Oh. Of course. She sighed at the thought, but it wasn’t as if shelikedher computer. Or even the ones that worked. Who in their right mind would choose technology over magic?
“All right,” she said. “In exchange for magic lessons, I won’t call you for tech support ever again. I’ll just ... use the computer lab when there’s no way around it, I suppose.”
He didn’t laugh this time. He surveyed her, something like pity in his eyes. “Tempting, but no. There’s nothing you could offer. Ask for something else.”
She swallowed, her disappointment far weightier than she would have thought possible. She’d chosen the history of magic as her specialty, yes, but only because it was interesting and worth further study, not because she’d seen it as the next best thing to casting spells. It wasn’t as if magical practices of the past had all that much in common with rip-roaring adventures about wizards. She just enjoyed researching, excavating information no one else had noticed or seen the value in.
And yet ... maybe she wasn’t giving her childhood wish enough credit. It obviously had more staying power than she ever suspected. Now that she knew spellcasting wasn’t merely the stuff of books and fairy tales, it topped her list of things she really, really wanted. Even above a tenure-track job.
And this infuriating wizard stood in the way of all that. Probably on the grounds that he detested her. If heknewsomehow that she had no innate magical ability, or if he was magically bound not to reveal occult secrets, he could just say that and have done with it.
“How about finding some other person to teach me?” she suggested, crossing her fingers.
Hartgrave threw up his arms. “No! Something else.”
Something else that would keep her in contact with magic and let her work on him like drops of water wearing away stone.
“Let me watch.” She gripped the chair. “Let me watch you practice, and I swear I’ll always come here alone.”
His sour expression told her he disliked this idea nearly as much. Seconds ticked by. A minute.
“All right.” He fell back on his bed, eyes squeezed shut. “But the next time you stop by,knock, for God’s sake.”
3
The Deferred Dream
Hartgrave showed no immediate inclination to get up and cast spells. He lay stretched out on the bed, a dark splotch on white sheets—black boots, black jeans, black coat. (And a charcoal-gray shirt, just for variety.)
Emily cast her mind back to her pre-teen fantasy of finding a wizard, aproperwizard. How had she imagined the first meeting? Oh yes. Many questions, all answered with great solemnity.
Well, it didn’t hurt to try. “When did you know you were a wizard?”
The improper specimen made an impatient noise. “I didn’t agree to conversation. And I’ve told you, don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the word.”
She had plenty of alternatives, though none that so effectively revived those childhood feelings of wonder and awe. “What do you prefer? Conjurer? Occultist? Cunning man? Theurgist? Mage?”
He sighed. “Convincer. It’s more accurate—the trick to magic is convincing it to do what you want.” He pushed up on one elbow, glaring at her. “And no, that’snota lesson.”
“You’re talking about magic as if it’s alive. Is it? And how do you find it?”
He glanced toward the door, plainly wanting to throw her out—probably through the magical flames. “It’s more of a substance, and you don’t have to find it. It’s everywhere. Getting it to cooperate is another matter.”
“Do you have a wand?”
“No,” he said, in the tone she imagined he’d use if she asked whether he had a pet unicorn.
“Are there many convincers?”
“Daggett,” he snapped, getting to his feet. “Enough.”
Why couldn’t it have been Bernie? Why? The professor certainly looked the part, with his hair and beard, and he’d have answered her questions, by gosh. Not solemnly, but still.
Hartgrave loomed over her. “If I perform for your amusement, will you leave?”
