last time, Saphienne approached the towering tree as though heading to war. She arrived as the sun contemplated a descent toward evening.

Yet when she entered the parlour, her master was absent. Peacock occupied his favourite perch upon the high-backed chair, and gave an elaborate whistle to announce her entry. They watched each other awkwardly while she waited.

“Saphienne.” Almon called down to her from upstairs, his voice loud but without inflection. “You can come up.”

Whatever he was planning, his familiar gave nothing away — Peacock only pointed to the stairs with his wing.

Adjusting the strap of her satchel, Saphienne bowed to the bird before she went over to the curving staircase. She ascended in steely readiness and hushed curiosity.

Only Celaena had been beyond the classroom, and she had never described what lay overhead. What Saphienne found was anticlimactic: the stairs came up through the floor into a sitting room, lavishly appointed with thick, braided rugs and two comfortable armchairs. More bookshelves were set into the walls, and also under the ascending staircase that lay opposite where she emerged. Myriad volumes with colourful covers were arranged upon them… and only there, the wizard’s sitting room much neater than his classroom.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Almon called again. This time his voice travelled up from below, another set of steps descending to the right, presumably down into the kitchen that adjoined the back of the tree.

Wary, Saphienne calmed herself by checking the bookshelves — her brows rising as she realised they were filled with works of popular fiction. The wizard appeared to read widely, without much regard for sophistication in prose, the many works of adventure, mystery, romance, and horror all falling far short of the high, literary writing that Filaurel had led Saphienne to reflect upon as she prepared to study magic. Then again, the librarian had always warned her to never judge a book by its cover, and good stories were still good stories, worth enjoying, even if they were plainly written and unambiguous in meaning.

Drifting toward the nearest chair, she noticed a small table placed between them, a chess set laid upon it — and a game in progress. Saphienne scrutinised the triangular central board, then the three, tiered boards that encompassed its edge, unable to make sense of what she saw.

“Do you play?”

The wizard had risen into view, two teacups in hand.

Thrown by his civility, Saphienne shook her head. “I never learned.”

“A shame; I expect you would be quite good at chess. Please, take a seat.”

Wondering whether his words were a subtle barb, Saphienne sank down onto – and into – the plush cushions. Her master offered her one of the cups, which she accepted, noticing that a painted, starry coaster had been set on the arm of the chair in advance. She surreptitiously examined her brew, recognising black tea with oat water.

He noticed her disquiet. “A petty divination,” he explained. He was silent as he sipped on his own cup, staring out the far window as he marshalled his thoughts.

Saphienne set the tea aside. “Master–”

“You are not in trouble.” He shifted, uncomfortable, lips pursed. “To the contrary: I expect you will be pleased.”

As she watched, he retrieved papers from his breast pocket, setting them on his lap before lifting an opened letter. Saphienne realised he was avoiding her gaze as he scanned over the contents.

He read aloud. “‘Your report confirms what we expected. Concerning the sympathetic contamination, your apology is acknowledged but unnecessary, as we were aware of the individual responsible, and we have now confirmed their identity by non-magical means. You have our thanks for attending to this task in a timely manner, and our commendation for the elucidatory manner in which you conducted your investigation. Your efforts continue to reflect well upon your membership in the Luminary Vale. Please convey our satisfaction to your apprentices,’” he concluded, his attention directly on her at last, “‘along with the enclosed letter for Saphienne.’”

She blinked.

Smiling tightly, Almon set aside the letter addressed to him, lifting a sealed envelope. He reached forward and placed it on the arm of her chair — but before she could examine it, he stood and held out another letter to her. “First, read this.”

Perplexed, Saphienne accepted the sheet from him. She skimmed it over as he moved to stare out at the woodland, seeing immediately that it was signed in his name and written in the same hand with which it had been signed, affixed with an elaborate, mystical, cerulean seal. As she more thoroughly read the contents, her brow furrowed in growing confusion.

“…A letter of recommendation,” she said, looking up. “From you. Recommending me… but to whom?”

“Whomever you choose to approach.” He posture was unusually stiff. “I can furnish you with a list of qualified wizards currently offering instruction, and I will make appropriate introductions to whomever you wish to meet with.”

Her eyes widened, and she rose to her feet. “You’re ending my apprenticeship?”

“No.” He rounded on her. “You are a capable enough student, but I must release you from your oath to me. It’s become clear that I am singularly unqualified to teach you.”

* * *

Was it shock? Was it the lingering effects of the mushroom tea? No matter the cause, in the second that followed Almon’s admission, time slowed for Saphienne, her thoughts moving as swiftly as when she had been skewered by the matron of the woodlands, charting out the forking possibilities before her as easily as the branches had driven through her flesh. So, too, her emotions were a torrent, drowning her in elation, anxiety, fear, and bitterest resignation.

In the span of a heartbeat, Saphienne decided she would refuse. She would fight him, in order to remain his student.

She would later tell herself that she had made her decision pragmatically. After all, she had several good reasons – all impeccably logical – for her choice. And while it was true that Almon was the only wizard authorised by the Luminary Vale to teach in her village; and so true that she would have to leave the woodland she knew to continue her studies elsewhere; everything Saphienne told herself thereafter was a lie.

She would convince herself that she was stuck with Almon, hermaster… but she could have chosen otherwise. There was every chance she might have found another, kinder, more considerate teacher.

By now, you may know her better than she knew herself. So tell me, if you can:

Why did Saphienne want to stay?

* * *

“I see you’re at a loss for words, for once.” There was no humour in the wizard’s voice, and Almon sipped at his tea before he spoke again. “If you’re wondering whether you’ll have to wait for a period before you continue, you needn’t concern yourself. Apprentices who transfer are accepted at whatever milestone of progress they have achieved, with remedial lessons offered to those who need to catch up to the nearest cohort under their new master.”

With what dignity she could find, she set the letter down. “Why?”

He studied his hands. “My lapse in judgement in allowing you to accompany us evidences that it would be unwise to continue.”

Saphienne inhaled sharply. “This is because you lost your temper.”

Almon bristled, and his gaze was sharper when it alighted on her. “You remain irritatingly perceptive and obnoxiously blunt. Yes, Saphienne. Twice now, I have entirely lost my composure while dealing with you.”

“So because you can’t control–”

“Saphienne, do be quiet.” With a sigh, he drained his cup. “The point, child, is that in neither instance had you done anything to warrant my unrestrained anger. You didn’t know that Hallucination spells could be collapsed through disbelief; you didn’t know that a single drop of your blood could contaminate a sympathetic connection.” He set his empty teacup on the windowsill. “I dislike you, Saphienne. I haven’t the patience to teach you despite that. Attempting to do so has impaired my judgement, which could have had disastrous consequences for your wellbeing.”

Crossing her arms, she stared him down. “No matter how angry you become, you would never seriously hurt me.”

He laughed, bitterly. “There is a bruise on your wrist from where I grabbed you, and scratches from where you cut yourself right in front of me. Superficial as wounds go, they evidence that you could come to serious harm at my side — through my neglect.” The wizard shook his head and pondered the floor. “And Rydel, Taerelle, Iolas, Celaena… their education shouldn’t be impacted by my quarrelling with you.”

Underneath his professed concern for her safety, Saphienne recognised the real reason Almon wanted her gone: he was remorseful for how poorly he had behaved, was shamed by his outbursts and the bad example he had set for his students… but his pride wouldn’t allow him to apologise, let alone mend his ways. What else could he do to maintain his ego? He was, despite admitting culpability, blaming Saphienne for his behaviour.

Then and there, she identified what Almon most wanted.

All she had to do was make teaching her the way to get it.

“It’s probably for the best,” she said, sitting back down with a scowl of derision. “I’ve seen you be petty and arrogant — but I’ve never seen you be stupid before.”

He flushed, and cold wrath was in his eyes when he frostily asked “In what way can this decision possibly be characterised as stupid? This is the logical, responsible choice–”

“Almon, do be quiet.” Cool within, she rekindled a measure of the morning’s anger and let it into her voice, burning as she went on. “Your judgement wasn’t flawed, and you’re too preoccupied with appearing aloof to see why this really happened.”

Infuriated by her use of his name, he smoothed down his sky-blue robe. “You have just given me cause to dismiss you–”

“Then do it.” She tilted her head. “If you’re really this blind to yourself, I’d rather be dismissed by you than rely on your recommendation. I can’t even pretend to respect you, if you don’t care for what’s true.”

“You’re goading me,” he recognised, but stepped forward all the same. “For what purpose? Are you trying to show me something about my temper, you condescending–”

“What’s the point of trying to show you anything?” she shot back. “You can’t even recognise what’s right in front of you.”

“Your defiant insolence is quite apparent.”

“And your affection for your favourite students isn’t?”

Almon stilled.

Saphienne leant forward. “Your judgement was sound. You knew it was a bad idea to let me come along: you said yourself that I wasn’t sufficiently prepared. But you let yourself be talked into it by Taerelle and Rydel. You weren’t angry with me at the time.”

Across the drawn out moment that followed, his frown was a cracking glacier. “When,” he finally demanded, “did I ever say that Taerelle and Rydel are my favourite students?”

“You didn’t have to.” She steepled her fingers as she spoke. “Faced with an important task from the Luminary Vale, your first thought was to use it as a teaching moment. And who did you choose to teach? And why those two? You have twenty-one senior apprentices, and Rydel and Taerelle’s years of study mean they aren’t in the most senior cohort.” Her tone was vicious. “Speaking of which… why a teaching moment? If your concern was success, you would have dispensed with that and called on your most accomplished students; Arelyn is a wizard in all but title, isn’t he? He would have been the logical choice to support your investigation. But you wanted a reason to bring those two along.”

The wizard held his lapels, defensively pulling his robe tighter around his girth. “You’re assuming very much, child, on very little evidence.”

“Then tell me: have you complained about me to any other senior students?”

Almon said nothing.

Nodding to herself, she pressed him. “Why complain about me at all? People complain because they want sympathy. Why would you want sympathy from those two? Because you’re fond of them, and their opinions matter to you.” She stood. “You were in control. You were correct. Your mistake wasn’t caused by disliking me, but by likingthem, enough to want to make them happy. Peacock’s part of your mind — and he sided with your students against you, sat on Taerelle’s shoulder.”

Pacing toward him, she put as much scorn into her explanation as she could. “What a terrible failure of judgement — choosing to take a small, calculated risk, because your favourite students asked! You weighed the risk against their regard for you, and you let them persuade you, and were it not for terrible luck, the odds were in your favour. But the worst part,” she concluded, inches from him, “is that you’re so caught up in your own self-regard that you can’t admit what’s upset you. Instead, you lied: you don’t really care about me. Me getting hurt is an excuse to avoid acknowledging what actually matters to you.”

He waited. When she wouldn’t say, he spoke through gritted teeth. “Which is?”

“You mistakenly think you’ve fallen in their esteem.” She openly laughed at him. “You were so focused on what went wrong, you didn’t notice when Rydel deliberately took the attention from me. He knows fine well you have a temper — and he knew that you would shout at him! He was ready for it. And he wasn’t thrown in the slightest; he went right on to change topics, didn’t he? Nor was Taerelle upset when she walked me down the hill. She was relaxed, smiling — and do you know what she told me?”

He hungered to hear.

Saphienne imitated the older student’s genial manner. “‘He has a terrible temper whenever he’s disappointed in himself. Our master knows he should have trusted his judgement.’”

Taking a deep breath, the wizard abruptly turned away.

Saphienne recognised her opening. “As an elf, you’re vain and quite childish,” she added, “and as wizards go, you’re not especially accomplished… but you’re an effective teacher. They both hold you in very high regard for that. High enough to think nothing of your deficiencies in character.”

“And you?” he wondered, still looking in the other direction, his voice flat. “Since you have the audacity to scathingly rebuke me, you tell me: why aren’t you leaping at the chance to be taught by someone else?”

Inwardly, she ignored what she thought was her reasoning, grateful for Taerelle’s insight into her master. “I care about what’s real, and what’s not. One of us has to be proven right. Either I have what it takes to be a wizard despite you, or I’m going to fail out of this apprenticeship. Until then, and only then,” she vowed, “there will be no truce between us.”

His false chuckle couldn’t quite conceal his emotion. “Ah, and the only respect and acknowledgement I will receive from you will be for the sake of the Great Art, I expect.”

“Teach me or fail me,” she shrugged, “whatever you choose; you’re the one who has to explain yourself to them.”

“And you believe we might proceed, in light of your behaviour today?”

“Mine’s no worse than yours.” Jubilation erupted within — she had won. “Your anger doesn’t matter to me.”

“Taerelle said you were quite upset,” he countered, his sense of superiority returning as he once more faced his student. “She said you needed consoling. Tears were mentioned.”

Although it annoyed her, Saphienne recognised it was prudent not to argue, and feigned that she wilted. “…When I thought I had failed my apprenticeship. I thought I’d overlooked something you’d taught me.”

He believed her. Moving to the armchair, he lifted the recommendation he had written — and conjured a tongue of smokeless fire to burn it on his palm. “Then anticipate further tears, apprentice. You had your chance. But,” he acknowledged, “I will grant you this, out of respect for how you choose to pursue the Great Art: conceited though you may be, you are no coward.”

“Mild praise coming from you, Master.”

He smiled, and not all of his smile held anger. He kept his blazing palm aloft as he sat back down on his chair. “Read the letter. Unless you’re intent on withholding its contents?”

Having forgotten the sealed envelope from the Luminary Vale, Saphienne approached with dread, lifted it cautiously, cracking the plain seal. Her voice was deceptively steady. “I’ll decide after reading.”

* * *

The calligraphy was neat and unadorned, conveying a short message. She went over it several times while her master watched, each pass leaving her more unsure whether she should be relieved or intensely worried. “…Who is High Master Lenitha?”

Almon nearly dropped the diminishing flames he held; he waved his other hand, whispered a quick spell that caused the teacup he had left by the window to rise into the air and float close enough to reclaim. He set the cup on his lap and deposited the hot ashes within it before he answered. “High Master Lenitha is an elder of several millennia, and a wizard held in great esteem within the Luminary Vale.”

“I see.” Saphienne folded the letter closed. “She congratulates me on my resourcefulness, and tells me that the Luminary Vale will observe my progress with interest.”

For once, the mere Master of Hallucination couldn’t even slightly veil his reaction — left completely dumbfounded.

She pursed her lips. “Is this a good or bad thing?”

“…It’s promising.” Pride, envy, and resentment all flickered behind his eyes. “A letter like that is the closest anyone may come to receiving a direct invitation to apply to the Luminary Vale — assuming that you can qualify.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “…The Luminary Vale wants me as a member?”

“No.” He massaged his temples. “You are being told that your membership will be considered, should you one day choose to apply. Not all who apply are subject to consideration. Many are rejected outright, or have consideration of their application deferred until a date in the distant future.”

The potential implications made her feel dizzy. “What did you say to–”

“I shared your method for finding the Fascination spell, along with the full extent of your involvement; I stressed that the blame for your accidental contamination of the blood we found was entirely mine. Otherwise,” he explained, “all they have heard of you is your name, your recorded lineage, and your and Iolas’ success against the spirit during your introduction to Invocation — which I was mandated to report.”

Perhaps she had impressed her. Possibly, amused her.

“Put that somewhere safe.” Advising Saphienne pained Almon, and he tried to downplay the letter’s significance. “Let it give you false hope of your eventual success. Should you enjoy distant fantasy, then dream of enclosing it with your thesis.” The wizard stood — and caught the falling teacup, setting it too firmly on his chair. “And, whatever you do: make no mention of it to Taerelle, Celaena, or any of the other students. In fact, tell no one at all.”

“What’s required to apply–”

“Cast a spell first.” He refused to share more. “Cast a spell, and then, maybe, I’ll encourage your foolish ambitions. For now, however…”

She took the hint that it was time to leave, and opened her satchel to stow the letter, taking out her notes on the prior morning. “You asked for these.”

“What?” Distracted, he took a moment to remember himself before accepting them. “Ah, of course. We’ll see what Peacock makes of them.” He held her writing against his prominent stomach as he clasped his hands before himself, retreating into formality. “You are dismissed, apprentice.”

With a perfunctory bow, Saphienne went back down the stairs. She expected it would be a very long time before she climbed them again.

* * *

Back at her family home, Saphienne took out the book that Faylar had given her for her birthday, studying the binding that held the cover in place before she carefully unwove the thread and loosened the green leather from the thin wood it clothed.

As she hid the letter where her mother would never find it, Saphienne reflected on the portion that she hadn’t shared with Almon. She hadn’t omitted much from her summary – really, she had just paraphrased what was written – but she believed the phrasing the High Master had chosen was very deliberate.

“We congratulate you on your resourcefulness with regard to the concealment,” the letter had said. “Henceforth, and with all due care, the Luminary Vale will observe your progress with interest.”

No matter what she did next, Saphienne couldn’t say that she hadn’t been warned.

End of Chapter 50