Page 102 of A Tower of Half-Truths
She glanced away as a doubtful noise resonated from the back of her throat. Alain squeezed her hand.
“Youare, Mavery. The way I see it, you’re a good person who’s been dealt an unfavorable hand, time and again.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” she said, laughing flatly. But the sincerity in his voice compelled her to look at him again.
“I mean it. Last night, you could have left me to wallow in my sorrows, but you stayed with me. You listened to me.” He smiled at her, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Before last night, I’d never told anyone any of that. I couldn’t tell my other assistants the truth, and I certainly couldn’t confide in any of my other colleagues.”
“Not even Declan?” Mavery recalled the letter she’d come across. An ache settled deep in her chest as she realized Declan might have been the only one who’d attempted to visit Alain during his sabbatical.
Alain shook his head. “Declan is the sort of friend with whom you can share a pint, but not much beyond that.”
He released her hand and returned to his breakfast. Mavery, however, had lost her appetite. The ache in her chest grew more acute as she thought of Alain completely alone, with no one to confide in as his entire life fell apart.
“I don’t suppose you managed to stuff any formal attire in your bag?” Alain asked.
Mavery blinked, jostled from her thoughts. “Er, no, I can’t say I did. Why?”
“The High Council has a strict dress code for presentations.”
“Of course they do.” She rolled her eyes. After coming across a covenant that detailed the differences betweenroyalblue andcobaltblue, she’d skimmed past anything else pertaining to wizardly attire.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to pay my mother a visit between now and the presentation.”
“Does ithaveto be her?”
“You’re welcome to try another dressmaker, but with the Social Season fast approaching, most are fully booked through the summer.”
“Fine,” Mavery groaned. “Your mother it is, then.”
“I’ll ask her to pencil you in as soon as possible.” Alain gulped down the last of his tea, then pushed back his chair. “Until then, work awaits.”
“Are you sure you’re in the right state for it?”
“Oh, I’ve managed worse than this.”
That did little to allay her concerns.
Mavery wasn’t sure which was the more daunting task: translating centuries-old Fenutian, or painstakingly writing that translation in her best penmanship.
Her hand cramped after completing another long, meandering sentence. She dropped her pen on the desk and massaged her wrist—and then let loose a string of curses. The pen had left a large inkblot on the sheet of vellum, rendering the sentence she’d just finished unreadable.
“Are you sure you don’t have a typewriter buried somewhere in that storage room?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Unfortunately, no,” Alain said. “And even if I did, the High Council wouldn’t allow it.”
“Don’t tell me, in this day and age, they’re actually still enforcingthatcovenant.”
“I’m afraid so. All spell tomes must first be written by hand. Doing so makes for more careful spellcraft, and therefore makes one more appreciative of the process.” Alain shrugged. “Or, so the Elder Wizards claim.”
“Antiquated codgers,” Mavery grumbled, then pointed at the tomes scattered across the tea table. “None of those were written by hand.”
“Because these are reproductions. Not to mention, the HighCouncil didn’t adopt the use of the printing press until the Second Reforms, long after that technology was first invented.”
“Oh, I see.” Mavery nodded. “Five centuries from now, when most of the world is writing with thoughts or some other nonsense, the High Council willfinallyget around to allowing typewriters.”
Alain looked up from his book. “You know, in all the time you’ve spent arguing about this, you could have written another paragraph.”
She crumpled her ruined leaf of vellum into a ball and threw it at him. Her aim was off, and it narrowly avoided the smarmy look on his face. He still flinched, though he did so with a hearty laugh.
