I procured a silver half coin from my purse. The receptionist wrote a hasty message on a slip of parchment and hailed a messenger boy from the streets.

“It might be a while,” he said, motioning for me to follow. “You can wait in the gallery.” He led me down a corridor into a spacious room with a sad echo.

The gallery was empty save for a table and a chair set in the center of the chamber. The floors were checkered, and the walls were crowded with framed artwork. I stood in awe, craning my neck to study the paintings on the highest row. An unexpected pain shook me. I fell prey to longing for what I had surrendered.

I reached out to trace a gilded frame. My talent was gone, and I felt the aching pit of its absence. I gave myself a moment to experience the pang of regret, to study the beautiful muses of the paintings that surrounded me, whispering their stories in rich oil and sweetened shadows and careful brushstrokes. Paintings of monsters and magicians of old, of creatures and places and landscapes that appeared so vibrant I longed to step within them.

This regret would consume me if I wasn’t mindful of its sharp edge. It would chip at the stone within my chest, and so I buried the feeling beneath the ice of my intention and stood in a patch of sunlight, waiting for Phelan to arrive.

It seemed like I waited an hour for him.

At last, I could hear sounds in the corridor, just beyond the gallery. Two sets of boots approached, and one belonged to him. I reached out with my magic, to catch the low conversation in the hallway.

“Who is this person?” Phelan was asking. “Do I know her?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Vesper,” the receptionist stammered. “I’ve never seen her before. Forgive me, I didn’t think to ask for her name.”

“But you’re certain she’s a magician?”

“Yes, sir. She cast no shadow. I did make sure to check that.”

“Well, I hope she proves me wrong. I fear my expectations are rather low after this morning.”

The gallery door opened. I stood like a statue, my breath suspended as Phelan stepped into the chamber.

He was dressed in a black jacket with coattails and a matching top hat, a pheasant feather tucked within its band. His waistcoat was crimson, embroidered with golden flowers, and his boots were spit polished, reaching to his knees. There was no rapier sheathed at his belt this time; the only thing he carried was a book. His dark hair was captured by a ribbon at the nape of his neck.

He took two steps into the chamber and then stopped, his gaze finding me at once.