She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Remmie. I really am. How many more times do I have to tell you?”

“A few more, I think,” he said, turning. “Until it sinks in.” Then he scowled. “Does it mean I’ll have to call you my lady and bow and scrape whenever you deign to drop by?”

She grinned. “If you know what’s good for you.”

“What’s good for me? Sister mine, shall I show you what’s good for me?”

Before she could protect herself he’d summoned glimfire and was throwing it at her, little glowing fizzing balls that popped and sizzled harmless as they struck. Giggling, she struck back and within heartbeats the kitchen was lit up like a village green on New Year’s Eve. Then Remmie leapt toward her and, shrieking a protest, she leapt out of his way. He chased her through the cottage then out into the garden, whooping and hollering, hurdling tomato vines and green beans and rows of potatoes. Squealing with laughter she gave as good as she got, until at last they collapsed side by side on the uncut grass down by the duck pond. Offended, the drake who lived there honked and paddled to safety.

“Stay for dinner,” Remmie panted, spread-eagled by her side. “I’ll grill sausages. Who knows when I’ll see you again after you leave?”

She rolled her head to look at him. “Don’t be silly. Of course you’ll see me. Not planning on leaving Batava, are you?”

“No. My life doesn’t change, which is just how I like it. But yours? Barl, your life…” He laughed, disbelieving. “I wonder if Mama and Pa ever imagined the kind of mage you’d grow up to be.”

“I don’t know.” She shifted her hand until their fingers touched. Linked. “I wish they weren’t dead, Rem. I miss them so much.” Her voice caught. “When Morgan’s father died…”

“It’s good that he had you with him,” Remmie said, very quiet. “Nobody should have to grieve alone. Not for that.”

“You must come and stay with us once everything’s settled. When school’s out. You’ll like Morgan, I know you will. Once you properly get to know him.”

“If he loves you, I must like him. Him loving you is the only thing that matters.”

The small, leftover cold knot under her ribs melted. “What kind of sausages?”

“Wild boar and apple.”

She pretended to groan. “Oh. Well. I suppose I could force one down. Or two. You know, if you made me.”

“Ingrate,” he said, snatched a handful of long grass and rubbed it in her face. Then he bounced to his feet. “Come on, Lady Danfey. There’s no sausage born I know of that’s able to cook itself.”