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“Oh, no,” Gemma said, shaking her head. “He cares for you much more than as a sister.”
Angelique smiled. “I fear my crying episode earlier gave you the wrong impression. I treasure Stil’s friendship, but that is all we have,” she said, taking another sip of her wine.
“Perhaps that is all you think you have,” Gemma said.
Angelique choked on her wine and coughed, placing her hand on her chest.
“Right! The tarts finally set—what happened?” Stil asked, blowing into the room, carrying a number of tarts on a silver platter.
Angelique tried to speak but could only cough.
“I was clearing up a miscommunication,” Gemma said.
Angelique gave Gemma a look of horror.
Unsure to interpret whether that meant her guess was correct and Angelique wanted more, or that her guess was dead wrong on Angelique’s end, she shrugged at the enchantress.
“I see,” Stil said, putting the platter down on the table.
“As marvelous as all this food was, I find that I am simply exhausted, and I must beg your pardon and excuse myself,” Angelique said, daintily yawning when she recovered. “Thank you, Stil. The food was outstanding.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Stil said.
“Why doesn’t she have to eat dessert?” Gemma asked as Stil set three different tarts on a pewter plate in front of her.
“Because I don’t care what she does,” Stil said, tapping the end of Gemma’s nose.
“I enjoyed conversing with you, Gemma. I will see both of you in the morning,” Angelique said with another one of her beautiful smiles.
“Goodnight,” Stil said before Angelique disappeared through the door. “That was excellent timing,” he said, picking up his chair from the head of the table and placing it directly next to Gemma’s.
Gemma shifted her chair down. “Why?”
“Because now we can talk. We never did finish our earlier conversation,” Stil said, inching his chair closer.
Gemma shifted her chair farther down the table again. “I don’t recall there being anything to talk about. You were obviously under a lot of pressure, but now the Lady Enchantress is here.”
“Gemma, I’m not a rare animal. I don’t undergo metamorphosis if I’m not near other magic users. The truth is, I don’t really like many magic users,” Stil said.
“That’s not true; you like the Lady Enchantress Angelique,” Gemma said. She realized that might sound like jealousy, so she quickly added, “Which is to be expected. She’s lovely, and I think you two would do quite well together.”
Stil snorted. “I am not in love with Angelique. I’m in love with you,” he said, scooting closer.
Gemma pushed her chair away. “Well, that’s not proper.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am not a magic user.”
“There is no rule that mages can only love fellow mages. Even if there was, your work is beautiful enough, I think it’s fairly obvious you have a faint strain of magic in your blood.”
“Even so, it still wouldn’t be proper.”
“Why not?” Stil asked, butting his chair up against Gemma’s.
“Because of the age difference.”
“Age difference?”
“Of course. Surely you can’t be a day younger than fifty or sixty,” Gemma said in surprise.
Stil’s jaw dropped.
At his outraged expression, Gemma tried to shift her chair but found she was stuck against a table leg.
“You think I’m an old man?!” Stil thundered.
“Most magic users are not the age they physically appear to be,” Gemma said. “And it is well known that they age much more slowly.”
“You think I’m an OLD MAN?!” he repeated, his voice even louder.
Gemma frowned and lost her fake pleasant edge. “You dress…uniquely, and you went through the schooling. That must have taken at least a decade.”
“I’m not even twenty-five yet, you mean-spirited mule, and my clothes are fashionable among mages!” Stil said.
Gemma rolled her eyes. “Now you sound like you are talking to Pricker Patch.”
“I very well may be for all the attention you give me!” Stil said. “This whole time you’ve thought I am OLD?”
“You didn’t remove your hood until a few days ago. I had no idea what you looked like—or even if your appearance would represent your proper age.”
“It’s the enchanters and enchantresses who never seem to age. I’m a craftmage! I will outlive you by a little, but only by decade or two! You thought I was OLD?”
“I get the impression that offends you.”
“IT DOES.”
Gemma only lifted her eyebrows and prodded a tart.
“Aren’t you going to apologize?” Stil asked.
“For what?”
“For thinking I’m OLD!”
Gemma shrugged. “It seems you have only yourself to blame for that misunderstanding.”
Stil glowered and stabbed a tart with a knife.