Page 50 of A Tower of Half-Truths

Thirty

When Mavery awoke the next morning, her first thought was that she was still dreaming.

Outside, the storm had ceased. Pink clouds streaked across a steel-blue sky as the final stars blinked out of existence.

Alain had rolled off her at some point during the night, but he hadn’t run off to tweak potions or practice spells.

He remained beside her now, fast asleep.

She shifted onto her side and studied the contour of his profile, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the lingering wine stains upon his slightly parted lips. Whatever he was dreaming of, she doubted it had anything to do with research, or what he’d revealed to her last night.

No, this was real. And for once, he looked completely at peace. The sight alone filled her with warm levity.

Whatever she felt for him had progressed beyond friendship, beyond mere attraction.

To deny that would be to deny the passage of time, the heat of the sun.

But she now understood why he was reluctant to break the Covenants, why he struggled with the idea of being someone’s lover again—especially if that lover was his assistant.

Regardless of whether he felt the same about her, she wouldn’t force the matter; that would make her no different than Conor, as far as she was concerned.

If Alain wanted to pursue this thing between them, it would be on his own terms. Until then, maybe what he needed wasn’t a lover, or even an assistant.

Maybe what he needed, above all else, was a friend.

Mavery slipped out of bed, careful to avoid shifting the mattress and disturbing him.

Her sleeping shift provided little protection against the cool air.

She shivered as her skin prickled with gooseflesh and the frigid floorboards numbed her bare feet.

She made her way into the sitting room, where she relighted the hearth and dressed herself before stepping into the kitchen.

It had been years since she’d last lived somewhere with a private kitchen, and so her cooking skills were a bit rusty.

At least she could still manage to fry up eggs and toast. Tea-making, however, proved more challenging.

Though she’d watched Alain countless times, she’d never gone through the preparations herself from beginning to end.

From his collection of tins, she chose a dark, peppery variety that left even her unable to sit still.

Alain had become immune to that side effect, but Mavery decided it couldn’t hurt; once he awoke, he would need every scrap of vitality he could get.

She spooned into the teapot what she assumed was the correct amount of leaves, heated the water to what was probably the right temperature, and left it to steep while she worked on breakfast.

She had just finished frying the last of the eggs when Alain shuffled into the room, appearing close to needing another shot of resurrection serum.

He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “good morning,” then sank into a chair.

Mavery slid a plate of food in front of him, and he gazed upon it as though it were a priceless work of art.

“You didn’t need to do all this,” he said.

“You probably know a recipe for a hangover-curing tonic, but I figured this would be more appealing.” She finished preparing her own plate, then took the chair opposite him. “Besides, I need it almost as much as you do.”

He poured himself a cup of tea, took a sip, and winced.

“It’s a tad strong,” he choked, “but I can safely say I’m awake now.”

Mavery dug into her meal with enthusiasm, breaking the golden egg yolks and sopping them up with her bread without any need for knife and fork. Alain still managed to eat with dignity, cutting his food into bite-sized pieces.

“So, about last night,” he said hesitantly. “I remember our conversation in the storage room, but not much beyond that. Did we…?”

Mavery shook her head. “We only slept together in a literal sense, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Right, I remember now.” He gulped down another mouthful of tea. “Apologies. Last night, I crossed a boundary I shouldn’t have.”

“We both did. I’ll take the sofa going forward. Better yet, maybe I should find my own place.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, so long as my mother doesn’t come prying. She’s the traditional sort who would take issue with an unwed couple living together.” Alain froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Er, not to imply we’re a—”

“I know what you meant.” She played it off with a laugh while her stomach fluttered. She began to take a bite of toast, then paused. “Hold on. Your mother would take issue with that? She had an affair with a priest!”

Alain shrugged. “She’s always followed a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach to morality.”

Mavery shook her head. She took a sip of tea and gagged.

It was more than “a tad strong”; it was undrinkable.

As she pushed her cup aside, Alain reached across the table and placed his hand over hers.

His thumb stroked her knuckles, and Mavery was on the verge of melting into her chair.

That light caress was more intoxicating than all the wine they’d shared the previous night.

“I also want to apologize for something else,” he said.

“The other day, when you pressed me about the Covenants, I should have told you how I’d courted an assistant before, and that it hadn’t ended…

on the most desirable terms, to say the least. But I was afraid you would judge me for what I’d done, that you would even hate me for it. ”

“I could never hate you.” She turned her wrist, cradled his fingers with her own. “And I’m in no position to judge. Had your little accident happened when we first started working together, I probably would have left you for dead and run off with your money.”

He looked up, frowning. “Nonsense. You’re too good of a person to do something like that.”

She glanced away as a doubtful noise resonated from the back of her throat. Alain squeezed her hand.

“You are, 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 between royal blue and cobalt blue, 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 it have to 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 enforcing that covenant.”

“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 High Council 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 will finally get 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.