She rested her hand on his arm. “He’ll not discard me, Remmie. And you’ll believe that when you stand in the estate’s gardens and watch Morgan and me handfast. You will come, won’t you?”

He was smiling, shaking his head. “Yes. I’ll come.”

“I am untouchable, you know… but not because I share Morgan’s bed.”

Smile fading, Remmie bit his lip. “Because of your magework?”

“Yes. Magework is the only currency the ranked mages understand.”

Remmie’s hand slapped the table. “Exactly, Barl! And that makes you a threat.”

“I don’t have to be. There is no reason why the ranked and unranked mages of Dorana can’t work together to make life better for everyone. All the Council and the rest of them need is some encouragement.”

“Oh, Barl…” He shook his head, affectionately exasperated. “If you think your magework can make that happen, you’re mad.”

She looked at him, frowning. Remmie’s trouble was he thought he knew her… and he didn’t. Not any more.

I’ll have to show him who I am now. Not all of it, but enough. Perhaps I can tell him the rest later. He’s a talented mage. Morgan and I could use him once the transmutations get more complicated.

Yes. She’d have to show him. Morgan would understand… if she told him.

Propping her elbows on the table, she frowned. “Remmie, can I trust you? Really trust you?”

His eyes narrowed, warily. “To do what?”

“Keep a secret. One that could hurt me, if you ever told another soul.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “But—” He rubbed his chin, his palm softly scraping the golden stubble. “If it’s so dangerous, maybe it’s best you don’t tell me.”

“But I want to. I need to. I need you to believe what I’m saying… and you never will, unless you know what I know.”

Shifting sideways in his chair, Remmie pulled up one knee and rested his forehead. Sighed. “Am I going to regret this? I know I’ll regret this. All right. Tell me. And if I change my mind I’ll drink myself into a stupor down at the Pig. Wannet’s cheap ale knocks a good day’s worth of doings out of any man’s head.”

Dear Remmie. Smiling, Barl snapped her fingers and plucked from her brother’s vegetable garden a half-grown carrot. The rich dirt clumping its roots was damp and composty on her fingers, dribbling onto the scrubbled table and into her silk lap.

“Watch,” she whispered. “And believe.”

Eyes half-closed, she drew the sigils, recited the syllables, and transmuted the carrot into a slender, fragrant lily. She heard her brother’s choked cry as the power punched through her. Felt the red roar of it surge in her blood.

Remmie’s eyes were so wide all the whites showed. “That’s impossible.”