But although she was doubtful, her almost estranged brother did come, soon after sunrise. For a long time he stood silent in her College workroom, staring at the jars and bottles of catalysts, at the strict rows of crucibles, and her careful notes outlining the theories behind her warding incant’s creation, and the incant itself.

Slumped behind her small desk she watched him, and felt her heart stutter at his appearance. So thin now, so pale, with a weariness ground bone-deep into his body. His hair was longer, and untidy, and though his faded blue linen clothes were clean they lacked his familiar jaunty flair. He looked older, and sadder, as though he’d given up the notion that the world could be a kind and joyful place.

I did that to him. His unhappiness is my doing.

But if she tried to apologise again, she’d only make him angry. He’d lost patience with her sorrow. These days he cared only for deeds, not hollow words… and it was hard to blame him for that.

At last he stirred, and ran a hand down his face. “Barl, this is madness,” he said, turning. “Forty-nine sigils? For a single incant? It’s too many. The strain will kill you.”

She made herself smile at him. “Nonsense, Remmie. I’m far too busy to die.”

“Don’t joke,” he said, folding his arms. His eyes were shadowed. “I’m frightened for you.”

Was it wrong, to feel such pleasure hearing that? Probably. But it was the kindest thing he’d said to her in weeks. She had to cherish it. “I know. And I’m sorry. But that’s what the warding incant demands.”

“Then concoct a different incant!”

The rawness in his voice had her lacing her fingers together to still their trembling. “I can’t. There’s no time. Anyway, this is the right incant.”

He shook his head. “There has to be another.”

“You mean you want there to be,” she said, gently. “But there isn’t. I’ve not been twiddling my thumbs, Remmie. I have exhausted every other imaginable possibility. You know that as well as I do, so let’s not waste time arguing.”

He glowered at her, hating that she was right, then tapped the single sheet of paper on which the incant was neatly written. “Who else has seen this?”

“Lady Martain. Lady Brislyn. The College’s remaining mages.”

“And they all agree this is the only way?”

“Yes.” With a lot of arm-twisting. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. “Remmie—”

Turning away, he dragged his hand down his face again. “And what if they’re wrong? What if you’re wrong? You are the only mage we have whose magework is reliable. If we lose you to this madness—”

“You still have Morgan.”

She waited for him to shout at her for that, but he only sighed. “That’s a dream, Barl. Forget it.”