“Well, now you do.”
His hand darted up to adjust his spectacles. “Indeed.”
He fell silent. Caleb gave a light cough, breaking the oddly tense silence that had settled between us.
“So what shall I practice today?” I asked, thankful for the interruption.
“Well, we can continue practicing the water elements, but I’d actually prefer to test you on one more textile-inspired skill.”
Irritation rubbed against my chest. “Oh?”
“It’s clear you are a talented mender,” he said. “How do you fare with fabric forming?”
I winced. For a textile mage, even I had my limits. “It is very difficult.” I reached up to adjust my kerchief, one of the few clothing items I’d made myself. It had taken two months of focused practice every evening to form it fiber by fiber. “I seem to…” my voice wavered. “I seem to lack any particular talent, even in my specialty, Your Highness.”
I swallowed under his scrutiny, under the weight ofhis judgment. I didn’t need more shame heaped upon my head. I had plenty of my own.
“There might be a reason for that, Lyranore.” He fumbled through a book’s pages, pulling out a piece of parchment that he had tucked within. “This shall be quick. I have a theory I want to test.” He ripped it in half, the sound splitting the air.
I raised my brows.
He placed the pieces in one hand, the jagged torn edges barely touching, then snapped. With a small flash, like the crackle of violet embers, the parchment joined together again.
“Impressive,” I said flatly. We’d already established I was a talented mender. I could complete that task in my sleep.
His eyes held a twinkle. He held the parchment out to me. “Now rip it again.”
I reached out to take it, but he pulled it away.
“With your magic,” he elaborated.
I narrowed my eyes. “No one does that.”
“And why not?”
I spluttered. “No one needs to. Why rip things? I’m in the business of fixing them.”
He nodded. “I’m a healing mage. I understand your reasoning completely.”
“So why assign me a meaningless task?”
A corner of his lips tilted upward. “Just try it.”
I rolled my eyes and looked at the parchment. The prince’s specialty was not textiles—I could tell by the rough scars that marked where the paper had torn before.
I’d show him.
I stepped closer. My hands hovered in the air above the parchment, my body fully aware of Thomas’s eager scrutiny.
I could show him… couldn’t I?
I gathered my nerve and forced my mind to focus on the parchment trembling in the night’s breeze, on the moonlight that bathed us both, on the subtle scent of paper and ink that must be coming from Prince Thomas.
How long did he spend in the palace library to constantly smell of books?
Prince Thomas cleared his throat, and my eyes flicked open. His expression held amusement. “Thank you for trying. I just had to test something.”
My cheeks heated. “I wasn’t finished.”
