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I know my mother likely fed our faerie dragons at lunchtime, but I humor him anyway. I draw aether into my palm, and Zephyr’s scaly tail trembles with anticipation. Many might say that the magi are addicted to magic, but faerie dragons suffer from a far worse affliction.
“Crysanthius,” I say, and the aether solidifies.
Zephyr swoops down, and his long pink tongue darts out like a frog’s as he snatches all the crystals from my grasp. His tongue is extremely slobbery and leaves a thick layer of saliva coating my palm.
“Ew, that’s gross, Zephyr!” I exclaim, wiping my empty hand on my robes. “Have you really no manners?”
He flashes me a toothy grin that reveals his tiny fangs. While I’ve never been bitten by a faerie dragon, I’m certain it would do more than sting.
Zephyr somersaults through the air as he returns to his bucket.
I roll my eyes. “Show off.”
His tail flicks out as if to assure me that he heard the insult. His talons close around the handle of the bucket, and he darts back to his flowerbed, leaving me to continue through the gardens.
Arched windows line the sides of our manor and glitter like diamond panels in the late noon sun. I don’t pause to gaze at them as I ascend the steps leading to the large doors of our manor.
They’re gilded like the gates, and just as heavy. Since there’s no enchantment over them, I have no choice but to heave them open. I would utterventrezand shove them aside with a gale, but my mother would scold me if I ruined the paintwork.
With my injured shoulder, pushing the doors open is a considerable effort. I clumsily burst into the hall and nearly fall face-first onto the tiles.
There are several faerie dragons inside, all busy supervising the enchanted brooms and feather dusters. None turn to look at me. Those we allow to work inside are the most well-behaved. If Zephyr saw me stumble, he would throw me a smirk.
After regaining my balance, I make my way through the hall and pass the portraits of many long dead Ashbournes. Some offer me a cheery wave, while others blatantly ignore me.
I find my mother in the drawing room. She has a paintbrush in her hand, like usual, and is staring down the canvas in front of her. I’m certain she spends more time scrutinizing her artwork than actually painting, but that technique has somehow earned her the reputation of Nolderan’s most illustrious artist. That’s also how my parents met, apparently.
When my father was crowned the Grandmage of Nolderan, my mother was commissioned to paint his portrait for the Arcanium, and somehow they fell in love. I’ve never cared to learn more details than that.
Today my mother isn’t painting portraits. She’s instead painting flowers blooming across a dreamy, twilight landscape, and they rustle in a breeze I can see but not feel. A shooting star whizzes across the shadowy sky.
My mother is so focused on her painting that she doesn’t notice me as I enter the room. I collapse on the sapphire chaise opposite her and let out the most dramatic sigh I can muster. That gets her attention.
Her eyes narrow as she takes in my disheveled appearance. “Darling, your robes are singed,” she says and then returns to her painting.
My fingers claw into the chaise’s velvet. It seems even my own mother has forgotten that today is my birthday. Or maybe she cares as little about me as both my best friend and my boyfriend do.
“Kaely nearly killed me today in the arena!” I blurt.
“Nonsense,” she says, her eyes not leaving her painting. “Archmage Gidston would never allow such a thing. Besides, you said the same thing yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t,” I protest. “That was last Friday when she swapped my Blood Mint for Fire Bloom during Alchemy, and the potion exploded in my face.”
“And like I said, that was your own fault for not smelling the herbs first. Besides, are you sure Kaely was responsible? I know the two of you have had a strained relationship since starting at the Arcanium, but you can’t blame her for your every mistake.”
“It’s far from a ‘strained relationship.’ She hates me! And I still don’t understand why.”
“I’ve explained this to you before,” my mother says, swirling her brush across her palette as she mixes together navy and indigo paint. “Kaely is ambitious, as all adepts should be. Graduating from the Arcanium and becoming a mage isn’t easy. She strives to be the best, and as the daughter of the Grandmage of Nolderan, you’re her greatest rival. It’s natural for you both to have grown apart by this.”
That’s a ridiculous reason to hate someone, but I keep my opinion to myself. I unfasten the first few buttons of my high collar and slide the cerulean fabric far down enough to reveal my injured shoulder. Even with Archmage Gidston’s healing elixir, it’s as bruised as I expected. Burst blood vessels lace my skin like black spider webs.
I thrust my index finger at my bruised shoulder. “Would you also call this a strained relationship?”
My mother’s eyes drift over to me. Apparently the injury is severe enough for her to set down her paintbrush and palette on the nearest table. “Oh,” she says, peering at my shoulder. “It seems she did try to kill you this time.”
The calmness in my mother’s voice would concern me, if not for the fact she’s always like this. Through all my eighteen years, I can’t recall a single instance of my mother raising her voice. I can also safely say that I inherited my volatile temper from my father. I suppose the Ashbourne temperament goes hand in hand with our preference for fiery spells. The other thing I inherited from my father are my spindly legs—though his are as stocky as they are long. When my mother and I are both standing, I dwarf her petite frame.
She perches on the chaise, and her slender fingers splay across my bruised shoulder as she examines it more carefully. My similarities with my father start and end at my height and temper. I seem to have inherited everything else from my mother. Like me, she has hair the color of the midnight sky on her current painting, and her face is long and oval.
