Alise narrowed her eyes. “What about the time you threw my doll in the fireplace?”

Nic groaned, rubbing her forehead. She’d forgotten that one. The House Beatrix doll could blink its eyes, cry, say a few words, and actually pee, which Nic had found disgusting, especially after Alise left it, diaperless, on Nic’s pillow one evening. In a fit of pique, Nic had thrown the wretched thing on the fire, where it proceeded to scream with unnerving realism. Alise had fished the poor doll out of the fire and swathed its bald head in bandages borrowed from their in-house Refoel wizard. Only three years old, Alise had been utterly despondent, carrying the burnt carcass around ceaselessly. Unfortunately, the fire had also damaged the magic, so the doll only made horrible slurring noises. Maybe Nic had blocked out the memory of that particularly grisly event.

“I am so sorry about your doll,” Nic said, shaking her head at the memory. “That was cruel and intolerant of me.”

Alise burst out laughing. In fact, she laughed so hard, she had to put down her wine and hold her ribs. She laughed until tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes, and she was breathless, but every time she seemed to be getting a hold of herself, she took a look at Nic’s face and started laughing again. It got to the point that Nic took up her quill and began copying the NDA while she waited, just for something to do.

“Nic,” Alise finally said on a gasp, pointing a wobbly finger at her. “You were seven. I think you get dispensation for being a child. I’m sure I was equally as terrible to you. I know Nander drove me batty with his pranks.”

That wasn’t what Nic had expected, and the anticlimactic response left her feeling oddly deflated. “Even so,” she replied, sounding stiff to her own ears, “the apologies stand. For that and for everything else.”

“Nic…” Alise threw up her hands, then huffed in exasperation. She held up the unfinished letter, produced a fire elemental, and set it ablaze, the ashes wafting away on the balmy breeze.

“Nice trick,” Nic said, squelching the insidious envy. How she longed to be able to use her Elal magic, rather than simply pass it along to Gabriel.

Alise looked briefly abashed, then straightened. “That’s what it is. A bit of a trick. That wasn’t my point—I wanted to show how apologies are like ash, to be blown away on the wind—but it’s a good one for this moment. I’m an adequate wizard, and I’m getting better, especially at my technical skills, but we both know my magic is nothing compared to yours. More, I don’t have half your smarts and savvy. I shouldn’t be Papa’s heir. You should be. You’re the one who should be Lady Elal, and Papa’s a fool to have cast you aside. Also, I don’t need or want your apologies, so keep any further whining about them to yourself, please.”