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“How?” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the delicate balance he’d found. Though the arcade was anchored against the receiving salon wall, the free end where it had once been attached to the north wing allowed the room to bob unnervingly. Because it wasn’t a barge and not meant to float. What he was doing wasn’t possible.
The room lurched precipitously, dropping through the water like a rock plunging into a still pond. The struts holding the arcade to the core of the house shrieked, popping and rupturing with huge groans. Nic screamed too, swept up by the wave that poured in the arches, her hand ripped from his, her intoxicating torrent of magic abruptly wrenched away.
As if taking revenge, the water caught at him, obstructing his efforts to reach Nic as the cursed waterlogged gown dragged her under, her dark, sleek head disappearing into the depths consuming the hall as it skewed slightly, unanchored, and began sinking as graciously as it had once stood. The whole thing was going under, muddy, algae-green water swirling up to his chest.
Nic was nowhere in sight.
Taking a breath, he dove under the water, swimming through the muck to reach where she struggled against the weight of the velvet gown. He seized her around the waist and struck out for one of the arches. He was a strong swimmer, if nothing else. Belatedly remembering her lecture about using his own magic if he lost the thread of hers, he tried moving the water around them to assist—and discovered he’d drained his own water magic without realizing it. Unable to think of an application for moon magic in the current situation, he determinedly kept swimming. Much as Nic disdained the “manual” method for accomplishing tasks, sometimes muscle did what magic could not. Case in point.
Reaching the reedy edge of what had once been a formal garden, he hauled Nic onto a rise of lawn more mud than grass. She flopped onto her back, pale and drawn, so boneless he thought she might be unconscious. Then her eyes popped open, glaring at the sky with dark-green exasperation. Rolling her head, she transferred the glare to him. “Let me guess. When you went to stabilize the arcade’s position, you startedthinkingabout how houses don’t float.”
Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as the pitched roof of the arcade vanished underwater, not even a gable to be seen. Feeling all resolve drain away, not unlike the sinking foundation of the entire manse, he flopped onto his back beside her. “Pretty much,” he admitted. “But you have to recognize,” he added, not caring if he sounded defensive, “that arcadewasn’tbuilt to float. I could use magic to shift the water to temporarily lift it, but it’s impossible to keep it that way. It’s always going to eventually sink.”
“Oh, really?” she breathed, managing to sound like a breathless, silly female—something he’d never once heard from her before. Leveraging herself up, she pushed back the muddied, wet tendrils that flopped over her forehead, then pressed a hand to her breast as if her heart was fluttering. Widening her eyes and batting her water-beaded lashes, she positively simpered at him. “That’s sointeresting, Gabriel. I had no idea! Truly, tis a wonder magic works at all. Maybe it doesn’t, and we just imagine things like carriages that move by themselves and couriers that can appear and disappear in an instant.”
He glared at her, not even remotely amused to bear the brunt of her sharp wit in that moment. “You’re not funny.”
Dropping all pretense, she sobered. “Maybe you can tell me whatwillget through your thick skull.” She tapped him smartly between the brows. “Your thoughts shape the magic. Nothing more, nothing less. The moment you decide something is impossible, it becomes exactly that.”
He looked away from her fierce visage, her sensual beauty striking, even bedraggled and mud-spattered. “The laws of physics don’t just vanish because it would be convenient,” he ground out. Exhausted, he contemplated simply lying on this muddy bank until he decomposed and became part of it.
“Which laws of physics are those?” she persisted, taking his jaw in her small hand and making him meet her gaze. Unlike his, Nic’s determination never flagged; she seemed to possess an infinite capacity to soldier on. She put him to shame, which didn’t help him scrape up more resolve. “The ones that say you can’t turn moonlight into silver? Tell me, Gabriel—what happens to that silver like you left scattered across the floor of the dining hall?”
“I scrape up what I can and sell it,” he admitted. “It’s very thin, almost a foil, so it isn’t hugely valuable, but it’s something.”
“Does it turn back to moonlight?”
He frowned. “Not that I’ve seen.”
“So why can’t you make flotation permanent too?”
Lifting his hand, he rubbed his forehead, then pushed himself up. Studying the submerged arcade, he tried to make her suggestion seem logical. He couldn’t, because it made no sense. “I just don’t believe that’s possible.”
“And that is why you fail.” With a heavy sigh, she stood, the sodden velvet hanging heavy on her petite frame. “What do I have to do to get a hot bath around here?”
Something else he’d forgotten to arrange for her. “I’ll handle it.”
“With all due respect and gratitude, Gabriel, I’d really prefer if you’d teach me to fish. Being able to arrange for my own hot bath would be a welcome level of autonomy.”
“Of course.” By dint of sheer willpower, he managed to lever himself to his feet, showing her the relatively dry path that would lead them around to the back entrance of the house. He was so tired, his steps were clumsy, his waterlogged boots occasionally tripping on nothing. Nic eyed him, sharply observant.
“Drained your water magic entirely, didn’t you?” she asked. When he reluctantly nodded, she tipped her own chin in solidarity. “I’m about empty, too. We really have to work on your control.”
“Nic…” He grimaced ruefully at her raised brow. “Could we give discussion of everything I need to learn a brief rest—like for the next hour, perhaps?”
Laughing softly, not without sympathy, she looped her arm through his, a measure of her natural fire warming him at the contact. “Yes, we can. I apologize. Idoremember what it’s like.”
“You do?” he asked, with some surprise, opening the back hall door for her.
“Of course.” She shook her head, gaze focused on some memory. “At Convocation Academy, we drilled in all kinds of exercises designed to build discipline and control. All day long, day after day. I started when I was five years old—and we’re trying to cram years of training into hours. You’re so powerfully talented and ingenious that I forget you never learned the basics.” She let out a rueful breath. “And I’m an impatient teacher. You could do far better than learning from me.”
Putting his hand over hers on his arm—she was way too cold, having lost the warmth of his spell when his magic failed—he caressed it and smiled at her. “I know I’m a hard-headed student. I may get grumpy, but it’s probably good that you’re fierce with me.”
“Nowyou say so.” She smiled warmly.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Now that I don’t have to be worried that you’ll make me wade back into that sunken arcade and lift it again.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully, lush mouth pursed as she considered something. “We need to make this fun for you,” she decided. “If you’re miserable and feeling pressured, that only constricts the flow of magic.”
