“Oh good, there you are. Come sit here, Miss Neven.” She indicated the chair across from Phelan’s.

Wonderful, I thought drolly as I surrendered to the chair. I would unfortunately have to look at him all throughout dinner.

Phelan waited to sit until Mrs. Stirling and Deacon had taken their seats. And then he reached across the table and poured wine into my glass flute.

“Potatoes?” Mrs. Stirling asked, offering the warm bowl to me.

I filled my plate, and the dishes were passed until everyone had taken a spoonful of everything. We fell silent as we began to eat; there was only the sound of cutlery and the crackle of fire.

I relished every bite, eating slowly. The last meal I had taken was dried meat and a plum on the stagecoach hours ago, offerings from Imonie’s satchel. Thinking of her made me think of my parents, and my mouth went dry when I anticipated telling them what I had done. What I was doing.

“The food is delicious, Mrs. Stirling,” I said, to distract myself from the apprehension. “Thank you.”

The older woman smiled and waved off my compliment.

“Do you have any siblings, Miss Neven?” Deacon asked after wiping the edge of his mouth with his sleeve.

I saw the disapproving look Mrs. Stirling sent him before pointing to his napkin.

“No,” I answered. Creating siblings, as tempting as that was, would only complicate my story. “Do you, Deacon?”

“I’m the youngest. I have two older sisters.”

“That sounds fun. I wish that I had sisters.”

“What about your parents?” the boy asked. “Your mama and papa.”

“What about them?” I didn’t like the idea of lying to a child. But he was certainly full of questions, and I felt my cheeks flush.

“Do they live nearby? Did they teach you magic?”

“I think that is enough questions, Deacon,” Mrs. Stirling said. “Remember your manners.”

Deacon looked downcast by the chiding, his attention returning to his plate as he pushed his peas around in a circle.

“It’s quite all right,” I said, reaching for my wine. “I never had the opportunity to know my father. My mother raised me. She was the one to teach me magic.”

“I bet she is proud of you, Miss Neven,” said Deacon, and I heard the longing in his voice. I had not sensed illumination in him, that unmistakable flame of magic that some of us were born with. But it was apparent that he wanted to become a magician.

“She would be, yes,” I replied, and took a long sip of wine.

Deacon’s mouth opened, ready to spout more queries, but Phelan swiftly moved the conversation to other, safer things. I ate my fill, listening more than I spoke, but chiming in when it felt right, and Mrs. Stirling brought out chamomile tea and almond pudding for dessert. I despised almond pudding but swallowed every bite, washing it down with overly sweetened tea.