“All right, but let’s say the combination of pixie magic and elf magic becomes volatile when mixed with mage magic—like leprechaun magic. We have no way to know how the three will blend. We don’t even know how the two will blend on their own.”
“Then we both die.”
Ansel says it so matter-of-factly, I find myself gaping at him.
I hold my hand up, getting increasingly nervous. “I have a dumb question.”
Two pairs of eyes look my way.
“What if I help Rowan hold his wand in his little wing? Would he be able to access his magic and perform the spell without all this questionable fuss?”
Rowan stares at me, unblinking, and Ansel purses his lips together, attempting to hide his amusement.
“I said it was a dumb question,” I mutter.
“My feathers won’t conduct magic,” Rowan answers. “You’d have to pluck my wing for it to even stand a chance of it working.”
Ansel stands a little straighter, as if he has had an epiphany. “Now, hold on?—”
“It’s ridiculous, and you know it,” Rowan argues before Ansel can run down a different road. “Kit would have to learn the spell pattern, and since she would be directly connected, the magic would flow through her. If it backfired, it could kill her. Or worse.”
I don’t want to think about what might be worse than death.
“All right,” I say, “but no matter what, someone is putting their life at risk. It’s better me than Ansel, right?”
“No,” they both say immediately, tones stern.
I take a step back. “W-why?”
“Your magic is too precious to sacrifice,” Rowan answers.
“Precious?” I laugh, unnerved. “You told me it was cute and worthless.”
“That’s before I realized you could call a storm and ruin Ash’s entire day. If there is a gift that needs to be protected, it’s that.”
I give him a droll look.
“Enough mages have taken summer pixie lives,” Ansel says sharply. “We’re not risking yours.”
The sorcerer turns back to Rowan, all but dismissing me.
I could point out that siphoning some of my magic comes with its own risks, but it’s clear Ansel is done with that particular thread of the conversation.
They go back to the original plan of tempering my magic with Ryder’s. I return to my tea, adding milk, water, and sugar to the saucepan and then placing it on the hot plate, as Rowan taught me.
When it’s done simmering, I pour it through a small strainer, into a large earthenware mug, and join my companions at their table.
I sip the spiced beverage as they argue back and forth. The two mages speak a language that sounds like two parts magic and one part science. I recognize most of the words they’re using, but I have no idea what they’re saying.
“All we can do is try,” Ansel finally says, rising. “And there’s no time like the present. Let’s go.”
“Go?” I squeak, nervous now that death has entered the conversation so many times since Ansel arrived.
The sorcerer looks over as if remembering I still exist. “We certainly can’t do it here.”
“We’ll meet you at your workshop in a few minutes,” Rowan says.
His mind on the looming task, Ansel leaves, not even saying goodbye as he steps through the door.
