True to his word, Almon would spend much of the next two weeks summarising the practical applications of spellcraft within elven society.

He would begin with a brief review of the Luminary Vale’s role in overseeing how magic was taught and practised, and from there he’d expand to cover the provision of education for every elf. To her surprise, Saphienne would soon learn that all libraries were ultimately accountable to the head librarian of the Luminary Vale, which meant that Filaurel was nominally under their supervision.

Of course, when Saphienne would ask why this was the case, Almon would quite naturally suggest that she should discuss the matter with her mentor — an amused gleam in his eye implying the trouble thereby caused for Filaurel.

After examining education, a foray into health would follow, wherein they’d learn how priests like Nelathiel organised with healers to ensure all elves remained hale and well. The local healer to the Eastern Vale would be duly mentioned, and Almon would recommend that any of them who planned to attend upon the sick and injured should ask Gaelyn about his chosen art.

Preventing the spread of sickness required sanitation, making the topic the natural progression to their overview. A significant digression would teach the children the fundamentals of infectious disease — what distinguished illnesses from poisonings and inherited maladies. The wizard would promise to further clarify why managing waste was not just an aesthetic concern… once they had turned their gaze beyond elven lands.

Conjoined to sanitation was the art of reclamation – so they would next hear – whereby whatever had outlived its usefulness was repurposed or removed from the woodlands. From reclamation, the group would then proceed to consider the cultivation and development of resources.

And before too long? They would speak about crafting.

* * *

While all this unfolded, Saphienne was busy preparing for summer.

“I’m not sure that identical dresses would work,” she told Laewyn, trying her very best to be diplomatic as she sketched her figure. “Celaena has a different body shape from you, and if you want the dresses to be flattering then you should each go with what best complements you.”

“But we need people to know we’re together!” Laewyn almost whined, and she sought support from Celaena as she paced within her girlfriend’s private sitting room. “Celaena wants us to match… don’t you?”

Seated beside Faylar on the couch, Celaena was trapped between agreeing with her partner and deferring to expertise. “I do want us to look like we belong together, but Saphienne knows what she’s talking about–”

“Most of the time.” Iolas was perched on the armchair, putting his increasingly blonde hair up in a new braid. “I don’t see why a traditional style is such a bad idea?”

Faylar groaned. “Yes, father, the traditional ways are always best.”

Laewyn and Celaena giggled; Iolas paused his braiding to pointedly flick two fingers at Faylar, much to the younger boy’s amusement.

And to Saphienne’s confusion. “What was that?”

Her friends all looked to where she was seated on the windowsill, puzzled.

“Oh!” Faylar smiled as he understood her. “He’s telling me to go fuck myself — that’s what the gesture means.”

“I was only being half serious,” Iolas clarified. “Faylar had a point: that was the sort of thing an adult would say.”

“Laudable of you, to recognise you’re boring.”

“Now you can fuck all the way off,” Iolas scoffed at him. “You just like being different for the sake of it. If everyone wore their hair short, you’d be making a point of growing it long.”

The mention of his chin-length locks made Faylar run his fingers through them, brushing those closest to Iolas down across his ear. “I’m not a contrarian… and I won’t hear fashion advice from someone who’s never even left the village. Saphienne is right–”

“I’ll have you know,” Iolas interrupted, “I have left the Eastern Vale.”

Laewyn stopped striding back and forth. “Really? When?”

“Last year.” He finished tying up his braid and folded his arms. “Last summer. Thessa took me with her when she went to visit a couple she fools around with, and I got to spend the summer solstice in the Vale of the White River.”

Laewyn’s eyes widened. “‘Fool around with?’”

“Never mind that,” Faylar said, sitting forward. “You’ve been to another solstice festival? In a different village?”

Iolas let himself be smug. “Still think I’m boring?”

The younger boy grinned as he shook his head. “What was it like?”

Sliding down into the armchair, Iolas rubbed his chin. “The village wasn’t any different from ours. Underneath the festivities? If not for the geography, the age of the buildings, and the local produce, you would think you were still in the Eastern Vale.”

“That sounds about right.” Faylar stood up and walked over to the levitating tray where Celaena had left a teapot and cups. “My aunt lives in the Thorny Vale — it really doesn’t live up to the name. I’d imagined it would be…”

“Dramatic?” Laewyn offered.

“Something like that…” He shrugged as he poured some drinks. “I expected it to be gloomier? More foreboding? Not just another village. I was disappointed.”

Celaena had been listening with a faraway look. “I don’t remember much about the Vale of Stones… or the village closest to my mother’s temple. There wasn’t really anything that stood out to me.”

Saphienne was picturing a younger Faylar, and she stopped her study of Laewyn to sit cross-legged on the sill as she addressed him. “Is that why you took an interest in human culture? You decided elves were too mundane?”

Blowing on the too-hot tea, Faylar eyed her warmly. “You’re probably right. I learned about humans for the first time on a later visit to see my aunt — I didn’t cut my hair right away, but I started studying the common trade tongue once we arrived back home.” He placed both cups down to cool and inclined his head to Iolas. “But, anyway: I was really asking you about the festival. I only remember the last one held here.”

Now Iolas held the room’s anticipation, and he flushed. “Maybe I am a little boring… I made some new friends – they were around my age – and we just enjoyed the games and the spectacle of it all. By the end of the first night I’d eaten twice my weight in sweets, and on the second night I just listened in while people shared their stories.”

Laewyn asked, “Didn’t you meet anyone?”

The way she said it made Iolas roll his eyes and blush harder. “I got some offers, but I wasn’t really there for that. And the festival wasn’t…” He tried to find the words. “…I didn’t feel like everyone was particularly eager to find intimate companionship. Not that there weren’t people doing that — Thessa made fun of me afterward for missing out.”

Faylar looked just as reassured to hear that as Saphienne was; his inflection implied he was more curious about the revelry than keen to indulge. “What about drinking?”

“She joked about that, too.”

Saphienne could almost hear her teasing — and giggled, joined by Laewyn.

“Honestly?” Iolas directed his conclusion to Celaena. “Everyone was just happy, relaxed, and welcoming. That’s what left the biggest impression on me.”

The wizard’s daughter mulled over his point. “I hadn’t considered about inviting people from outside our village. I didn’t expect we’d be meeting any — there were only a couple of children I didn’t know at the last festival.”

“We were younger,” Faylar reminded her. “Most adults don’t travel to the summer festival when they have small children… or at least, they don’t usually bring them along.”

Celaena nodded. “It’ll be different for us this year.” A thought occurred to her, and she looked at Iolas as though seeing him anew. “And much more different for you! You’ll be eighteen by the festival, won’t you?”

Her reminder made him squirm. “…Yes,” he acknowledged, and quickly tried to move on. “What about you two? Celaena, when do you turn sixteen? And when is Laewyn turning seventeen?”

Laewyn shared a conspiratorial grin with Saphienne. “Oh, any day now…”

Celaena was less entertained. “Laewyn turns sixteen at the end of summer — and I’m already sixteen. Not that you remembered…”

Faylar burst out laughing. “Oh shit! He missed your birthday?!”

Indeed, Iolas had: Saphienne recognised guilt in the way he tried to sink deeper into the cushions. His voice was choked with embarrassment. “…I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean– I didn’t realise that–”

“Laewyn just looks older,” Saphienne tried to console him, earning an indignant look from Celaena — and cackles of laughter from Laewyn and Faylar.

Iolas swallowed . “When was your birthday?”

“Late winter.” A little of the season had crept into Celaena’s voice. “I had a lovely day birdwatching in the woods; I recall you were busy doing something with your sister.”

“I

remembered,” Faylar was sure to tell her. “We weren’t speaking to each other, or I’d have gone with you.”

Mortified, Iolas covered his face with his hands. “Fuck. Why didn’t you say–”

“The only moment it came up wasn’t a good time.” Celaena left her resentment behind her as she got up. “But, none of this matters. We’re fine now.”

Iolas sprang to his feet to meet her. “It does matter — I’m really sorry, Celaena. Can I make it up to you? Is there anything that would?”

Laewyn had a suggestion. “How about wine? For the festival?”

Scowling at her girlfriend, Celaena sniffed. “We’re not drinking wine — Filaurel won’t allow it.”

“How about we drink before she–”

Celaena snatched up a cushion from the couch and tossed it at her.

* * *

Once everyone had stopped laughing, Faylar brought the tea over to Saphienne and stood next to her while he sipped his own cup. “Iolas,” he asked, “what are your plans for the festival? Are you allowed to spend the evening with us?”

“My mother says so.” Iolas abruptly sagged. “You’re all going to make fun of me for this… but she told me I’m allowed to help Filaurel chaperone–”

He had resigned himself to the ensuing jeers, but his grateful gaze told Saphienne he was glad she didn’t join in.

She held her tea above her sketchbook as she studied him in turn. “Won’t you be busy on the night of the solstice? Or are you putting your ceremony off?”

He moved to the opposite wall and leant back against it. “I don’t know. My father asked which shrine I’d like us to celebrate at… unless I choose another one, it’ll be the shrine to Our Lord of the Endless Hunt.”

Saphienne grinned. “Nelathiel’s your priest! I should have guessed that…”

“We haven’t spoken much.” He seemed ill at ease.

Remembering what Nelathiel had told her about the children for whom she was responsible – and what she hadn’t disclosed about how she knew Iolas – made Saphienne’s grin even brighter. “She’s not like you might imagine. She’s very grounded, and caring.”

“It’s not so much her that puts me off,” Iolas replied, “as her patron god. I don’t really relate to what He stands for. I’d prefer to have the ceremony at a shrine to Our Lady of the Balanced Scales, but my father says the nearest one is a day and a half away, outside the vale, near human lands.”

Faylar pondered that. “Is She a goddess of trade?”

Saphienne opened her mouth–

“Please don’t,” Iolas begged. “We’ll be here all afternoon if you start.”

–And shut it again, with a sheepish smile.

Celaena had drawn Laewyn to the couch, and the taller girl now lay with her head on her girlfriend’s lap. “Um, Iolas? How are you planning to dress?”

Her question gave him a lengthy pause. “…I haven’t actually decided. I’m guessing we’re not wearing our robes when out and about at the festival?”

“I won’t be,” Celaena confirmed. “Father said even the High Masters of the Luminary Vale relax during the festival, and there’s no expectation that apprentices will do anything other than have fun.”

Laewyn pressed him. “So you’ll be wearing silvery clothes?”

“Maybe.” He touched his hair — the braid was more elaborate than usual. “I’ve been practising more complicated braids. As long as everyone can tell my age, then I could just wear the same old white.”

Saphienne remembered the sea of people around her and Kylantha. “Lots of adults wear white at the festival…”

“We’re all children of the gods,” Laewyn repeated, though she was disappointed by what Iolas planned. “But that’s really dull! You can finally wear something different, and you only want to change your hair?”

Faylar swirled his tea around in his cup. “Leave him alone. My mother requests all my clothes — and it’s not that big a deal. You’re always accessorising your outfits with different colours.”

She sat up halfway in delight. “You noticed?”

He preened in his pallid garb. “Style recognises style.”

Celaena snorted as she pulled Laewyn back down to her lap. “We should coordinate. We’ll make a better impression if we do.” She ran her fingertip along Laewyn’s brow, furrowing her own. “But we can’t style our hair the same way — Faylar’s is too short.”

“You could all cut yours to match me.”

Everyone ignored him.

Laewyn hummed as she came up with ideas. “If Saphienne is making dresses for me and Celaena–”

“And me,” Faylar added.

Iolas silently raised his eyebrows.

Laewyn was perplexed as she sat up.

Celaena turned around on the couch to stare at him in surprise.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Saphienne was preoccupied by the challenge. She set her tea down, lifted her charcoal pencil, and turned to a fresh page as she studied Faylar. “Since you’re not very muscular, and you don’t have any cleavage, I’d recommend you stick to a high neckline–”

“An outfit!” Faylar realised his mistake, cringing beneath the explosive laughter of Celaena, Laewyn, and Iolas. “I just meant an outfit! Something with trousers!”

“You know, with those legs, I think you could make a high hem really work–”

“I’m not a girl!” Faylar insisted — hastily adding “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a girl, or dressing like one, I just don’t–”

“Now who’s boring?” Iolas quipped.

In reply, Faylar used his free hand to tell them all to go fuck themselves.

* * *

Once Saphienne had finished sketching Faylar, Laewyn sat on the windowsill with her to consider their options. “So that makes four outfits…”

She had miscounted — Saphienne smirked. “You’re wrong: there’s only three. You, Celaena, and Faylar.”

Faylar was still beside Saphienne, admiring himself on the page; he reflexively nudged her. “Prickly. She’s counting you, too.”

Saphienne blinked. “…I’ve never actually worn festival clothes. My mother requested a dress for me when I was little, but she never gave it to me.”

Her friends grew sombre around her.

But Faylar squeezed onto the windowsill as well, and he leaned against her shoulder in support. “Is that why you took the time to study tailoring? And the shoemaking, and how to be a jeweller? Were you learning how to make things you’ll need?”

Although she parted her lips to tell him no, to tell him that she was merely concerned with questions of appearance and form, Saphienne found that she wasn’t quite certain about her motives anymore. Did she have a need for self-sufficiency? Had she wanted to learn how to do for herself what her mother never could?

She pursed her lips. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“I don’t believe that,” Iolas chuckled.

Trying to explain herself to her friends made her feel anxious. “It’s complicated?”

Celaena knelt on the couch, her elbows braced on its back. “I can believe that. But do you have enough time to make four dresses?”

Faylar flicked his fingers at her again.

While she was confident in her skills, Saphienne needed tools and materials. “We’ve a little under two months. So long as I have all the things I need, and I spend less time on my sculpture until after the festival, I could make an outfit for Iolas as well.”

Laewyn sipped from Saphienne’s teacup. “We can request the fabrics… but it could be hard to find space in the crafting hall at short notice…”

Working around other people didn’t appeal to her anyway. “I’ll need to ask Jorildyn if he’ll let me use his studio.”

Laewyn fumbled with the teacup. “Wait — you know Jorildyn?”

“…He taught me?”

But the girl was staring accusingly at her partner. “You knew this?”

Celaena was nonplussed. “Um, I think she told me? Why does it matter?”

Rather than answer, Laewyn urgently shoved the teacup into Faylar’s hands and threw her arms around Saphienne, squeezing her tight as she pleaded into her ear. “Saphienne,I am begging you: please tell me you can convince him to help you make our dresses?”

Saphienne flushed hot and struggled to push her back as Faylar eased away. “I– I don’t think he would want to! Why?”

“Because he’s the best dressmaker in the village!” Her enthusiasm bordered on mania as clung tighter. “Everyone would be so jealous of us!”

“They would?!”

“You can’t imagine!” She glanced over the others as though they were dressed in the finest fashion. “The five of us, in beautiful clothes, able to brag that Jorildyn worked on them? Everyone would be talking about it!”

Desperate to escape the embrace, but also persuaded by her passion, Saphienne sought agreement from Iolas. “Would you like to be part of this? I could work in some silver…”

She saw him decide to play along for her sake. “As long as it’s not too much work…” Iolas let his hair down with a playful flourish. “…What’s the worst that could happen?”

* * *

Asking her former master for help was difficult for Saphienne. Not because she had too much pride — Jorildyn was quite obviously better than her at his chosen art, and she accepted that his tailoring would always be superior to her own. Nor did it matter than he had been antagonistic while teaching her, especially since that antagonism had evaporated the moment she asked him to make her first set of robes.

No, the problem for Saphienne was that she needed him to agree, and there were myriad reasons why he should refuse. She had only studied with him for four months, which was hardly long enough for him to be invested in her accomplishments. There were certainly no compelling reasons why her request should be given priority. And – most pressingly – he would surely be incredibly busy in the run up to the solstice festival, and convincing him to add not just one, but five outfits to his workload was entirely unreasonable.

Yet Saphienne was undeterred. Compared to everything she had fought through in the past few weeks, inducing Jorildyn to do what he enjoyed would be trivial.

How she approached him would be the key to her success. There was no way to argue him into taking her side unless he felt sympathy for her cause, and that meant she had to present her request before she even said a word. Fortunately, the solution was immediately apparent to Saphienne:

What better way was there to appeal to a tailor, than through clothing?

Were she less experienced in manipulation, she might have worn the robes he had made for her, through which she could remind him that he had already agreed to assist her… but that risked him concluding he had done enough. To reach him demanded a subtler overture, one that was based on what she knew he wanted, or what he had wanted, back when he she was his apprentice.

Saphienne rummaged through her closet until she unearthed the final dress she had made while she studied under Jorildyn. She had grown since sewing it, which fit with her purpose: a hem that was too short would make an even stronger impression, though she did have to let it out in the sides to accommodate her hips. She was careful to make the new stitching more careless.

As she examined herself in her bedroom mirror, Saphienne was satisfied. One look at her would be enough for the tailor tell that his instruction had been incomplete — that there was more for her to learn. Phrasing what she needed to fit what he desired, Saphienne would present Jorildyn with a second chance to coax her away from the pursuit of magic…

In theory, at least, it was good plan.

* * *

When Saphienne arrived at the studio – her satchel on her shoulder, sartorial sketches underarm – she found that the door was ajar, and heard young voices raised in supplication.

“We know we should have come sooner,” said a girl, her every syllable effusive, “but we didn’t know we’d have the fabric until today! Please, Master Jorildyn–”

“Flattery will not change my mind.” His voice was calm and reserved — Saphienne knew his attention was on his work. “You well know that I am far from being a master at my chosen art.”

“But your dresses are–”

“Fully accounted for. I haven’t any availability, not to make three more.”

Another, sharper voice cut in. “What about just one?”

“Not even one more.” Saphienne could picture him looking up from whatever he was doing, hearing the mild scorn that had demanded he pause. “Really, Lensa? Asking right in front of your friends?”

“I… didn’t say it would be for me.”

“No? Would it have been for Tirisa?” His tone was disbelieving. “Or were you thinking about Syndelle?”

The third voice was a little lower, and sounded hopeful. “I’d love to have a dress made by you.”

Saphienne recognised the subsequent silence as his inward sigh. “Yes, Syndelle, the three of you have made that very clear.” He was less exasperated than patient toward the girl. “I won’t be accepting any more requests before the festival.”

Now the first girl, Tirisa, snapped. “And what’re we supposed to do with all of this?”

“I already told you that I won’t be accepting gifts,” Jorildyn replied, his poise returning as his focus shifted back to his labour. “As for the rest? Either find someone who is willing to take your requests–”

Lensa was cold. “You know everyone’s busy.”

“Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.” His irritation finally showed. “Treat this as a valuable lesson, and take what you requested back to the storehouse.”

Saphienne had been leaning next to the door, and she raised an eyebrow, surprised that the girls had bothered to directly ask for cloth themselves: most crafters handled requests for needed materials. That suggested they were either trying to oblige the tailor, or…

“Let’s go.” Lensa didn’t bother to say anything else to Jorildyn.

“Thank you talking to us,” said Syndelle.

Anticipating the three were about to emerge, Saphienne backed away, started walking toward the entrance–

And nearly ran into the older girl coming out of the door, who looked her up and down with disinterest. “You needn’t bother,” Lensa haughtily declared. “He’s not taking any more requests.”

Although she hadn’t recalled her name, Saphienne dimly recognised the girl, struck by how much taller, thinner, and beguilingly disdainful she looked compared to the face she remembered from their days in the meadow. She was wearing layers, long dress and hooded cloak and shawl that together could almost have been mistaken for robes — but for their pallor, which intensified the striking sapphire of her eyes.

Saphienne caught herself staring. “I’m not here with a request,” she mumbled.

The two girls following Lensa were also familiar faces, closer to Saphienne for all that they were older than her. Faint freckles had distinguished the shorter child from other elves, now made even fainter by poorly applied cosmetics that wrinkled and cracked as she glowered. Towering over all of them, the last girl was broad-shouldered and had a reflexive, somewhat vacant smile for Saphienne when she noticed her outside.

Judging by the way the muscular elf tried to wave (only to remember she was carrying several bundles of shimmering silk), Saphienne guessed she was Syndelle. “Hello Saphienne! Are you here to ask for a dress?”

Holding a tray with a freshly baked cake, Tirisa sneered. “She just said she isn’t here for that. Can’t you pay attention to anything?”

“I’m sorry,” Syndelle replied — apologising to Saphienne.

Lensa had been scrutinising the new arrival imperiously. “Then why are you here?”

From within the studio, Saphienne’s former master pre-empted her answer. “That would between Saphienne and myself.”

Tirisa stepped through the doorway – followed a moment later by a startled Syndelle – as Jorildyn appeared behind them.

“I hadn’t expected to see you out and about,” Jorildyn remarked, reaching up to lean against the top of the frame and stretch. “Aren’t you supposed to have your head in a book?”

Grateful for the opening, Saphienne bowed. “Not everything that’s worth learning can be read in a book.”

He chuckled. “What’s that under your arm?”

Aware that Lensa and Tirisa were glaring, she held her sketchbook up with a weak smile. “Designs for clothes… I was wondering if I could have your help?”

To the shock of the older girls, Jorildyn waved her in as he turned around. “Shut the door behind you — Syndelle and her friends were just leaving.”

Saphienne kept her head up as she went inside, not daring to meet their gazes as she did what she was told. A muffled but cheerful goodbye from Syndelle was promptly followed by a withering curse from Tirisa.

Jorildyn was marking an outline on a bolt of translucent cloth, using yellow chalk with delicate strokes. The space around him was orderly but very crowded, several mannequins lined up in front of the large window, each sporting an elaborate outfit that was incompletely sewn, pins holding the compositions together.

“I’d ask if you care to stitch them,” he said, not glancing up, “but your needlework isn’t as fine as I remember.”

His attention to detail was as sharp as ever. “I’m out of practice.”

“So I see.” Finishing the line he was drawing, he held out his hand for her sketches. “Let’s see what you’ve been working on. Is this for one of your sculptures?”

Passing across her designs, she shook her head. “My friends have asked me to make them outfits for the summer festival… and I’m not sure these are good enough.”

Briefly, she saw his lips twitch as he went over to the window, slipping elegantly between two incomplete dresses as he assumed his favourite seat. He took the time to browse through her early studies. “Your figure work has improved. These are quite good — is this Iolas?”

“Yes.”

“And this one is Celaena, and I recognise this young man as Faylar.” For all that Laewyn admired Jorildyn’s craft, he apparently didn’t know the girl. “You’re far better at depiction than representation.”

Not having planned on receiving his feedback on anything other than the designs, Saphienne was nonetheless keen for it. “What’s the distinction?”

“Depiction shows what is.” He turned the book around to point to her art. “Representation is about showing what is represented. These are quite accurate, and your anatomy is excellent, but I can’t tell anything about how you feel about your friends from your drawings.”

“I wasn’t trying to capture that.” Yet he made Saphienne think, and she opened her satchel to search through her papers. “…This isn’t really relevant, but…” She took out the rough portrait she had made of Celaena. “How does this seem to you?”

He took it with polite interest; his lips parted in mirth. “Much cruder. Childlike. But you can feel the sadness.”

She’d never realised he appreciated sketching for artistic reasons. “By any chance do you paint or draw?”

“No.” He slipped the loose piece into the back of her sketchbook, and moved on to review her plans with a critical eye. “Although you might not credit it, I was always the practical one. When I was your age, I was in such a hurry. Everything had to serve a purpose. Being delightful in itself – art for art’s sake – was never enough.”

Jorildyn had never spoken about his childhood, nor had he ever made or invited comparisons between them that weren’t combative. “I’m like that… or I was, until recently.”

He offered no comment, dwelling instead upon her proposals.

After several minutes he closed the book. “I can see your vision. Why are you here?”

“I want your opinion on how to lay out the–”

“No you don’t.” He lounged against the glass. “You don’t need my help for designs this simple. You haven’t suddenly forgotten how to sew, either.”

Saphienne restrained her surprise. “I’ve been very busy.”

“And always wearing your robes.” He saw right through her. “But here you are, pretending that dress still fits you. Knowing that you’re not one to waste your time,” Jorildyn smirked, “I don’t believe you’re here to ask me to make these for you. So what are you seeking to accomplish here, my oh-so-clever prodigal student?”

That was the moment Saphienne realised she didn’t understand Jorildyn, and she backed up against the drafting table as she crossed her arms. “I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure I know who I’m talking to.”

His laughter was louder and more affectionate than he had ever shown her before. “What is you need from me, Saphienne?”

“I wanted to ask to use your studio,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I was hoping I could convince you to let me work around whatever hours you’re busy, and to maybe fix a few intentional mistakes — so that I could tell Laewyn that you contributed to her garment.”

Her answer tickled him. “I really don’t know why the other girls your age think so highly of my dresses. Fads come and go, I suppose.” He unfolded from the windowsill languidly, and brought her back the book. “I work from morning until early evening. If you promise to get your own thread and fabric, to keep the shears sharp, and to leave everything the way you found it… fine.”

Saphienne tapped the book against her arm, intensely suspicious. “What’s going on?”

But the tailor laughed and returned to chalking. “You tell me. Come back tonight if you want to start. For now, keep the door shut as you leave.”

Not entirely believing him, Saphienne slunk from the studio feeling annoyed that she’d failed and succeeded at the same time. Her gaze darkened as she walked down the grove, overcome by the sensation that she had been played, had been toyed with, made to dance as though she were one of Nelathiel’s puppets. She couldn’t explain why Jorildyn, forever ready to battle during her studies with him, had immediately transformed the moment she was–

Saphienne blinked, twice.

* * *

The door to the library crashed open before Saphienne’s angry bellow.

“Filaurel!”

Her mentor was immediately behind her desk, startled. As the echo died away and nearby patrons tactfully withdrew, the librarian collected herself together, leaning on the polished surface with performative wrath that hardened in preparation for the mightiest of censures.

“Saphienne!Hush! This is a lib–”

Yet the girl slammed her hands on the desk. “You manipulated me!” she hissed. “You had it all planned out, right from the start!”

Filaurel stilled.

Her smile, when it arrived, was sweet. “Which part?”

“All of it!”

“No,” she giggled, her voice dropping, “which part did you figure out first?”

Saphienne’s anger was fuelled by the blush that burned on every inch of her body. “Gaeleath let slip that he didn’t know why none of the local sculptors would take me on; that was enough to realise you had steered me to all of my apprenticeships. But I thought you were just making sure I’d be taught by good–”

“They all served a purpose.”

“You crafty…” Saphienne was aware the seams in her dress were straining to hold. “…Jorildyn was putting on an act. Right from the very first day, he was–”

“Preparing you for Almon. And testing you.” Filaurel was unremorseful, and she grinned at the present-day irony. “You were a very quiet child when you were younger, and I wasn’t sure you’d endure the way our local wizard teaches.”

“And Jorildyn? How did you talk him into it?”

“I didn’t need to.” Seeing no one else was in line of sight, she unlocked the drawer that held her sweets. “When you said you wanted to apprentice yourself to a tailor, I almost died laughing. Jorildyn thought I was joking when I told him — and laughed so hard he cried.”

“Why?”

“He knows Almon better than anyone.” She sucked on one of the sugary ovals, shaking her head in delight. “The two of them are always at odds. When I asked him to do his best impression of Almon to prepare you, he was overjoyed.”

And thus the tailor had been pleased when the wizard had accepted her. “Eletha?”

Her glow dimmed slightly. “So you’d learn by observation.”

“Ninleyn?”

“So you’d know how not to be outshone…” She exhaled. “…And because Ninleyn, difficult as she is, really did want someone she could try teaching.”

“Leaving Gaeleath.”

“I was looking for someone who understood art like a wizard understands it,” Filaurel explained with returning glee, “and I asked a fellow librarian, who told me whom I should enquire with, and that man recommended Gaeleath to me. They were perfect.”

Saphienne was furious she hadn’t caught on sooner.

Filaurel offered her a butterscotch.

Both betrayed and inexpressibly grateful for the betrayal, she deflated and accepted. “I made a fool of myself in front of Jorildyn, because of you.”

“Whatever mischief you were up to,” Filaurel replied, “was your own doing. I imagine he was entertained. He holds you in quiet esteem, you know.”

“I do now.” She shoved the sweet oval into her mouth as she leant her elbows on the desk. “How else have you been arranging everything in my life?”

The accusation made Filaurel frown, and her hand rose to touch whatever enchantment she wore under her blouse. “…Not everything. I wouldn’t do that to you. Just all of this… and you know why I did it.”

Sensing that she had overstepped in her childish pique, Saphienne straightened up. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just… being a child.”

Her mentor came back to herself, putting on another smile. “Fair thing to assume. And I’ll forgive you for the dramatic entrance — everyone will be gossiping about it.”

Now Saphienne felt ridiculous. She chose to take her leave. “I’m going to go put my robes back on…”

Yet Filaurel bid her wait. “That’s appropriate,” the librarian said as she reached below the desktop, “because one of your fellow apprentices left a note for you.”

Why would Iolas or Celaena leave a note with Filaurel? Even as she asked herself, Saphienne realised the folded paper she received had to have come from someone else. She read it with growing dread.

“Well? What’s it say?”

Saphienne sighed a deepening sigh. “Taerelle wants me to visit her. She has something important for me to do.”

End of Chapter 64