Lunch was divinely simple, presenting itself in the form of peanut butter and honey sandwiches on soft white bread. The Mess had transformed since Hannah awoke on the sofa beside the fireplace, as it was now bathed in a sharp yellow light that radiated from the lanterns on the wall as one would expect sunshine should.When she had first entered on Dean’s heels, Hannah noticed that the walls were no longer black. Instead, they had turned a radiant rose, the white mortar between the bricks running like pearly veins in every direction up to the ceiling.

The ceiling itself was in an active process of changing, as the maps that lined every centimeter of the rafters were noticeably moving. Where marks of ink had been scratched on their surfaces, there were riots of swirling blue and black that shifted along the parchment in uniform circles and lines, as if an invisible hand and quill were etching new exploratory ideas and formations onto the paper. The sea charts held crude sketches of ships that sailed gracefully across the navy-dyed oceans depicted stretching for lengths across the boards of the ceiling, and on one particularly large map of twin frosted mountain ranges, white drifts of ink blew from the flat peaks, as if on a delicately drawn draft.

Hannah gazed upwards all through lunch, her neck protesting, yet her eyes unwilling to peel themselves away. Dean had chosen to promptly abandon her upon their arrival to the Mess, opting to eat his sandwich and chunks of ripe honeycrisp at the farthest end of the table away from her, seating himself between Talia and an empty chair. George, however, had sidled up beside Hannah with his plate of three sandwiches—and not a scrap of fruit in sight—and he chatted to her and Jane through the smacking of honey that dripped languidly from the crusts of his bread, from his fingertips, and from the corners of his lips.

“Really, I think it would be great fun to go,” George exclaimed through a thickened mouthful of sourdough. “I’ve always wanted to see what it would be like down there.”

“To get to the bottom of the Sive, you’d need more power than basic Seeker skills,” Jane mused, brushing at some crumbs that had fallen onto the napkin on her lap. “I don’t know if you can breathe underwater by wandering into someone’s mind…”

“But just imagine all the trinkets that are probably littering the river floor! Why, we’d most likely end up making our fortune with how much lucre gets tossed in wasted on wishes. Among that, there’d probably be missing engagement rings, lost wallets, loads of bottles and knicknacks--”

“Bodies,” Henry said dryly from over his sandwich, receiving a stark glance from all of them.

“That’s morbid,” George commented after a moment’s pause. “You know, for being an Aider, Hen, you are rather macabre in the day to day.”

Jane and Taryn snickered, and Hannah took a slow bite of her sandwich, her eyes locked on a vast green map titled Fellway Ridge that depicted a gorgeously lush pine forest with a streak of brilliant river slashing through it. The animated ink that wavered proudly across its surface had chosen to take up the form of a misshapen doodle of a horse and her rider.

“Any word on Nelson?” Will asked across the table to Dean and Talia. “I figured he’s still out on assignment, seeing as we haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

“Last we got from Cal is that Nelson is still surveying the political landscape for Munger,” Talia said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

“Meaning that he’s playing bodyguard and gathering intel?”

“Unless he’s gotten himself into trouble.”

“Nelson’s too smart for that,” Taryn interjected, and Talia gave a curt nod of her chin.

“Cal’s got his back,” she answered, tossing a rogue inky curl out of her face. “If he were in a bad way, I’m sure we’d have heard by now. No, I imagine Nelson is simply tucked away in some meeting room with Munger as he convenes with the other Ambassadors around the region until they all preen themselves green.”

Taryn rolled her eyes. “He’s been out for so long, though. What can old Munger possibly be up to for weeks at a time with only the select few brain cells that he possesses?”

This gained laughter from all of them, save for Dean, who was picking at his sandwich unceremoniously and looking disinterested on all fronts, and Hannah’s attention was securely fastened upon the pseudo-cinema on the ceiling. She watched the miniature horse and rider sweep through the paper forest of Fellway Ridge, moving alongside the river’s bend in pops of rudimentary movement that she imagined was akin to a drawing’s finest version of galloping.

Will cleared his throat, discarding his crumpled napkin to the side of his dish. “Speaking of that absolute dishrag Munger, why’s he been cavorting about with that lowly Larson Crane as of late?”

“What?” Dean sat forward then, dropping his half-eaten sandwich onto the plate set before him. Will looked in his direction with a curt nod.

“It was in the paper yesterday--first I’ve seen of those two ever coming into close contact--the article was a bit vapid, but grazing over it I gathered that they’ve had more than a few meetings in the last month.”

Dean looked flummoxed, “why am I just hearing of this now?”

“You were preoccupied,” Talia shot in Dean’s direction with a sharp raise of her brows. “I doubt any made it into the London news while you were scrounging about searching for an elusive thread.”

“Here, Dean,” Will stood from his seat and crossed to a desk against one of the walls where a stack of books and papers were strewn about. He plucked a crumpled newspaper from the mess and turned back to the dining table. “I kept it for kindling the fire, but I suppose you’ll want to keep it, eh?”

Dean shot a hand towards where Will stood, and the newspaper went soaring out of Will’s grasp in a fluttering of white and black wings, streaking promptly across the room and coming to a stop neatly between his fingers. The wind it kicked up blew Hannah’s hair across her face, and she at last broke away from her entrancement with the ceiling as she saw Dean snag the paper from midair. He licked a single thumb and began to leaf through the pages, leaving Will to scoff. He crossed back to his seat, shaking his head in amusement.

“I would have handed it to you, you know,” he commented as he sat back down, picking up the remainder of his sandwich. Dean ignored him as he buried his face in what was undoubtedly the article he sought, and George stretched his arms wide over his head with a yawn before he pushed his plate away from him with an abrupt belch.

“I’d fancy a nap right about now,” he said to Hannah. “That’d be nice.”

“This states that Munger and Larson have been convening at the Embassy over the last four weeks.” Dean’s voice was edged with annoyance as he continued to scan the paper, spreading it out flat on the table and leaning his elbows over it. “‘Sources believe there have been talks of enforcing a new order in Brink…’”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” George asked through another slack-jawed yawn. “The Syndicate is about as orderly as a rubbish bin.”

“I think it’s indicative of all the unrest at the Embassy,” Talia continued, picking at a piece of crust caught between her front teeth. “Ever since that scuff with the Syndicate last year, things have been messy. Munger’s been up to his eyeballs in trying to quell the well-deserved doubt in his leadership from the city goers.”

“It could be largely for show,” Will remarked. “Snap a few photos with the Syndicate second-hand to show that things are well within Brink, and that there’s no more threat of something as dramatic as last year’s brawl occurring because they’re rubbing elbows. I can’t imagine Larson would bother with royally kissing Munger’s slimy ass unless it would put his gaggle of Austeres in good graces within the public eye.”

Jane cleared her throat, and she spoke nearly under her breath, barely loud enough for Hannah to catch the words before they fizzled out. “I’m not convinced it’s that simple.”

Hannah noticed that Dean was silent as his eyes raked through the article, his expression clouding. With the conversation bleeding out, Taryn stood and began to gather the dirty plates and glasses from the table, and Will trailed after her as she headed towards the opening to the kitchen. Henry moved towards one of the desks lining the walls that was covered in beautiful little beakers of glittering pink and yellow glass, and Hannah saw him draw a few others out of his pockets, murmuring something to himself as he deserted the table. George nudged Hannah with an elbow, motioning his head to Jane.

“Since I’ll be out this afternoon, Jane can take you around the rest of the Atrium. She’s a good guide--not as fine as me, of course--but I suppose she’ll be entertaining enough to keep you from falling comatose from boredom.”

Jane pushed his arm, and George cackled with wry laughter, but Hannah found herself ultimately unable to focus on George’s words. There was something in the way that Dean was scouring the paper--something about the urgency clinging to the corners of his eyes--and it caught Hannah’s attention and stuck her to her chair as if she had been glued onto its surface.

Talia pushed back in her chair and kicked her feet up on the table, crossing her arms over her chest. Hannah saw her study Dean where he sat hunched over the paper, her dark eyes darting back and forth between the paper and Dean’s twisted face. There was a note of cold calculation on Talia’s lovely visage--a stroke of appraisal; of brutal knowing--and Hannah understood that the woman also did not believe the article to merely be simple.

“What’s an Austere?” Hannah at last found the courage to ask. Talia’s head snapped in her direction, and Dean’s eyes shot upward, fixing themselves upon her. George and Jane quieted beside her as she looked to them also, clenching her hands on her lap. “So, they’re members of that Syndicate group. But what can they do? What makes them so special?”

“They’re imbued.” Hannah was surprised that Talia was the first to answer, and she felt her gaze cutting straight through her. “Austeres aren’t gifted with magic, as all of us here are. Most of them come from no magic at all; or perhaps a scrap of it at best.”

“Why are they a threat, then?”

Dean’s eyes were burning holes in her skull, but Talia kept speaking, much to Hannah’s surprise. “When someone is sworn into the Syndicate, they take an oath. After that, they…change.”

Hannah felt something uneasy crawl into her stomach, pressing against the sole inhabitant which was her recently-eaten sandwich. “How is that possible--to gain magic by merely swearing into a group?”

Talia didn’t reply, instead pulling her boots off the table and straightening up, glancing over Hannah’s shoulder with a jab of her chin. Hannah whirled in her seat to find that Emery was descending the stairs that led upward from the Mess, his slow serenity taking up space in the air as he gently lowered himself down the steps, deliberately placing each foot firmly down before lifting the other once more. Dean closed the paper on the table and flicked his wrist, immediately turning the pages into nothing but a puff of white smoke beneath his palm that drifted upwards to the maps on the ceiling. George sighed from where he still sat beside Hannah, and he gave her a pitiful look.

“Well, duty calls,” he whined, standing from his chair. Dean did the same, and Hannah watched him exchange a cold look with Talia before he moved away from the table and towards where Emery was now crossing the room.

“Time to get hopping,” Emery announced as Dean and George came to stand before him. “I’ve already seen to it that your Tokens have new coordinates. You’ll start at the Forge and go from there--and do keep an eye on the time, boys. I’ll expect you back before midnight, if you’d be so kind as to be prompt.”

“Can’t we avoid the Forge?” George groaned, his shoulders slumping. “It always stinks to high heaven. All my clothes reek for weeks whenever I come out of that hole.”

“Stuff it,” Dean muttered as he elbowed his brother. “You already stink enough as it is. Don’t blame it on the Forge.”

“My personal hygiene is none of your concern!”

“It is when I room with you.”

George grinned. “Oh, right. In that case, I suppose your concern is warranted.”

“I’m asking you to liaison once more with Rebecca,” Emery continued over their banter. “She will undoubtedly be expecting your arrival. Be on your guard--even though many of the Forge goers pledge loyalty to the Guild, the walls often have ears in low places.”

George looked sheepish as he turned to his brother. “I’ll bet you’re due for another liaison with ol’ Becky, eh?”

If looks could have killed, Hannah was certain that Dean would have sent George’s blood splattering across every viable surface in the Mess. George, ever the unapologetic lad, seemed blissfully keen not to notice, even as Dean’s hands balled into white fists at his sides, a mist of violent gray appeared and hovering closely around the flesh of his knuckles. Hannah noticed that the tips of his ears were creeping with bright pink.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Emery also ignored Dean’s lethal look. “I’ll leave you both to it, then,” he said pleasantly, his words a sharpened scythe through the taut air that stretched out between the brothers. “I anticipate a high degree of risk. Avery, you certainly remember how the last trip from the Forge played out. I’ll remind you now how much it matters that you keep your wits about you and to stick to the plan that your Token will enlighten you with once you set off. Any deviation can result in another mishap, and you two are notoriously ill-equipped to handle a league of Austeres on your own. Be smart.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Dean replied pointedly, crossing his arms. “My wards are already in place.” Hannah wondered if the flicker of air around his shoulders was just her imagination, or if those very wards he spoke of had shuddered imperceptibly at the mention of their presence.

“Update me when you can. And, Avery--do try your best to keep your brother out of trouble.”

Dean made a sound that was a cross between a snarl and a grunt before striding forward past Emery, his hand flying out beside him and tugging his familiar peacoat out from thin air as it obediently materialized. George skipped on his heels to keep up, racing after his brother with another crude joke which Hannah couldn’t hear the end of as they reached the stairs and began to climb. There was a tinkling of chimes as they wandered upwards, and Hannah was flummoxed to see them both be enveloped in a snap of golden light that was so brilliant in its conception that she had to slam her eyelids shut. When she at last pried her eyes open once more, they had vanished completely, the stairway still echoing with the sounds of their departed footfalls.

Emery still stood before the stairs, his hands folded thoughtfully in front of him. Hannah still sat at the table, and she noticed that all the others had gone into the kitchen to help with dishes and to return the accouterments of their lunch back to their rightful places in the pantry. Emery stared past Hannah and ahead at the sounds of the Guild Members bustling about in the kitchen, his face a blank slate, his milky eyes trailing off on some fixed point on the wall. He stood there for a long moment, and Hannah sat there watching him, feeling increasingly awkward and unsure of whether or not she should announce her presence to him with words or rather with a largely over-dramatic sneeze, both of which would undoubtedly only serve to make the air between them more uncomfortable. Perhaps she could pretend to be in one of the seats with her back to Emery--he surely wouldn't know otherwise, right?--and when she sneezed, she could act as if she hadn’t noticed him still standing there. Or perhaps she could simply stand silently from the chair and tiptoe to the kitchen, but she was keenly aware of just how creaky the old oak seat beneath her was, as it had wailed with age when she had first sat down with her sandwich.

As she was wondering what exactly to do with herself without making Emery feel as if she had been quietly gawking at him for the past long, uninterrupted minutes, Emery turned over his left shoulder and moved fluidly to the staircase behind him. Instead of ascending, however, Emery reached a withered hand to one of the stone walls encapsulating the stairwell, and he pressed his palm against it, his pale skin already glowing with that blistering white light that Hannah had first seen him use with Taryn’s masterful attack of chairs in training. The wall beneath his palm obediently gave way to nothingness, melting as thin as breath and growing completely transparent, a darkened archway appearing in the translucent stones.

Hannah bit her tongue to keep quiet, and Emery stepped lightly through the ghostly wall, descending as though moving down a hidden flight of stairs. Once he was out of sight, the wall solidified once more, the particles of black brick shifting back into order and appearing completely undisturbed. She let out the breath that she had been holding, her shoulders slumping slightly. When George had mentioned lower levels of the Atrium, she hadn’t quite been expecting needing to wander through sturdy walls in order to get there.

With the men now gone, Hannah sat frozen at the table, her eyes fixed blankly on the steps. That feeling of overwhelming unease that had sprouted during lunch had wormed its way well beyond her stomach and was now occupying residency within her chest cavity, sitting heavily in the spot smack dab between her lungs. She vaguely heard the clinking of dishes in the sink coming from the kitchen behind her, and the chatter of casual conversation between Taryn and Will was enough to send a stab of loneliness into her spine.

As much as she hated to admit it, Dean was annoyingly familiar amid all that she could not understand about this strange, new place, even with his torrential temper. Without him--and certainly without the incredibly comforting boon of George--she felt her knees knock slightly.

The thought came to her without warning; what if I ran?

Emery seemed otherwise tied up, and without the watchful eye of Dean upon her to ensure she wasn’t getting into trouble, Hannah considered the risks. She hadn’t been awake for the journey from the Strat after she had so annoyingly fainted, so she hadn’t the foggiest idea of how she might begin to retrace the steps needed to return. And once she was there, of course, there would be the matter of buying a ticket that would send her back--if such a thing even existed at all. The way that Dean had made the train system seem from his soliloquy on the platform alluded to the possibility that merely being in possession of a ticket would not be enough to get her to London. She hadn’t seen any timetables at the Strat, and there hadn’t been any sort of marquee to direct which train was heading in which direction.

There was also the fact of her clearly Common blood. She had overheard enough from the others to gather that she herself was not necessarily a grand and good thing to be in this mysterious city. If the Guild was being truthful about the danger she was bringing upon them by simply being within their home, then she thought it a rather stupid plan to go cavorting about in the streets like a meager lost puppy in search of the Strat. Should the wrong type of person stumble upon her, and should they learn of her origin…

“Are you alright, there, Hannah?” Jane’s voice cleaved through her thoughts and pulled her violently back to reality. Hannah jumped, and she whirled upon the small girl, her face flushing pink with surprise as Jane blinked curiously at her. “You look like you’ve just eaten sourgrass.”

“I’m fine,” Hannah stammered, waving her hands in what she hoped was a casually dismissive manner as she tried to feign innocence. She hadn’t realized that she had stood to her feet amid all her scheming, and it took her a moment to collect her bearings. “I was just…wondering where the boys were off to. Does Emery send all of you out on assignments quite frequently?”

Jane shook her head. “Oh, no; rarely do any of us that aren’t Seekers go out to task. Dean, Talia, Nelson, and Emery are the only ones here at the Atrium that are qualified. George is an apprentice, so he sometimes will go alongside the others to learn, but things have been dangerous recently, and he’s been a bit landlocked here at home. I’m so glad he’s getting the chance to go out today, though--he positively idolizes Dean.”

Hannah fought back against a sarcastic laugh. “They seemed ready to go for each other’s throats during training!”

“They’re siblings,” Jane mused calmly, a knowing smile creeping across her face. “Do you really expect anything other than abhorrent competition?”

“I guess I’ve not seen loving admiration displayed in that way before, then,” Hannah shrugged, and Jane grinned. “What is a Seeker, anyways?”

Jane motioned for Hannah to follow her. “Let’s go to roof and talk. Henry is about to make something loud, I can already hear it bubbling.”

Hannah lurched back in surprise, and her gaze shot to where Henry sat at his desk surrounded by the charming rainbow of beakers, his hands moving gracefully between them all, a great leather-bound book spread wide just beneath his nose. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Potions are Henry’s speciality,” Jane explained, taking Hannah by the arm and gently leading her towards the steps that Dean and George had ascended moments ago. “He’s an Aider, and a right good one at that. But he’s been perfecting a few tonics over the last week that come with their own complications at conception--didn’t you notice his eyebrow?”

Hannah had indeed seen that one of Henry’s eyebrows had been half-gone when she had taken a moment to study him during lunch, but she had been too shy to ask what had occurred lest she find out too late that it was a horrifically embarrassing phenomenon that he had been born with, and how dare she be so rude as to draw attention to it. “It’s not a wickedly precise birthmark?”

Jane linked her arm through Hannah’s as they reached the first step. “He whipped up a flame retardant potion so strong that it leapt out of the beaker in a burst of ironic fire and singed his brow clean off. The sound it made was incredible--a great roar of wind and rush of heat--I thought that he was going to let it get away from him, and it would instead have the totally unfortunate side effect of burning down the entire Atrium.” They had made it halfway up when Hannah at last heard what Jane had mentioned--a distinct bubbling sound coming from the Mess they were leaving behind. “He managed to reign it in, though. He somehow always does.”

An enormous popping sound filled the air and sent a blistering wave of cool air bellowing up around them, coming squarely from the opening to the Mess. Hannah flinched and freed her arm from Jane’s tossing her hands over her face in defense of the sudden onset of weather, but Jane rippled with laughter, and when Hannah at last pulled her fingers from her eyes, she saw that the staircase had been filled riotously with shining blue bubbles. A commotion came from the Mess below them, and Hannah heard Taryn gasp.

“What have you done, Henry?” She shrieked.

“Just give me a moment!” Henry replied hotly, followed by a prompt sound of the explosion of crashing glass upon hardwood. “Damn it!”

“It’s like some grand, ungodly bathtub!” Will squawked with laughter. “Wait, no, don’t get rid of it! This is hilarious, Hen! George will want to see this for sure!”

Jane pulled Hannah along, ascending the stairs once more, “he mentioned that he was working on a potion that would be like a shower in a bottle to carry on long journeys. Perhaps this is it; though I can’t imagine fellow wanderers would appreciate a forest full of soap suds after a long day’s trek.”

“It’s magnificent,” Hannah breathed, poking at one of the larger bubbles and sending it popping into little streaks of sapphire light before it vanished. The smell of lavender and wet wood chased them up into the foyer, where stray bubbles were beginning to swirl upwards to the vaulted ceiling, bouncing jubilantly off the frosted glass of the windows as they flew past. “I’m beginning to suspect that you are all quite different in your magic.”

Jane nodded once more. “I’m not nearly as skilled as Henry is with elixirs and with chemistries. He’s a gifted Aider--crafty, and creative, and brutally smart--he’s never gotten a failed school test score in his life.”

“Is that his power? Potions?”

“He’s a strong hand at healing, too. He also knows a few nasty poisons, but I’ve never seen him make them while I’ve been here at the Atrium.”

Hannah considered this. “Why do you need poisons?”

Jane didn’t answer for a moment, instead leading Hannah across the foyer in thoughtful silence. After a moment of ascending the next flight of stairs at the end of the hallway, she faced her.

“Brink is not a tidy place,” she murmured as they climbed, her eyes glowing in the sunlight through the fogged windows lining the stairs. “There’s just…good and bad, here.”

Hannah weighed her words, quickening her step to keep astride Jane. “We’ve got laws, of course,” Jane continued. “But Brink is the largest city on the east continent. It’s also one of the farthest cities away from the power of the Priory, and with it being a major point of entry between worlds, it's always been more dangerous than one would think. This bit of knowledge won’t matter much to you, but when Thatch Munger came into power at the Embassy five years ago, Brink took a nosedive in the department of crime. There’s a lot of unrest.”

“Between the Syndicate at the Guild?”

“Moreso between the people who live here at the Priory. There’s been riots in the past--calls for emancipation from the ruling powers--but the Priory has always been able to quell things politically. The last five years, though…the Syndicate has been whispering.”

Hannah and Jane entered the Roost, and they crossed to the spiral staircase. “Are they responsible for the riots?”

“No, but they are certainly doing a fine job at planting ideas in peoples’ heads.” Jane slid a delicate hand up the banister of the stairs, looking back to meet Hannah’s eye. “They’d like to see an Austere in power over all of Brink. If they spread enough doubt in the Priory throughout the streets, eventually a coup could occur that the Priory won’t be able to manage without getting forcibly involved. Things could go poorly quite fast.”

“Is Munger an Austere?”

“Oh, no,” Jane murmured as they reached the library. “And thank goodness for that. Thatch Munger, however politically inept he may seem, is just a simple wielder. He’s been proven to be quite good with fire, but other than that, he is not in league with the Syndicate. He’s rather loyal to the Priory--at least, he used to serve in the courts under the ruling powers--so I think he’s got a pretty close eye on him from Mull.”

Hannah felt the weight of Jane’s words; the tightening of the muscle near her jaw. “But you think he’d do it. You think he’d be swayed to rebel against them.”

Jane paused by the ladder to the loft, a beam of afternoon sunlight illuminating the gentle brunette of her hair. Hannah was struck with how grave the small girl’s face had grown.

“A spark can become a blaze if properly coaxed,” she said. “Brink’s a ready pile of dry kindling blown by the wind, and it’s neatly tucked away from the watchful eye of those at the Priory who keep order. It really wouldn’t take much stoking for things to become out of hand.”

Hannah felt that unease in her chest wiggle around a little, reminding her of its presence. Jane shrugged after a moment of silence, and she reached a hand to the ladder. A bright sprout of vine appeared out from underneath her palm and began to curl its way up the rungs, moving like a determined wisp of lush smoke as it shot over the edge of the loft. A second later, the vine began to shudder, its leaves curling at the ends, and Hannah heard the whack and gritty slip of something sliding upon the floor of the loft out of sight above them.

In a rush of green, the vine cascaded downwards once more at a fever pitch, collapsing over itself back down to where they stood. Hannah only just saw the corner of the large, purple book the vine had threaded itself around at its end. It landed heavily in Jane’s outstretched hands, the vines immediately receding back to the ladder before wilting limp, as if exhausted by its quest of fetching her the book.

“Would you like to garden with me this afternoon?” Jane asked, tucking the book--The Wonderful World of Fertilizer--under an arm. “I know George mentioned exploring more of the Atrium, but the sun is out behind the wards, so the plants will be happy today to have some company. There’s a fresh row of peonies I was thinking of asking to sprout…you could help me lay some new flower boxes.” Jane stopped herself, realizing that she had been rambling. “Of course, if you’d rather be on your own, though, I’d understand completely. You aren’t obligated to be around us at all, if you’d prefer not to.”

“Yes please!” Hannah all but burst out before Jane could say another word, her hands tightening at her sides. The unease in her chest had loosened remarkably as she had wandered the Atrium with Jane, and the thought of being among the stunning array of plants was enough to keep her anxious thoughts of somehow escaping to the train station at bay.

Jane smiled, placing a hand atop the book at her side as Hannah swallowed and continued on. “As silly as it seems, I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re safe here, Hannah,” Jane said gently, even as she nodded understandingly. “I don’t know why you’re here quite yet, but I’ll bet that the reason for it will pop up sooner or later. Until then, it’s rather fun showing someone new what magic can do.”

“You don’t think it’s a waste of time?” Hannah asked, rocking from foot to foot.

“No, I don’t.”

“Dean seems to certainly think so.”

Jane grinned impishly, and Hannah saw the last of the vine on the ladder wither away, its leaves shriveling up into dry crisps. “Avery is all bark, no tree. He’ll come around with that attitude of his.”

Hannah sighed. “Would you show me more of those marvelous roses when we get up to the roof? I have a dear friend who’s remarkable with the tending of his rose bushes--you’d adore him--and I imagine I can learn a thing or two from you to impress him with when I get home to London.”

Jane waved over her shoulder as she turned towards the last stairwell leading to the Haven. “I wonder if he talks to them as he works. Roses love to be entertained, magical or not.”

Through a stab of longing, Hannah managed a smile at the thought of Bartrum bent low over his beloved roses, pruning shears in hand, humming the tune of Whistle While You Work as he devoted hours to them. She made a promise to herself to learn that song on the little piano in the sitting room as soon as she was able.