“Actually . . . let me take back my words for a moment. I have dreamt. Once,” I lied, and I was amazed at how smoothly it rolled off the tip of my tongue. “When I was a little girl, I had a nightmare that frightened me so badly I was afraid to leave my room. So my mother began to give me a remedy every night, promising the monster in my dreams could never find me again.”
He guided us down yet another street. I admired the old oaks that grew along the sidewalk, their gnarled roots working their way up through the cobblestones. “And does your mother still give you remedies, Miss Neven?”
“No,” I whispered. “She passed away last spring.”
“I’m sorry,” Phelan said, and I was surprised to hear how contrite he sounded.
We fell silent again until he stopped before a grand town house built of whitewashed brick. I gazed up at its navy shutters and crimson-painted door, its lintel made of carved marble.
“I wanted to show you this house in particular,” Phelan said, reaching out to touch a wild tendril of ivy that grew on the iron gate.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“The duke lives here.”
I examined the home with an attentive eye. “I thought the duke lived in the Blue Mansion, in the eastern quadrant.”
“He does,” Phelan replied. “The mansion is his primary residence. But he has other homes located throughout the city. He never sleeps beneath one roof more than a week at a time.”
“That’s absurd,” I laughed until I saw the arch of Phelan’s brow.
“It’s wise,” he amended, glancing back to the town house. “Remember what I told you about my mother, and how she ensured my brother and I never dreamt? The duke has a similar dealing with nightmares. He doesn’t want one magician to know all his dreams.”
Rain began to fall. I watched as Phelan withdrew a tiny umbrella from his jacket pocket, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, the umbrella grew into its normal size.
“Shall we go to dinner?” he asked, opening the umbrella and holding it between us.
I hated that he stored tiny trinkets in his pockets. But hate could only last so long in the rain.
I stepped beneath the umbrella and we hurried to reach the tavern, elbows bumping in a stiff attempt to keep from touching each other.
The Fabled Tavern was three blocks away, a narrow building wedged between a tailor’s shop and a jeweler. It was easy to overlook, built of drab gray stone with an arched entryway choked with wisteria. The corridor ushered us into a courtyard, whose open roof was charmed to catch the rain. Phelan left his umbrella by the coat stand, and I admired my surroundings. There was a reflection pool at the center of the courtyard, and fruit trees grew along winding stone paths. Cushions were spread out on the grass, and couples lounged with cups of tea and wine, listening as minstrels played stringed instruments from a pergola.
This was a watering hole for magicians, I swiftly realized. Good food, tea, wine, conversation, friendship, music, beauty. All the things needed to restore magic of mind, heart, and body.
“Follow me,” Phelan said, and led me through the courtyard to an archway that swallowed us into the tavern’s indoor seating.
It was a crowded, vibrant place, humming with conversations and laughter. Tables and chairs were arranged over the blue tiled floors, and booths were carved into the walls. A host of lanterns hung above from the timber beams, bathing the tavern in low, warm light. The air smelled of herbs and sweet wine, and I noticed with alarm that there was a mirror behind the bar. But there were so many people gathered, and the light was romantically dim. I didn’t fear my reflection, and I followed Phelan’s winding path through the tables to one of the booths.
I saw Nura and Olivette before they saw me.
The girls were sitting side by side, their faces tilted close as they spoke to each other. One had a bob of white-blond hair, a rosy complexion with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her companion had brown curly hair that brushed her shoulders, red-painted lips, and light brown skin. They were both dressed in bright colors, and my anxiety soared when they caught sight of our approach.
“Phelan!” the blonde cried with enthusiasm. “Hurry and introduce us! We’ve been longing to meet the magician who nearly killed you in the interview!”
“Of course you are,” he humored her, but I saw a flush stain his cheeks as he turned to me. “Anna Neven, this is Olivette Wolfe and Nura Sparrow. Olivette and Nura, allow me to introduce you to my partner, Anna Neven.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Anna,” said Nura. Her voice was deep and smooth compared to Olivette’s high pitch. “Come, join us.”
I slid onto the bench across from theirs, and Phelan settled beside me.
“I want to know what inspired you to use the paintings in the gallery,” Olivette said in a rush. “It was ingenious, but also very risky. How were you able to command someone else’s art, Anna? Are you well versed in metamara?”
And so it begins, I thought with a twinge of fear. It was the same fear I felt when I saw a mirror, a cold shock that made my spirit coil. And yet I smiled and scrounged up an answer.
“It was risky. I won’t pretend otherwise. But I’ve long been an admirer of art, and since I had heard that Phelan was very unimpressed with the other interviews he had held that day . . . I knew I needed to take a dangerous leap in order to catch his attention.”
“Hmm.” Olivette grinned, glancing from me to Phelan. “She knows you quite well, my friend.”
“He’s easy to read,” I said with a nervous chuckle.
“Am I?” he countered, and I felt him look at me.
“Yes,” I said, grateful that the waiter arrived, filling our goblets and setting down a platter of sliced bread, squares of cheese, olives, and an array of colorful jams. “Your eyes betray your thoughts sometimes.”
“If that is so,” Phelan said to me, his voice low with offense, “then read my eyes now. Tell me what I’m thinking.”
I took a sip of wine before I met his stare. His eyes were dark, like new moons, and for all my bluster . . . I had no idea what thoughts haunted him.
“You’re thinking that you’re hungry, and the noise in this tavern is too loud for your liking,” I teased, and lifted my goblet to him.
Phelan begrudgingly clinked his glass against mine, and the tension between us melted as we began to eat.
“Are you an artist yourself, Anna?” Nura asked.
“No,” I replied swiftly. “I unfortunately have no such talent, but I love the work of others.” And it was time for me to turn the conversation toward them. I smiled and asked, “How do you know Phelan?”
Olivette and Nura exchanged a glance.
“I’ve known Phelan for years,” Olivette eventually replied. “We went to school together.”
“And I met Olivette two years ago,” Nura said. “When she was looking for a partner. She introduced me to Phelan not long afterward.”
Olivette slathered honey butter onto a slice of bread. “Our territory is next to Phelan’s, in case he hasn’t told you yet. And we have a tradition of eating here at least once a month, before the next new moon.”
“A lovely tradition,” I said, and I meant it. I longed for this sort of camaraderie.