“Did you hear that?” Barton demanded of Batava’s pupils. “What an honour. The Hall is hardly ever open to the public.”

As the children set up a clamour, Barl frowned at Remmie. “So we’re to feel grateful? When magic is a birthright belonging to all Doranen, and the Hall of Knowledge is—”

“Please, Barl,” her brother sighed. “Don’t spoil this for the children.”

She felt her eyes sting. I knew this was a mistake. I knew I shouldn’t have come. “Fine. I’ll not say another word.”

And she didn’t. Not while she loitered behind her brother and Barton and their goggling pupils as they shuffled their way through the Hall of Knowledge, into its lofty workrooms and hushed libraries, up its majestically spiralling staircases and along its wide corridors lined with glorious stained-glass windows. Not while they crowded onto its broad balconies and squealed to see sun-kissed Elvado spread far and wide below them. Instead she feasted her hungry gaze on every locked door and barred passageway. Stared after the Hall’s resident mages, who threaded their purposeful way through the crowding gawkers and whose shuttered gazes hinted at magics held aloof from those deemed unworthy of their grace. Closed her eyes and breathed in the Hall’s power, felt it chime through her, making promises it could not keep.

Heartsick, she folded her arms so tight her ribs threatened to break.

I deserve to be here. This wondrous city should be my home.

Not wanting to waste a rare opportunity, after the Hall was again closed to public scrutiny Remmie and Barton let their pupils explore the plaza’s surrounding streets, keeping them in Elvado as late as they dared. By the time they finally returned to Batava’s schoolhouse and saw the weary children into the keeping of their parents, the late afternoon was fast surrendering to dusk.

“Is something wrong?” said Remmie. “You’ve not said a word for hours.”

Walking beside him back to their cottage, Barl shrugged. “You’re the one who told me to be quiet.”

“True. But I only meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to toss that coin for Mama and Pa.”

“I’m not,” she said. “It’s a private matter. As if I’d want Barton Haye gawking.”

Remmie sighed. “I knew you were cross.”

“I’m not cross! I’m thinking.”

“Barl.” Remmie’s fingers caught her elbow, tugging her to a halt. “I know that look, too. What are you plotting?”

She winced at the scarcely muffled despair in his voice. “Nothing you need worry about.”

Even in the dim, dusking light, though no anger showed in his narrow face or gentle eyes she could tell he was angered by her reply.

“I mean it, Remmie,” she insisted. “What I choose to do doesn’t change anything for you.”

He shook his head. “That’s not true and you know it. How can I be happy when you aren’t? Barl, you promised, and now—”

“I promised I’d not drag you with me, and I won’t!” she said, struggling not to shout. “The truth is I never have done. Following me has always been your idea. Admit it.”