“What does that even mean?” he demands, getting frustrated now.
“The thing you liked best about yourself.”
“Do women actually catalog these things?”
I laugh. “Some of us do.”
He thinks about it, watching me drink my tea. Finally, he says, “My last name.”
“That’s not a physical feature.”
“No, but it’s the thing I like best about myself. I might be a half breed, but I’m still a Neilfellow.”
“Don’t call yourself that,” I say, frowning into my cup.
“A Neilfellow?”
“A half breed.”
“You’re such a summer,” he chuckles.
“What season are you?” I ask. “Do you know?”
“Mages don’t have seasons. Our magic smells the same, acts the same. It has something to do with our fae genetics blending with our human ones. There’s only one possible outcome.”
“Do you catch fae illnesses or human ones?”
“Both, but only rarely. We have a natural immunity to all thanks to our mixed heritage. I’m rarely sick.”
“Why do you have to use wands?”
“They’re a tool. We cannot summon our magic without them.”
“But it’s just a stick.”
“They’re enchantedsticks.”
My timer goes off again, and I pull the infuser from his cup. Then I take both mugs to the table. Rowan flies over to join me. A comfortable silence falls between us as we drink our tea.
“You know my history,” Rowan finally says. “But I know very little about you.”
“A person’s history can’t be told in one short conversation.”
“You still know more about me than I do you.”
I’m not sure why I’m reluctant to talk about myself—maybe because there’s so little to say. And that’s kind of sad.
“What do you want to know?”
“What’s your hair color?” he says wryly.
I roll my eyes, smiling.
“Let’s start with the basics. Do you have any siblings?”
“No, I’m an only child.”
“Are your parents both summers?”
