And surely the Guild would have no choice but to approve. It would make her the second-youngest artisan mage ever to be honoured with artisanwork named after them.

“You see, Remmie?” she whispered, the tip of one finger gently stroking her beautiful creation. “Dreams do come true. If I can do this… I can do anything. You’ll see.”

So precious was the crystal she’d created that she didn’t dare risk it by walking to the artisanry. Instead she swallowed a handful of runip berries and used a hated travel incant to make the journey safely.

She found Artisan Master Arndel in his privy workroom, squeezed behind his crowded bench and reading a letter. At her confident rap-rap-rap on the open door he looked up.

Just to be safe, she offered him a shallow bow. “Good morning, Artisan Master.”

His eyes widened, then narrowed with familiar ill-temper. “Mage Lindin.” The letter dropped from his hand. “A curious coincidence. I was about to send for you.”

Taking that as an invitation, she entered the room. Her cloth-wrapped crystal was cradled against her chest. She thought she could feel it thrumming in time with her heart.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Artisan Master, but—”

“Disturb?” He snorted. “Yes, indeed, Mage Lindin. You disturb me to no end. Sit.”

Gently she lowered herself to the chamber’s sole uncluttered chair. It was wooden, splintered and uncomfortable. He couldn’t receive new patrons in this room, they’d run from it screaming with their hands clutched to their purses.

“Artisan Master—”

“Mage Lindin.” Arndel flicked the sheet of paper he’d been reading. “I have before me a most unwelcome letter.”

Clearly she wasn’t to be permitted to speak. At least not until he’d unburdened himself of whatever had curdled his mood this time.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, Artisan Master?”

He frowned at the letter in question. “It seems that in a fit of madness, Mage Lindin, you wrote to the College of Mages demanding they admit you as a student.” His gaze lifted. “Is this true? Or has the College somehow mixed you up with some other presumptuous, deluded young mage?”

Shocked, for a moment she could only stare. And then she found her voice. “I’m sorry, Artisan Master? How do you—why would they—are you saying they wrote to you? About me? About my request?”

“Deluded, but not deaf,” said Arndel, scathing. “Mage Lindin, I—”

“This is wrong,” Barl said, and pushed to her feet. Now her sheet of crystal was clutched to her chest like a shield. “They had no business writing to you, Artisan Master. It’s none of your affair if I—”

Both his fists crashed onto the desk, leaping letter and quills, splashing ink, scattering random crystal droplets and shards.