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“The new Goddess-Church worries me.” Lorre got briefly unusually serious: a focused slim rainbow instead of a distractible one. “They think we’re an abomination. Blasphemous power. And then there’s Averene. The King. Politics. This particular site. Maybe we shouldn’t’ve.”
Garrett, unused to his Grand Sorcerer possessing self-doubt, protested, “We’re independent. And you were right. About needing teachers.”
“Of course I’m right,” Lorre said. “I always am. I just wanted you to say it. As my first student, and my Second. Where’s the Prince of Averene this morning?”
“Which one? There’re eight.”
Lorre tilted a delicate golden eyebrow at him.
Garrett muttered, into tea, “I don’t know.”
“You may want to.”
“What? Why?”
“Just a feeling. And, again, I’m always right.”
“Sometimes I hate you,” Garrett told him. “Or not. Not really. Just so you know.”
Lorre, blue and gold and glittering, laughed.
“Are you staying for a while?”
“I wanted to argue with the Mother Priestess about scripture and historical accuracy. Or possibly level a mountain in front of her. You don’t need me here. You’re doing perfectly well.”
Garrett opened his mouth, shut it. Specters of unfinished roofs, disorganized breakfasts without enough dishes, the clamor of improperly stored artifacts, collectively shouted. He said, “We could use your presence. As the founder. Teaching apprentices. Solving the mystery of the strawberries.”
Lorre surfaced from tea. “Strawberries?”
“They keep dying. In the garden.”
“I like strawberries.” Lorre sighed; a drift of golden hair fell into his left eye and flicked itself back out. “Fine. One second.” He vanished from the kitchen in a whip-crack of light, unconcerned about startled student noises from the doorway.
Garrett pressed fingertips to the spot between his eyebrows. Counted silently to ten in Penthii and Old Gaelian.
Lorre reappeared. “The land was unhappy in that corner. There was a murder.”
“Thismorning?”
“Eighty years ago. But his bones wanted revenge. I moved them. It should be fine now. I’m going up to the Snow Forest to look for unicorns.”
“Unicorns?” Not starting a feud with the Mother Priestess, at least. Small favors.
“Wild magic,” Lorre said, and the weight of ages stirred behind his gaze again. “Remnants. Like my mother. Or as close as I can find. I’ll come back. If you find your prince…don’t lose him. That’s my personal advice, as your teacher. You need people.”
“I need—”
Sapphire light flared; Lorre vanished, leaving an empty teacup and a gust of Snow Forest ice.
“—fewer mysteries in my life,” Garrett finished, to the air.
“Was there really a murder?” Quen said, from the doorway. Lilac and Maggie were behind him, eager, crowding into the kitchen. “Are there really unicorns? Can the Grand Sorcerer bring us one?”
“Yes, maybe, and absolutely not,” Garrett told him. Lorre, somewhere in the tangle of impetuous prisms, might’ve made a point. About finding people. Not losing them. Not giving up and assuming the worst, when a prince did not appear. “First I need more tea.”
* * * *
After porridge and cream and honey, he told the students to figure out the strawberries and the history of the garden corner, using all their various skills, and went back to his unwritten letter. He thought about going down to the city himself, down to Court. He could; he couldn’t transport himself in a lightning-bolt, but he could certainly walk.
