The door to the classroom opened, and two more students filed in. Han stared, along with everyone else. It was Fiona Bayar and lovelorn Wil, who’d chased him and Dancer across the border into Delphi.

They looked travel-battered and cranky, so Han assumed they’d come directly to class after ditching their baggage at their dormitories. Wil’s face was bronzed by the sun, but Fiona was pale as ever, as if the sun wouldn’t presume to penetrate her icy skin. She’d taken her hair out of the braid, and it billowed in long waves past her shoulders.

She wore traveling clothes: a roughspun sweater, corded jacket, and canvas breeches that showed off her long legs. No student robes.

Fiona ran her chilly gaze over the room. When her eyes settled on Master Gryphon, they widened in surprise. “Adam!” she cried, as if the entire class weren’t looking on. Turning to Wil, she said, “Look, Wil, it’s Adam Gryphon, of all people.”

Blood of the demon, Han thought. My spellcasting teacher is pals with the Bayars. It’s no wonder my feet are in the flame.

Striding forward, Fiona extended her hand toward Master Gryphon as if she expected him to kiss it. “Father told me you’d entered orders, but I had no idea...”

Master Gryphon had turned a deep raspberry red color, an amazing transformation. He made no move to take her hand, but seized the podium in a white-knuckled grip. “It’s Master Gryphon, Newling Bayar,” he said. “And though I am on faculty at Mystwerk House, do note that I’ve not taken vows, nor do I intend to.”

Fiona pulled back her hand, realizing that there was no kiss in the offing. “Really? I must have heard wrong. It did seem like a good option for someone in your…situation.”

“A good outcome for a cripple, you mean?” Master Gryphon said softly. “Perhaps so. How fortunate that you and Newling Mathis made it here safely. Next time, please wear appropriate attire to class. Now, take your seats so that we can proceed with our lesson. This constant influx of students has put us behind.”

That acid tongue is sweeter now, Han thought.

Fiona flung her hair back over her shoulders and turned toward the risers to look for a seat. Her gaze fell on Han and Dancer in the second row. She froze, going even paler than before. “Alister,” she whispered. “I don’t believe it.”

Wil took her elbow. “Come on, Fiona,” he said.

Fiona didn’t move. “What are you doing here?” Leaning forward, she extended trembling hands toward Han as if she were itching to close them around his throat.