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She stared at where the broken peach sapling emerged from its body.

She’d done that. Somehow. She wasn’t sorry, but it was…

sobering, that such a thing was possible.

Her mind flickered uneasily through memories of magical accidents back home.

What if this had happened back there? Had it been sheer blind luck that it hadn’t?

Little Maryna’s face, wide-eyed with terror…

“It’s me,” Mal said in a hollow voice.

Gisele jerked back to the present. “What is?”

“The instability in your magic. It’s my magic.”

“Yes, we established I had fae magic because of you in our literal first conversation on the subject? Do we really need to wallow in feelings about it all over again?”

Mal turned towards her, agitated. “No. You don’t have fae magic. My fae magic is contaminating what I suspect is your own native magic, distorting it. It’s two entirely different types of magic, in conflict. Because of the bond. I don’t think your own magic has anything to do with gold at all.”

She stared at him. “What is it to do with, then?”

“Plants, I think.”

She stared at him some more.

“Without the bond between us, without this cursed unfulfilled bargain , your magic wouldn’t be exploding or melting anything. You’d be able to control it.” Waves of guilt were escaping his shielding.

“That sounds… good?” she said tentatively. “Why are you acting as if it’s something more dreadful than we knew already?”

His expression tightened. “It shouldn’t be dreadful—that’s the entire problem!

You think your magic is bad , Gisele. You’re afraid of it!

Thanks to me! Which was bad enough when I thought the whole reason you had magic in the first place was my doing, but this is your birthright, something you would have had even if I’d never entered Mortal.

It should have been one of the great joys of your life, and instead I have—ruined it, in a deeper way than I knew. ”

When she didn’t say anything, he whirled and dashed over to an apricot tree outside the circle of gold-damage. Returning, he held out the fruit. “Take the dismae off and tell this to grow. I’m still in flame-out; if I’m right, I can’t contaminate your magic.”

She wasn’t sure that testing his theory ought to be their priority right now, but it was clear he wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything else until she did.

Removing the dismae, she took the apricot from him.

His nervous energy had transferred itself to her, making her fingers shake as she split the fruit apart, revealing the stone.

Was Mal right? She stared at the stone in her palm. Her usual anxiety regarding magic made her stomach churn, but nothing bad had ever happened with wood alone. She wasn’t touching any gold, after all.

She let her breathing steady, drawing up the process Mal had talked her through without success so many times now, all those books on magical theory she’d read. Focus on the object. Focus on yourself. Feel the energy in both. Connect them. Keep your intent clear.

Grow , she thought, letting the stone become the entire world. Energy hummed, sparking along her veins. She could feel her warmth around the apricot stone, the slumbering life within.

Nothing happened, and then everything did. The dark stone split, sending forth root and tendril, searching for sunlight and soil both. Grow . The seedling uncurled a pair of tiny, wrinkled green leaves. Wonder filled her, and she felt abruptly light-headed.

Literally light-headed, her legs unable to hold her. She swayed, and Mal caught her against him, the warm shock of his body almost enough to overcome the dizziness.

He cursed. “I’m an idiot. You nearly drained your magic last night too. I shouldn’t have told you to do that.”

“No, I’m glad.” She grinned at him. Everything was lovely. He was lovely. She told him that, burrowing her nose into the warm fabric of his shirt.

He inhaled sharply. “You’re magic-drunk.”

“Hmmm. Maybe.” She was distantly aware she wasn’t in her normal state of mind, but it was difficult to care.

He swallowed. “It should wear off soon. Sooner if you sit down.”

She offered no resistance as he half-carried her away from the solshant and sank them down against the trunk of an apple tree.

“I made a plant grow!” she told him happily, leaning on his shoulder.

“You did,” he said.

“Nothing exploded!”

“Well done.” Something in his voice made her look up, to find him studying her intently, his eyes dark and soft. It made her blush and lean forwards and then away from him, remembering.

“Oh, but you don’t want me to touch you. I forgot. Sorry.” He jerked, and she hastened to pat his shoulder. “It’s all right. I’ll go away.”

He made a strangled noise and pulled her back towards him, so that she was half in his lap. “Just stay here for the moment, all right? You’re not in your right mind.”

“All right. I didn’t want to leave anyway; I just thought you wanted that,” she said, content to lean against him now that that had been sorted out.

A soft breath of amusement stirred her hair. “Pagefires save me.”

Her thoughts bounced like scattered sunlight, happy and unfocused, but it was no great trial to sit still and be held. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of being held, she told him.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

A bumblebee found its way to a patch of daisies near the base of the apple tree.

She watched it weave from flower to flower.

Apfela had a bumblebee-creature. Did it eat nectar or insects?

Did Skymallow’s magic keep out insects as well as magical pests?

What did elsterfae even do with the buttons they stole?

In such a way, an indeterminate amount of time passed. She couldn’t have pinpointed the exact moment when her thoughts returned to their usual form, but at some point, it became undeniable that they had.

She didn’t move. “How is magic-drunk different from flame-out?”

Mal’s body tensed as he picked up the change in her voice, but he didn’t move either.

“Flame-out happens when you overload your capacity; if you do it too often or too intensely, it can burn out your mind. Magic-drunk is a rare euphoria from channelling magic successfully in a way your mind isn’t used to.

It’s more of a risk for new mages. It didn’t occur to me that it might happen to you, because you’ve channelled magic before.

But of course, this is the first time you’ve been able to direct your own magic without the taint of mine interfering. ”

“Did it ever happen to you?”

A wry note entered his tone. “The first time I granted a wish, I was so euphoric I composed an ode to each of my desk ornaments. It had seventeen stanzas. At one point I rhymed ‘letter opener’ with ‘drawer stuffer’. Sampas never let me forget it; she memorised the entire piece and would recite random lines of the dreadful thing whenever she thought I was getting too pompous.”

“She must have recited it a lot.”

He chuckled. “You’d like her. How are you feeling?”

“No longer inclined to write poems about letter openers. I suppose that means we ought to get up and do things like cleansing rituals.” She sighed and attempted to sit up.

Mal didn’t exactly resist her movement but nor did he let her go with the speed she’d expected. She twisted round to face him inquiringly. The look in his eyes froze the question on her lips.