“Mablemyer Mages College.” Rowan preens like he knows it's impressive.
Ansel must know it as well because he huffs but has no other retort.
“You?” Rowan asks.
“Ballanholm College of Magic.” Judging from the way Ansel says it, and the annoyed look on Rowan’s owl face, that one must be impressive, too.
“Did your school implement a rank system?” Ansel asks.
“Obviously.”
“What did you graduate?”
Rowan’s silence is telling. When he finally answers, he says, “I was the head of my class, until…”
Ansel turns to look at the owl, frowning. “You didn’t graduate?”
“I was working on my final project whenthishappened.”
For a moment, pity crosses the sorcerer’s face. Then he smirks. “Well, I was second, butIactually graduated.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake.
I nudge Ansel’s seat. “Are we really doing this?”
The sorcerer angles around, his eyes bright. “I was just making small talk, Kit.”
“Sure.”
For the rest of the drive, the two mages politely bicker back and forth, trying to one-up the other.
Ash doesn’t join the conversation, nor does he look inclined to.
“I’m just saying,” Rowan says to Ansel, flying out the door behind the sorcerer when we reach the parking garage, “that if you haven’t ever attempted a level five metamorphosis, I don’t see how you could possibly?—”
Ansel shuts the door before Rowan finishes the sentence.
Ash sighs, turning around to look at me. “Next time, you’re sitting up front.”
I smile. “Are you upset you didn’t go to a fae college so you could join the conversation?”
“I easily have them both beat—I had to pass the bar.”
I laugh as I open my door, stepping into the covered parking garage, dreading the rain. Thankfully, Ash called ahead, asking a groom to prepare his horse and cabriolet.
“Do you ever get tired of this fuss?” I ask him, staying a way back from Ansel and Rowan, enjoying this moment we have together. “Wouldn’t it be nice to drive right to your house and park in a warm attached garage?”
“I don’t mind it.”
He walks close to me. His hand occasionally flirts with mine, though he doesn’t take it like I would like. Something tells me that public displays of affection are never going to be something Ash enjoys, and that’s all right—even if our companions are ten yards ahead of us.
“Even when it’s raining?” I ask.
“It’s a little inconvenient when the weather is poor.”
“And you have to take care of your horse,” I point out.
“That’s not a chore I mind.” Ash acknowledges the security guard as we reach the entrance, bidding him a good evening.
