Well, she certainly wasn’t going after him. He was wrong. He thought her fight for recognition and acceptance had nothing to do with him because he was safe and happy in his little hamlet schoolhouse.

But that’s only because the Council of Mages, or someone from a First Family, has no desire to interfere. If ever that changes he’ll swiftly learn how little he and his life and his pupils matter to them.

Disconsolate, she collected her plate from the table, scraped her unwanted dinner into the pail for scraps, then turned her attention to the sink. Often, Remmie would stay and dry the dishes as she washed them and they’d good-naturedly argue various points of mage lore. Laugh at each other’s foolishness. Play do you remember with tales of their dead parents, keeping them alive, even though some memories hurt.

But there’d be no companionable laughing or sweetly painful memories tonight.

Sighing, she plugged the sink and turned on the taps. Washing dishes by hand never failed to soothe her. She knew Ibbitha thought her very odd for it. But it was like walking home from the artisanry instead of using a travel incant. Magework was too important for frivolous usage. A mage who lost touch with the earthy reality of life was in danger of becoming so detached from the world that remembering the impact magic had on it became harder and harder until it was never remembered at all.

Remmie couldn’t be more mistaken. I’m not careless of my actions. Someone’s got to hold the Council of Mages and the First Families accountable. And if I don’t, who will? Nobody else seems to care.

As she scrubbed the plates and pans and cutlery, then towelled them dry and put them away, and after that cleaned the hob and the kitchen table, she waited for the sound of her mistaken brother’s footsteps in the corridor. It didn’t come. He didn’t come.

She couldn’t remember him ever walking away from her with such anger and hurt in his face.

But then, I can’t remember being so mean to him, either.

Their whole lives they’d never let their resentments fester. He was her shadow and she was his. She’d have to swallow her pride, it seemed, and go after him. However would they be able to look at each other over their boiled morning eggs if she’d slammed her door and he’d slammed his without this upset put to rights?

After hunting through every empty room in the cottage she found him outside, beside his beloved vegetable patch, recreating the night’s constellations with little glimfire stars.

“That’s pretty,” she said, smiling to cover the ache in her heart. “Is it for a lesson?”