She folded her arms. “Just because you can’t see what I see, is that any reason to call me a liar?”

His sidelong glance was skeptical. “Others have thought so.”

Artisan Master Arndel. Would the old toad never cease troubling her? “And others are wrong.”

“No, I think you’re wrong,” he snapped. “There is no indication of counter-compatibility. After some initial resistance the sigils coalesced to perfection. And I paid particular attention to that syllabic sequence when reworking the original incant.”

“I’m sure you did,” she said, striving for patience, “but it doesn’t matter how careful you were, does it? Not when the result is failure.”

Hearing his sharply indrawn breath, she remembered Remmie’s oft-repeated complaint.

Barl, Barl, it isn’t what you say. It’s the way that you say it.

“Councillor…” With an effort, she sweetened her approach. “I’ve no doubt that between us we can unpick this knot. But it would help if I could see for myself where you started.”

Muttering under his breath, he crossed to the attic’s cupboard and took from it an old, rolled and tied sheet of parchment. Then he returned and spread it flat between them.

“You will see,” he said, acerbic, “that in adapting Hartigan’s original construction I have done everything in accordance with Cylte’s rules of reworking.”

“Cylte?” She shook her head. “I’ve not heard of him—or her.”

“No?” He feigned shock. “You astound me. No intimate acquaintance with one of Dorana’s greatest innovators? And yet you presume to know where my magework has failed.”

“I don’t presume anything!” she retorted. “I know, and if you’d climb down off your high horse, I’ll show you! Or can’t you bring yourself to admit when you’re wrong?”

Another hissing, indrawn breath. “Mage Lindin—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, raising one hand. “You’re right. That was rude.”

“Very rude.”

“And I said I was sorry! What are these rules you’ve been following? Can I see them?”

With a glare and a finger-snap he summoned a battered book to his hand, leafed it open and thudded it to the workbench atop his notes and the old parchment, then paced the attic while she read through this Rubin Cylte’s rules.

They were interesting enough. Most of his observations she’d already worked out for herself, as she made clocks for Arndel and new crystal for herself. Even in her early days as an artisan mage, serving her swift apprenticeship with Artisan Master Fabien, it seemed she’d instinctively understood most of what Cylte had to say.

Except here… this is interesting. This is something I’d never considered.

A new way of looking at internal syllabic rhythms, a twist upon her own, small discovery of contrapuntal give-and-take. And how exciting. How high did her blood leap, reading this scholarly work and seeing a sudden explosion of possibilities?