On his doorstep is a girl. Not quite a child, but thin and has a hard life is nothing he needs magic to discover; it is etched in the very outline of her features, in the way she moves, even in the way she breathes. So is the fact that she has defied her environment and thus far come out on top. Her eyes gleam with the cold determination that the poet Belsarius once called “the diamond glare,” meaning that nothing can scratch its surface. Her face and hands are meticulously clean—probably scrubbed not an hour before—but the rest of her has the faintly weathered patina of one who is not truly intimate with cleanliness. Peasant stock, he guesses, city born, and not raised gently or treated well yet trying nonetheless to present herself politely. Interesting.

Briefly he toys with the notion of binding enough Power to know more. But the habit is long gone and the temptation passes.

“Master Ethanus, Magister of Ulran?”

His expression darkens, and the passing interest he had in her quickly dies. “I no longer lay claim to that title, girl, or any other.” His voice is gruff, as befits her question. What, is this some little chit that wants a spell cast for her, and has trudged through the depths of the forest to find him here, in this place he built for himself precisely so that he might live undisturbed? Of all the things he might be interrupted for, that is by far the most annoying. “Go find a witch if you want help, there are plenty about.”

He closes the door in her face and goes back to work. At least, that is his intent. But her small foot is in the doorway, and to his surprise he finds that he is not quite callous enough to crush it.

He glares at her. Diamond eyes, indeed.

“So it please you sir,” she says—and she bobs a bit, in what might have been a curtsey had it been done properly—“I have come to learn the ways of magic.”

“Then like I said, go find a witch. I’m not a teacher.”

Again he almost slams the door shut. He is hoping that if he looks like he really means it she will pull back her foot just in time, and he can close it. But she doesn’t move, and he is not willing to cripple her—or to make the commitment to healing her—so with a sigh he resigns himself to finishing out the conversation.

“I don’t wish to learn from a witch, sir. I wish to learn true sorcery.”

With a sign of pure exasperation he says, “Well, you’re a girl, so you can’t. Now may I get back to my work?”