At eight and nine, his pupils were still young enough to be enchanted by magic, to be taught with games and laughter. The harder, solemn lessons were yet to come. He could have taught those too, easily, sought out older students, like Barton Haye had, but he didn’t want to. Though he was a grown man there remained something boyish about him. It was why the children loved him. Why he was so good at his job.

With a gentle snap of his fingers, Remmie extinguished the glimfire. His face plunged into darkness. “Yes. What do you want?”

For you to admit that I’m right! For you to fight with me, not against me, and accept you could be so much more than a teacher.

She sighed. “To say sorry.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Not when you don’t mean it.”

The unfriendliness in his voice was like a slap. “I do mean it!”

“Then show me, Barl.” Now he sounded weary, and as sad as she felt. “Convince me.”

“Or what?”

He shrugged. “Or we’ll stay at odds. I don’t want that. Do you?”

No. But she didn’t want to be bullied into submission, either. Irritated, she conjured glimfire so she could see him properly.

“And I suppose the only proof you’ll accept is if I give up my dream?”

“The world’s full of dreams,” he said softly. “Please, Barl? When the College proctor finally writes back to tell you no, please, accept the decision. Throw your energy and passion into clockmaking. You’re so good at it. In a year or two, with Lady Grie’s help, you’ll be a master artisan in your own right. You’ll be renowned, I have no doubt. There’s honour and prestige in that. Don’t provoke the anger of mages we can never hope to best. Seek fame where it won’t hurt you. Or me.”

Hugging herself, she looked at the stars. They were a blurred dazzle through her tears. “Why won’t you believe I’m not interested in fame?”

“Because I know you, Barl!” Remmie said, his voice tight with frustration. “You love praise. You live for it. Growing up you were never happier than when Pa called you his best and brightest little mage.”

“You’re jealous?” Shocked, she stared at him. “Is this why you begrudge me wanting acceptance to the College? Because Pa used to praise me? He praised you too! He praised you always!”

“No.” Remmie half-turned away from her, one hand dragging down his face. The face that looked so much like hers, its beauty masculine, its planes and angles so well-known and beloved. His pale golden hair was pulled back into a braid and tied with a neat twist of red ribbon. “Barl, if I begrudge you I promise, that’s not the reason.”

“Then what is?”