I don’t want to leave.

There’d been other classrooms, other pupils, but the little hamlet school of Batava touched him to his heart. He belonged here. He was needed.

A tiny groan escaped him. How many times was this, that his sister had been dismissed or walked away over some insult, some hot-tempered falling out? Four times? No, five. Five upheavals of his life, and in only three years.

For the longest time he stood beside the kitchen table, breathing in and breathing out. If his impossible sister was in the cottage somewhere, he had no desire to find her. And if she was in the garden she could stay there. Lay eyes on her now and he’d say things they’d never forget… or forgive.

He’d not intended to start dinner yet, but he needed a distraction. So he fired up the oven’s heat bricks then pulled out the baking dish and set it on the hob. Unwrapped the chicken and placed it breast-up in the dish. Next he took scissors and snipped fresh herbs in their windowsill pots. Retrieved the butter, beat the herbs into three generous, softened spoonfuls, carefully inserted the mix between the chicken’s skin and its flesh. All the while his thoughts seethed.

Any other artisan mage in Dorana would tie himself in knots to earn a place in an esteemed artisanry like Arndel’s, to be granted the honour of Ancilla Grie’s patronage. But not the great Barl Lindin. Oh, no.

He could feel his embered temper stirring to flames.

When you were busy asking for promises, Mama, I wish you’d thought to ask one of her. I wish you’d made her promise to think of me, now and then.

The last touch for roasting the chicken was onions, peeled and quartered and pushed inside. If his eyes stung, if tears slid down his cheeks, that was the reason. It was the onions. Nothing else.

He shoved the chicken into the oven and stood back.

“Vegetables,” he said to the silent kitchen.

And that meant the garden. If his sister was in the cottage he’d have seen or heard her by now. She never could keep her furious misery to herself. So most likely he’d stumble across her on his way to the bean patch. Was he ready? Could he face her? Would he be able to hold his tongue? He didn’t know. Uncertain, he hesitated.

A good cook was also a tidy cook. He couldn’t go outside leaving a mess behind him. So he cleaned up after himself, washed his hands even though they’d soon get dirty enough, pulling carrots, and splashed some water onto his face. Wretched onions. Someone should invent an onion that didn’t make a grown man cry.

If Barl is so set upon changing the world, that would be an excellent place to start.