Dalliance was the wind—formless, vast, perceiving the world through touch and temperature rather than eyes or ears. It was a complete awareness, beautifully devoid of human hurt or anxiety.

  The wind arrived in the Temple of Firth, a gust that swept through the columns with enough force to set candle flames dancing wildly. Some guttered out entirely. The garlands strung between pillars swayed on their chains, purple and gold flowers dipping into the blessing pools. Oil lamps began to swing, casting manic, shifting shadows across the white stone.

  In this form, the temple was a landscape of heat and motion: the flickering candles, the warm bodies of mourners, the currents of incense smoke spiraling upward through the open roof. Every breath, every heartbeat, every whisper of fabric against stone, was another ripple through his awareness.

  And then he condensed.

  The world compressed back into a teenager's frame. Dalliance stood directly before Penny-Ante.

  She was slack-jawed, her mouth working without sound.

  He held out the paper and pen.

  Around them, the temple had gone dead silent except for the settling tinkle of lamp chains and the soft splash of fallen flowers in the blessing pools. Every eye was on them. On the wrong side of the entrance hall, separated by two dozen mourners, the uncle’s face went purple as he began shoving his way back through the crowd.

  "Sign," Dalliance said quietly. "Please. And I'll get out of your hair."

  Penny-Ante stared at him. Behind her veil, her eyes were wide. The earlier contempt was completely gone, replaced by shock.

  Dalliance felt for her. A small amount. She was literally on her way out the door—accosting someone on the road to get a signature wasn’t just perfectly mannerly, but business as usual. Except for her snubbing him, and the uncle.

  "I told the instructor it was impossible," she finally managed, her voice thin. "No."

  Something in his chest twisted. He'd given her a chance. A real chance. Just sign, and he'd leave, and this would be over.

  But she had to say no.

  He’d had such a vicious, lovely idea, too.

  "Oh." Dalliance dropped his shoulders, his face a mask of sudden, exaggerated concern. "I had no idea. I've been so crude, rubbing all this in your face . . . ."

  "Yes," she said sharply, latching onto the apology like a pouncing stray on a juicy rat.

  ". . . you could have just said if you're illiterate." He let the word hang there, for a beat. The susurration of commentary from the watching mourners began to rise in volume. "Don't worry, you can just take this pen—"

  He pressed it into her hand with a use of [Locomotion], the magic gentle but inexorable.

  "—and make your mark—"

  A second use of the same spell, in rapid succession. It guided her hand with the pen, as one, bringing it down to the paper in a quick, decisive X.

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  "—there! All done. Thank you for your time, Miss Nonesuch."

  He released the spell. The pen clattered from her nerveless fingers.

  Several mourners pressed hands to mouths. Others exchanged horrified glances. The uncle finally broke through the crowd and lunged forward, apoplectic.

  "See you in class!" Dalliance said brightly.

  He dissolved. The wind that had been a boy swept through the temple one final time—a departing gust that extinguished some few gluttering candles—and then he was gone, racing out over the processional path and into the clear blue sky.

  The Headmistress glared over her spectacles at Dalliance. He met her gaze, his expression a steady mask of hopeful concern for his sister.

  "Fine," she said, her distaste evident. "I suppose you may see her. But this is highly irregular. The novices work best in seclusion. And she’s here for a reason, there’s her safety to consider."

  "Her father is dead," Dalliance said, his tone quiet but firm.

  "So she can go home then?"

  "No. She remains a ward of the king, as do I. The college has prospects for me to step in as her guardian by the time she’s sixteen."

  The Headmistress's lips thinned. He knew she didn't trust the urchin in farmer's clothes sniffing around her temple, but she also knew he wouldn't go away. She swept from the room, bidding him in a frosty tone to remain where he was and not touch anything.

  In her austere office, there wasn’t all that much to touch. Ledgers and books on Pater’s Households, a braided-corded paddle painted a cheery white and green, and small potted plants. He wondered if she thought he’d planned to walk out with one of those under his shirt.

  It was only a little while before Whimsy appeared, nearly skipping in her novice robes. Her hair was neatly braided with a blue bow, and her shoes looked new. She looked happier.

  "Dalliance!" she cried, throwing her arms around him in a hug, oblivious to the frosty looks from the doorway. "I've missed you!"

  "Let’s get out of here," Dalliance suggested. She tugged on his arm, leading him out into the courtyard. After washing her hands at the small fountain, she took his arm once more.

  "I've been entrusted with the oracular frogs!" she explained. "They’re adorable! And the healers say I’m a natural at harvesting reagents, and I had my first tutoring session—elocution and grammar! And they gave me a new bed. It’s all because of having the best brother in the world." She hugged him again, tight.

  Dalliance felt a lump form in his throat. "I’m glad they’re doing right by you," he managed.

  "They said I got a stipend from a [Wizard].” She looked at him shrewdly. He knew, they both knew, which one. “How did that happen?"

  He toyed with the buckle of his belt knife. "He . . . didn't know you weren't sleeping well," he said, the half-truth tasting like ash. “It’s not dignified for him to be failing in his responsibilities in a public way. He didn’t want to see us, though.”

  “I won’t get my hopes up.”

  He wanted to warn her, to say the money might not continue, but the words wouldn't come. How could he explain? Because I pitted him against Da, who, by the way, is dead now? We can never, even possibly in the future, go home? The joy would vanish from Whimsy's face, and it would be his fault, all over again. He couldn't do it.

  So he said nothing. They spent the day wandering the city. In the afternoon, trying to give her something useful, he took her to the archives to show her the spell matrix for [Whisper], which was a bust. She reiterated that she was going to be an [Archer], that magic wasn’t going to be useful to her anyway.

  Ah well.

  Pastries vanished like dew in the morning. Siblings walked in habitual lock-step, feet picking up dust from unfamiliar streets and stalls, and the light slowly waned, until it was time for her to go.

  When Dalliance dropped her off at the dormitory, he felt even worse than before. He still hadn't worked up the courage to tell her the truth.

  Tomorrow, he thought, the weight of it settling in his gut. I'll tell her tomorrow. Or maybe after the Wall.