Only one chair perched by the desk so I sank onto the end of Ronan’s bed, feeling as bright and light as a birdsong.
He paced back and forth across the room. “What did Mage Wolfson mean by that edict? Was he trying to insult me by giving me a serving girl as a study partner? Is it punishment for not getting along with the other boys or punishment for teaching you to read?”
My happiness dimmed at Ronan’s disapproval. “It might not be a punishment at all. Maybe he just thinks I can help you with your lessons.”
Ronan huffed. “The other apprentices will taunt me. Ceaselessly.”
I crossed my arms, offended. “Do you want me to go back to the kitchen?”
He stopped his pacing and sighed. “I didn’t mean that. I suppose a break from your chores will be nice for you.” His gaze traveled over me, taking in my worn and stained clothes. “What do you do with your hands anyway? They always look like you’ve been trying to cook them along with the vegetables.”
I scowled. Perhaps being distant friends was better than being an unwanted companion. “They’ve grown chapped doing dishes for ungrateful boys.” I stood. “If you don’t want my help, just tell the wizard so. I imagine that’s what he expects you to do. He thinks you’ll go back to your own kind.” This was theworst insult I could think to throw at him. He considered the other apprentices to be pompous and selfish, already grappling for power.
My statement brought forth another sigh. “Sit down, Sella.” He went to his books, pulled one from the bottom of a stack, and flipped through the pages. It was one of his books on magic. I could tell because the title on the spine made no sense. It seemed to be a jumble of letters thrown together, with some upside down and some backward.
People without a wizard’s mark couldn’t read the spells. Just touching a book on magic would burn your hands. The maids always dusted around them. Still, I peered at the pages longingly. Part of me believed that, mark or not, I must have a tiny spark of magic inside me.
Ronan located whatever incantation he’d been searching for. He mouthed the words as he read, repeating them to place them in his memory. Incantations always sounded like gibberish to me, a crash of vowels and consonants with an occasional click or hiss not found in common language.
Ronan flipped to another page and started working on a second incantation. I watched him quietly for a few minutes. “I’m supposed to help you study. Shouldn’t I do something?”
“Shhh.”
Fine. I swung my feet back and forth in boredom. Sitting here was still better than turning a spit or washing dishes. Once the other serving girls knew I’d been excused from my duties, they’d be indignant with jealousy. This thought caused a happy moment of revelry followed by several moments of worry. They already thought I was putting on airs and pinched me when I used words they didn’t know.
Ronan pulled a small clay jar from the shelf above his desk. He rolled it between his fingers, speaking one incantation and then another.
When he finished, he took off the lid and checked the jar’s contents. “Give me your hands.”
I held my palms out warily. Anyone would worry about having an apprentice magic something. I’d seen them practice spells on livestock. Once a poor goat burst into smoke.
Ronan spread some grease from the jar onto my hands. It felt as cool and sleek as stream water.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Fourth-year work,” he said proudly. “That ought to satisfy Wolfson.”
I didn’t ask further questions because I both saw and felt the change in my skin. What was red and cracked became soft again. Unblemished. Even my callouses healed—which was not necessarily a good thing.
I gaped at my hands, turning them front to back. “Can wizards cure all wounds?” My mind went to my parents and the sores that sprouted when the pestilence took their lives. I’d had them too, painful seeping boils under my arms and on my thighs. My father sold everything we had and only managed to buy one dose of medicine from the apothecary. He told my mother to take it, but after he died, she gave it to me.
Ronan put the lid back on the pot. “The more severe the wound, the harder it is to cure. Deep wounds require serious magic. Trying to save the dying could cost a wizard his life.”
I nodded, my mind still on my parents. Perhaps magic couldn’t have helped them, but if they’d been richer, they could have afforded three doses of medicine. I might not ever have a skill that paid well, but I could, given the right fortunate circumstances, marry wealth. Wealth worked its own kind of magic.
Ronan replaced the jar on his shelf with a satisfied thud.
I scooted to the edge of the bed. “Could you make a beauty potion for me?”
“Why would you want that? Beauty is a frivolous thing that isn’t worth what it costs.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re a boy, and besides you’re already handsome so you don’t care.”
He plopped down at his desk, angling his chair so he could see me. “And you’re only wishing for beauty because you haven’t considered what you ask. Do you want every scoundrel in the castle to take note of you? Do you want some lecherous noble buying you from the wizard for twisted reasons? Each time a mage called for you, you’d wonder if they wanted more than your service.”
Ronan made a fair point. Still, in my heart, I couldn’t wish for plainness. I was not that farsighted.
I sat straighter, weighing his last statement. “Does Mage Wolfson call for young women?” Mage Quintal flirted with the noblewomen who visited the castle to buy things, but I’d never seen Mage Wolfson take an interest in anyone.