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~17~
Aknocking onthe library doors interrupted the kiss, so Gabriel stood with a sigh for the ever-growing demands on their time, drawing Nic to her feet. Just as well. They couldn’t hide in the library forever, no matter how enticing that prospect.
“Enter,” he called. One of the younger local lads, who Nic had apparently conscripted to help out running messages around the manse, edged through the partly opened door. “Lord Phel,” he said, the impudent grin making it clear he found it weird to call Gabriel that. “There’s a lady wants to see you.”
Didn’t everyone? “We’ll be right out,” Gabriel replied. “There are so many wizards all over this place now that I can’t tell anymore when new ones arrive,” he grumbled to Nic, offering his arm.
“You’ll become accustomed to it,” she soothed. “And you’ll once again know a stranger from your own minions.”
“Minions,” he muttered darkly. “Vipers at my breast, you mean.”
“Jadren is a special case,” she conceded as he led her out of the library. The impassive neutrality in her tone gave him pause, and he glanced sharply at her.
“I know that one is particularly full of attitude, but did he say something to you?”
Nic shook her head, so immediately that he knew she was lying. “Not at all, he—”
“Be honest,” he reminded her on a growl.
“Not everything is worth discussing,” she shot back in the same tone. “I’m not fragile. I grew up in the Convocation, which means I can take a bit of snottiness and…” Her voice trailed off at the sight of the conveyance parked in the light drizzle. Even he recognized that crest, Convocation Center, and the woman descending from it: the proctor who’d presided over Nic’s Betrothal Trials.
The older woman’s steely gaze landed on Nic, her expression dour with disapproval. She carried herself with far more authority than a wizard of her mid-level abilities deserved to, especially as it was all borrowed.
“Veronica Elal,” she barked. “You have been a very naughty familiar.”
Nic didn’t falter—she wasn’t one to crumple under attack—but her magic dimmed. The abundant, rich swirl of fire and roses paled and contracted. “Proctor,” she replied in neutral greeting, saying nothing more. Gabriel realized he’d never known the woman’s name, only her title.
“Andyou.” The proctor transferred her dour, schoolmistress glare to him. “You were told to go home and mind your own business, Lord Phel.”
Gabriel made a show of glancing about. “And so I have,” he replied mildly enough. Then gathered his magic around him, prepared to fight for his home and his woman. “It seems thatyouare the one sticking her nose into my business.”
She smiled thinly. “You invited me, Lord Phel.”
Curse it, she was right. And curse Nic and her determination to smooth things over with the Convocation. “I can uninvite you, too,” he snapped, seriously considering sending a silver lance of solid moonlight through her chest. The big hole it would make—and the stunned look on her face—would be worth any repercussions. Nic squeezed his forearm lightly, as if sensing his musings.
The proctor shifted uneasily, which gave him a lovely thrum of satisfaction. Yes, be afraid of me. “I meant no disrespect, Lord Phel,” she said, far more humbly, her posture turning beseeching. “I’m here to serve and protect you. A rogue familiar is a danger to us all. With her unstable personality, undisciplined nature, and outright rebellion, an improper bonding could allow her to—”
“The bonding has been properly conducted,” Asa said, ambling up beside them with hands in pockets. He inclined his head to Nic and Gabriel both. “Wizard Asa of House Refoel,” he tossed at the proctor. “I can attest to completed bonding. And Lady Phel is in excellent health, displaying no signs of instability.” He glanced deliberately at Nic, raising a brow at the way she inclined herself against Gabriel, arm threaded firmly through his. “Nor of rebellion.”
“Thank you, Wizard Asa,” the proctor replied sourly, not sounding grateful at all. “But I will be the judge of that.” She plucked a case from the chariot, returning her glittering gaze to Nic.
Gabriel recognized the case, the elaborately carved and ancient tabernacle containing the oracle head, and he suppressed a shudder. He didn’t care for the horrifying, mummified head—though it probably had no power to harm Nic. The proctor was a different story.
“Make your evaluation and begone then,” he bit out.
“I will do so.” The proctor, confidence regained, managed to look down her nose at them. “And I will perform my duties to the Convocation at my own pace and at my own discretion. I answer to the Convocation, not to any house, no matter how high. Come with me, familiar. I require a private location where I’ll be undisturbed,” she added to Gabriel.
Though Nic didn’t move to obey, Gabriel clamped a hand over hers to keep her from going. “Lady Phel,” he emphasized, “will review her busy schedule and send for you when it’s convenient for her, at her own pace and discretion,” he added.
“That will not do at all,” the proctor replied firmly. “I answer to another authority, Lord Phel, not yours. Do not force my hand.”
“Try it,” Gabriel invited silkily, though Nic dug her nails into his arm.
“I am surprised,” the proctor said, after a significant pause, “that a young wizard from a house with such tentative status would flaunt Convocation law.”
“Law?” he shot back. “Or custom?”
“I don’t advise that you undertake to argue the finer points of Convocation laws and customs with me, Lord Phel,” the proctor replied coolly. “It’s well known that you have little experience or education in either.”
