Page 48 of A Tower of Half-Truths
Wanting to keep her around was only natural. After all, she comprised the entirety of his social circle most days. But he knew there was more to it than that. If all he desired was human interaction, he could call upon Declan at any time. Or, gods forbid, his mother.
Declan expected him to endure bustling taverns, cheap ale, and off-color jokes. His mother expected him to accept a deluge of criticism and be grateful for the kernel of affection buried within it. His colleagues’ expectations weren’t much better. As the Wizard Aventus the Third, he was to carry himself with decorum, to be the stoic academic who never showed a hint of weakness.
It was all soexhausting.
He’d always found books much easier than people. They never expected anything from you, never demanded that you alter the essence of your being, never hurt you in the way another person could. And so, for the better part of a year, he’d believed that he could forgo people and get by with only his library for company.
But books made for terrible conversation partners. Even the Ether, for all its wonders, had its limitations. It wasn’t until Mavery came along that Alain realized how lonely of an existence he’d created for himself.
With her, there were no expectations. No matter how many times he stuck the proverbial foot in mouth, she never demanded that he change himself into someone she found more favorable. It was refreshing to simplybein someone else’s company for once. Of course, there was a chance she only tolerated his company because she was working for Nezima, or another of Alain’s disgruntled colleagues. If there was any truth to his suspicions, then so be it. He would do anything to secure another day in Mavery’s company, even if it came back to haunt him.
And so, he measured out another sample of kutauss claws. The sun now hung low in the sky, and a long night of experimenting awaited him.
Sixteen
Acloud of black smoke and an acrid stench greeted Mavery at the door. She pulled the neckline of her blouse over her nose.
“Sorry about that,” Alain coughed, wafting the smoke away from his face. “My latest experiment went a bit awry.”
His face and the front of his clothes—the same ones he’d worn yesterday—were covered in soot. Colorful splotches of plant material had joined the ink stains on his fingers. Tangled locks hung over eyes that were more deeply ringed with fatigue than Mavery remembered.
“Come in while I clean myself up.”
He kept the door open to air out the smoke. With the violet soundproofing ward spanning the threshold, anything they said inside the apartment would remain private. Dread clenched Mavery’s chest, but she tried her best to ignore the discomfort.
As Alain stepped toward the bathroom, she grasped him by the sleeve. He turned to her with bemused, slightly unfocused eyes. Either the alchemical fumes had gotten to him, or he was more exhausted than he was letting on.
“Alain, I wanted to apologize again for yesterday,” she said. “I shouldn’t have broken into your—”
“Apology accepted.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? I had a whole speech preparedand everything.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said with a smile.
Instead of returning it, she frowned. “So, all is forgiven?”
“You seem surprised.”
During the hours they’d been apart, she had expected his disappointment to have evolved into anger, then resentment.
“A bit,” she said quietly as she released his arm. “In my experience, people aren’t so easily forgiving.”
“Then I suppose I’m not like most people you know.”
“No, I suppose you’re not.”
The room had grown uncomfortably warm. It was little wonder, given the crackling fire on the other side of the room. Mavery’s eyes stung, though she was certain the lingering smoke was the reason for it.
Alain shrugged. “Honestly, I should have been more upfront. Had I told you an art studio was the only thing of interest beyond that door, I could have assuaged some of your curiosity.”
She gave him a small smile. “I’m not sure that would have helped. It’s not every day I get to see an artist’s private studio.”
“ ‘Artist’?” he said with a scoff and a wave of his hand. “Oh, I wouldn’t gothatfar. It’s nothing more than a hobby—and not even a recent one. It’s been ages since I last picked up a paintbrush.”
“Where did you learn? Did they teach you that at Barcombe?”
“Gods, no,” he laughed. “Barcombe only taught me a bit of figure drawing to help with field research. Cameras are not only expensive and unwieldy, arcane interferences cause photographs to come out wrong, so we must record things the old-fashioned way. But beyond that, the wizarding community views the arts as a colossal waste of time. No, when I was first curious about painting, I found a book on the basics and taught myself.”
