Emry frowned, confused by the question. “I don’t know, sir,” she replied.

His expression sharpened. “And why not? Do you practice magic that infrequently?”

“I wasn’t aware wizards had limits,” she admitted truthfully.

“Of course we do. I myself can cast a dozen spells in a day before I begin to misfire, half that if I’m also maintaining any long-term enchantments. Your father could produce significantly more than I, although—”

Behind him, a thick-bottomed kettle began to bubble ominously, emitting a worrying stench.

“Sir, the potion!” Emry interrupted.

“Sard it all!” Master Ambrosius whipped his wand out of his sleeve. “Refrigescant!”

He squinted, pointing his wand in the general direction of the kettle. Emry winced as the old man’s spell missed its mark.

“Blast,” he murmured, fumbling to untangle his pince-nez.

The concoction was still bubbling over, and Emry reacted without thinking. Extinguo, she thought, aiming her magic toward the fire. The flames went out, and the liquid calmed immediately.

Master Ambrosius blinked at her through his glasses. “What did you just do, boy?” he demanded.

“I—um—” Emry said nervously. “I figured removing the heat wouldn’t affect the potion, so . . .”

She trailed off. It was a poor excuse, and she knew it. She shouldn’t have intervened with someone else’s spellwork. Especially when she was unfamiliar with the potion. She stared at her boots, waiting for the reprimand.

“You didn’t use a wand,” the old wizard accused. “You didn’t cast a spell.”

“I did, sir,” she said. “I just didn’t say it aloud.”

“Hmm.” Master Ambrosius tilted his head to the side, inspecting her more sharply this time. Just when she thought it might go on forever, he nodded, as though having found the answer to an unasked question.

“Did your father teach you to do that?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Emry admitted. She’d discovered the skill by accident, when she’d stayed up late practicing and hadn’t wanted to wake anyone. She’d figured out she could spell the words in her head. While she explained, the old wizard peered at her with fascination.

“Useful,” he pronounced. “But foolish. As long as you’re under my tutelage, see that you cast your spells aloud. I can’t instruct what I can neither see nor hear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Silent spells, and evidently no limit to how many of them you can rattle off.” The old wizard heaved a sigh. “Heaven help me. Your father wasn’t exaggerating when he boasted of his son’s great talent with magic.”

Emry offered up a weak smile, even though she was furious that her father had never boasted of his daughter’s great talent.

“What’s that?” she asked instead, noticing a lumpy cot in the corner, half hidden behind a screen.

Surely the old wizard didn’t sleep here, not when her own chambers were so lavish.

“The infirmary,” he explained.

Emry frowned. “I thought there was a royal physician.”