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It was such a banal and basically useless observation that Sciona wasn’t sure why she smiled.

“Yes, it is. And now,” she said, as her fingers clattered through the end of the composition, “I’m directing the action spell to take any input energy and use it to exert force horizontally along the nearest side of BOOK. ”

“You can’t tell it how much force to exert?” Tommy asked.

“Aha! Excellent catch!” Tommy was asking the questions Sciona had when she first started learning magic; that was a good sign. “I can tell the action spell how much force to exert if I’m siphoning the Reserve because, in that case, the Reserve siphoning towers will do the hard part for me.”

“The hard part?”

“You know, those towers on either side of Leon’s Hall?”

Tommy nodded. “They’re hard to miss, ma’am.”

“Those hold the energy automatically channeled from the Reserve siphoning zones and release it based on the demands of whatever action spells tap the Reserve. But

Tommy tilted his head.

“Something doesn’t make sense?” Sciona asked.

“No, ma’am—I mean, the part about the Reserve makes sense. I just don’t understand… Respectfully, if there is automated siphoning, what is the point of your job? Why not just use the Reserve?”

“Because the energy siphoned into the Reserve is limited,” Sciona said, used to answering this question for people who understood nothing of magic.

“With Tiran’s energy demands growing all the time, the Reserve is carefully budgeted and always at risk of running low.

That’s why, during the noon spellograph shift in the towers, non-essential electricity sometimes goes out in neighborhoods like mine and—well, I assume yours? ”

“I live in the Kwen Quarter, so, yes, ma’am.”

“The point of my work—manual siphoning—is to provide alternative energy sources to the finite supply in the Reserve. And with manual siphoning, there isn’t a massive holding tower as a buffer between your action spell and the energy from the Otherrealm, meaning you can’t control the amount of energy you’ll get with a hundred percent certainty.

” Sciona was about as good as a manual siphoner could get, and her accuracy rate was precisely ninety-four percent—though she was determined to break that ceiling by the time her research was done.

“So, to your earlier question,” she went on, “a mage can always write an energy cap into an action spell, but an action spell is like”—she grasped for a metaphor a janitor would understand—“like a water pipe. The handyman who installs a pipe controls where the water goes, but he doesn’t control how much water is going to come through. ”

“But he could seal the pipe at a certain point,” Tommy said, “narrow it, install a valve?”

“Yes!” Sciona grinned. “He could , just like I could write a limit on how much energy the action spell is allowed to use to push on the book. But what happens if too much water comes through that pipe with too much pressure behind it?”

“The pipe will burst, ma’am.”

“There you are. When you write energy usage limits into action spells and then pair them with manual siphoning, you run the risk that the energy input will exceed the limit. That excess energy then has nowhere to go, and you get disasters like—”

“The West Bend bridge collapse.” Tommy’s voice had gone cold in realization.

“Yes.” Sciona looked up in surprise. “You know about that?” The university had tried to keep the magical origins of the explosion a secret for publicity reasons, but it was why Archmage Tython had been pressured into an early retirement.

“I live near the construction site.” Tommy wasn’t looking at Sciona. “The two men who died were neighbors of mine.”

“I don’t remember anyone dying,” Sciona said, and she had read every report the papers had published, fascinated to learn what had gone wrong.

Tommy gave a shrug that was somehow the saddest thing Sciona had ever seen. “They were only Kwen.”

“Oh…” Sciona realized that the newspapers wouldn’t publicize the deaths of a couple Kwen workers.

Not if the university was pressuring them to minimize the incident.

That was what they had called it: an incident, not a tragedy, not criminal negligence by senior mages who should have known better.

“Well…” She cleared her throat in discomfort.

“That’s why we don’t put hard limits on action spells. ”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“Tommy,” she said seriously.

“Ma’am?”

“I would never… I don’t do that kind of sloppy work, you understand? I would never cut corners or be that careless with so much energy.”

Tommy didn’t respond, and Sciona wished she was better at reading Kwen facial expressions.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“I—” Tommy closed his teeth on whatever he had been about to say, his jaw tightening.

“What?”

“I don’t think it matters what a Kwen thinks of a mage, ma’am. You’ll do what you do.”

The words cut Sciona deeper than she’d expected.

Why? She had already decided not to care what her colleagues thought of her work.

Wasn’t that completely backwards? Tommy was right.

It shouldn’t matter what a Kwen thought of a mage, but she was biting back before she could think better of it.

“You know, that’s what people say to women, right? ”

“Ma’am?”

“That boys will be boys. That the men and mages of Tiran will do what they do, and the lot of everyone else is to accept it. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Tommy tilted his head, his damnable foreign face as unreadable as ever. “Doesn’t it?”

“Of course not!” Sciona said in frustration.

“I’m here, aren’t I? You’re here. You know, I’m ostensibly Highmage Tython’s replacement.

I can do good work where he fell short.” Maybe it was arrogant to suggest that she could surpass the work of a seasoned mage like Tython, but it was true.

“ We can do good work where he didn’t. And maybe that’s an explosion that doesn’t happen, a bridge that doesn’t collapse. That matters, doesn’t it?”

Tommy didn’t exactly smile, but a subtle something in his expression seemed to relax. He nodded. “So, Highmage… you were telling me about energy limits on action spells?”

Sciona spent the rest of the day speeding through the fundamentals of magic with Tommy and praying that he kept up. There wasn’t time to slow down. When the setting sun washed the laboratory in red, Sciona realized that it was probably time for her assistant to go.

“God, I haven’t even started to show you spellwebs yet,” she sighed. “But I suppose that’ll have to wait. Finish shelving those last few books and you can go.”

The knock that made Sciona look up was not at her partially open door but at Jerrin Mordra’s across the hall.

“Hey, Mordra Junior!” Tanrel said as he and Renthorn leaned into the legacy mage’s laboratory. “We always buy the new mage a drink on his first day. You’re coming out with us.”

“Oh— alright!” Mordra said from within. “Evnan, could you finish setting up for me? Thanks.” He had joined the other highmages in a moment, smoothing his white robe in giddy nervousness.

Renthorn looked pointedly at Sciona as they passed her laboratory, and the message was clear: she was not a ‘new mage.’ Not the way Mordra was. She was an intruder in this world, and Renthorn wasn’t going to let her forget it.

All the hurt she had managed to bury in work came flooding back.

All these years Sciona had strived to reach her true place, a community of intellectuals as deep into magic as she was—if such a thing existed.

Well, it did exist. It was just very clear that it was not for her.

Crumpling under the feeling, she barely registered Tommy as he came to stand by her.

“It’s late, ma’am,” he said, glancing after the other highmages. “If you have a train to catch, you’ll want to head out also.”

“I’ve already missed my train,” Sciona said. “I’m going to sleep here.”

“Really?”

“What did you think you unpacked that bedroll for?”

“I don’t know. Emergencies, ma’am?”

Sciona shook her head. “Commuting eats up too much of my day. Until I find an apartment closer to campus, I’m going to spend the weeknights here.

” Archmage Bringham and Aunt Winny had both fussed incessantly about Sciona sleeping at the office during her years as a junior researcher, but she was a highmage now.

No one was going to tell her where she couldn’t sleep.

“Alright.” Tommy hesitated. “Then, do you need anything else before I leave you, Highmage Freynan?”

“No, I—” She stopped mid-sentence and looked at Tommy with a smile. “You called me Highmage.”

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s just…” Besides Bringham, Tommy was the only person who had used her title here at the university. “Thank you,” she said, “for all your help today. You have a good night, alright?”

“Yes, Highmage, and you too.” The Kwen went to the door but paused as though conflicted—then turned back.

“Is there something else, Tommy?” She asked.

“Yes, ma’am…” The Kwen’s steadily cold stare had broken for the first time, cast down in awkwardness. He examined his knuckles for a moment before pressing them into the doorframe. “Could I buy you a drink?”

The question struck her dumb where she sat, and for a moment, all she could do was stare at the Kwen with her mouth partway open. “I-I…”

“Apologies.” Darkness colored Tommy’s storm cloud gaze. “I’ve insulted you.”

“What—no!” Sciona said out of politeness, but he had, a little bit. A highmage didn’t need the pity of a servant.

“I understand,” Tommy said. “It’s beneath you. I just thought… it seems to me like s omeone should buy you a drink.”

In spite of herself, Sciona felt a smile turn her lips. Tommy was right. Someone should buy her a drink, damn it. It just shouldn’t be the janitor.

“It’s not your job to make me feel welcome here.” Or your place, she hadn’t said, but that was how Tommy seemed to take it.

“Understood, Highmage. Forget I said—”