Taken aback, Barl blinked at him. “I had no idea you’d appointed yourself Barton Haye’s champion. Perhaps you ought to walk out with him yourself, if he’s such a catch.”

And that, of course, was exactly the wrong thing to say… for last year, abandoning the Eighth district’s village of Granley out of loyalty to her, Remmie had left behind a young woman who might have become more than merely the sister of someone he taught school with.

Her contrition heartfelt this time, she reached out a hand. “I’m sorry. Truly. That was a heedless jibe to make.”

“I’m not trying to push Barton onto you,” Remmie said, calm as buttermilk now, as though she’d not hurt him or apologised. “Only you never seem taken with anyone. Perhaps if you did…” He shrugged. “But you don’t. I worry you’ll end up old and alone.”

Probably that was true. But she thought he also worried he’d end up old and alone, from staying loyal to her. It wasn’t something they talked of. She wouldn’t know where or how to start. But after Granley she’d not been able to pretend so easily that what she did made little difference to her loyal, long-suffering brother.

“I won’t be unkind to Barton,” she said, subdued. “I won’t walk out with him, but I’ll not make you ashamed of me.”

Remmie’s lips curved a little, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Be sure I’ll hold you to that. It’s a small school, Barl, and we teach cheek by jowl together in it. I don’t want my peace with Barton cut up.”

“It won’t be. I promise. Please, Remmie, don’t be cross.”

“I’m not,” he sighed. He was far too nice a man for grudges. “Though doubtless I should be.”

Relieved, she bounced to her feet. “It’s because you’re not that I love you. Now finish telling me of your day while I do the dishes.”

When the kitchen was clean again they went their separate ways, Remmie to sprawl in the cottage’s pocket-sized parlour and read a book, while she retreated to her room to continue her private magework.

During her walks to and from the artisanry, she’d had an idea for a new kind of translucent clock-housing crystal, thinner and lighter and stronger than the crystals Arndel had them use. Those crystals were created with incants of his own devising, and jealously guarded, but her crystal was better than all of his. Or it would be, once she’d perfected the incant for its creation. It called for a tricky marriage of fine Manemlin silver sand with the argumentative grittiness of Brantish coarse black. Nearly five months it had taken her, to scrimp and save enough coin for a small-weight of silver sand. So far the incant’s creation had defeated her, but she was undaunted.

And once she’d perfected the mageworking, once she had a flawless sheet of crystal as proof, she’d show it to Arndel… making sure, of course, to stress how his own incants had inspired her. Then perhaps he’d agree to her crystal’s use in the artisanry. He might even sponsor a patent submission to the Artisans’ Guild and then the new crystal could be named after her.