Ash nods toward the spellbook. “I saw that dragon before you turned the page. You know you can’t make them too impressive.”
“Freaking humans,” Ansel mutters. “Yes, fine. Boring Saturday fireworks, as always.”
“Thank you, Ansel.”
“What about a family of little ducklings, waddling across the sky?” the sorcerer asks before we leave. “Surely that won’t scare the humans?”
“We’re not worried aboutscaringthem,” Ash says with a sigh.
“So, is that a yes?”
“That’s a no. Regular fireworks,please.”
“One duck?” Ansel holds up a finger. “Just one?”
“Ansel, I swear.No.” The councilman closes the door soundly, ending the conversation.
“Can he really make fireworks that look like ducks?” I ask.
Ash groans, directing me down the hall. “I have no doubt. It’s never him making them that’s the problem—it’s convincing him not to.”
We arriveat the cottage near dinner time. Before I hop out of the cabriolet, I ask Ash, “Do you want to stay for dinner? I don’t know what I’m making yet, but I’ll try not to light it on fire.”
Ash smiles…sort of. It might be more of a grimace. “I’m afraid I can’t tonight. My mother has scheduled a family dinner.”
Though I’m disappointed we’re parting for the evening, I’m a little relieved that I don’t have to put something together that will meet his fussy standards.
“I’ll see you…?” I draw it out, not wanting to be presumptuous.
“Tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“Yes, I would like that.”
Ash nods, leaning forward.
I close my eyes, almost sighing when his lips brush over mine.
“Bye,” I say, feeling especially sparkly.
He nods, waiting for me to go inside the gate before he coaxes the horse toward his house.
I sigh contentedly as soon as I’m inside, scooping Chester up when he greets me at the door.
“Where’s Rowan?” I ask the dog, disappointed that the mage doesn’t seem to be here. The house feels lonely without him. Trying to fill up the silence, I say in a baby voice, “Do you know, Ches? Where is Rowan? Where is our owl?”
“Please tell me you don’t expect the dog to answer you,” Rowan calls from the kitchen.
My mood brightening, I follow his voice and find him on the table, reading a paperback I left out this morning. He’s attempting to hold the pages open by standing on them.
“That looks awkward,” I say.
“Only when I have to turn the page.” He shifts off the book, letting it fall closed, and then flies to his perch.
“Do you like romance novels?” I ask, glancing at the book.
“Not particularly, but I’m not exactly drowning in options.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
