He guided us down yet another street. I admired the old oaks that grew along the sidewalk, their gnarled roots working their way up through the cobblestones. “And does your mother still give you remedies, Miss Neven?”

“No,” I whispered. “She passed away last spring.”

“I’m sorry,” Phelan said, and I was surprised to hear how contrite he sounded.

We fell silent again until he stopped before a grand town house built of whitewashed brick. I gazed up at its navy shutters and crimson-painted door, its lintel made of carved marble.

“I wanted to show you this house in particular,” Phelan said, reaching out to touch a wild tendril of ivy that grew on the iron gate.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“The duke lives here.”

I examined the home with an attentive eye. “I thought the duke lived in the Blue Mansion, in the eastern quadrant.”

“He does,” Phelan replied. “The mansion is his primary residence. But he has other homes located throughout the city. He never sleeps beneath one roof more than a week at a time.”

“That’s absurd,” I laughed until I saw the arch of Phelan’s brow.

“It’s wise,” he amended, glancing back to the town house. “Remember what I told you about my mother, and how she ensured my brother and I never dreamt? The duke has a similar dealing with nightmares. He doesn’t want one magician to know all his dreams.”

Rain began to fall. I watched as Phelan withdrew a tiny umbrella from his jacket pocket, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, the umbrella grew into its normal size.

“Shall we go to dinner?” he asked, opening the umbrella and holding it between us.

I hated that he stored tiny trinkets in his pockets. But hate could only last so long in the rain.

I stepped beneath the umbrella and we hurried to reach the tavern, elbows bumping in a stiff attempt to keep from touching each other.

The Fabled Tavern was three blocks away, a narrow building wedged between a tailor’s shop and a jeweler. It was easy to overlook, built of drab gray stone with an arched entryway choked with wisteria. The corridor ushered us into a courtyard, whose open roof was charmed to catch the rain. Phelan left his umbrella by the coat stand, and I admired my surroundings. There was a reflection pool at the center of the courtyard, and fruit trees grew along winding stone paths. Cushions were spread out on the grass, and couples lounged with cups of tea and wine, listening as minstrels played stringed instruments from a pergola.

This was a watering hole for magicians, I swiftly realized. Good food, tea, wine, conversation, friendship, music, beauty. All the things needed to restore magic of mind, heart, and body.

“Follow me,” Phelan said, and led me through the courtyard to an archway that swallowed us into the tavern’s indoor seating.