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“You don’t want to know.” He amended, “It actually depends more on the talent of the magician than the strength of the spell. Most magicians do quite shoddy work, and it’s why Artefacts have gained a reputation for being dangerous to humans. On the whole, they are, but not for the reason people think. A large piece of machinery is dangerous if poorly constructed. A badly made pencil, less so. Even if you cast one of my stronger enchantments, you would likely be quite safe.”

I rolled my eyes. “Hand me an Artefact meant to ward off egotistical magicians, and I’ll consider it.”

I made no move to take the pen, and he slowly lowered it. “I know you have good reason to fear magic,” he said, “given that it cost you your home—”

“That’s not it,” I said. “I simply want nothing to do with it.” I gave a brittle laugh, knowing how ridiculous it sounded. “Or as little as possible. I certainly don’t want to playact as a magician.”

He chewed his lip. “There’s something else, then. You’ve been harmed by magicians before? Or is it because of your husband? Yannick told me he died suddenly. Is that why you despise us? You feel that one of us could have helped him?”

“No,” I said, startled by this unexpected mention of Robin, but also by the fact that he’d bothered to retain such mundane information as my personal biography. “Do you really have that much trouble accepting the idea that some people might dislike magic?”

He didn’t look like he believed me, and I recalled our conversation after Valérie’s attack. Magic is who I am. Naturally he would have trouble with the concept; I might as well expect a fish to understand a fear of water.

“I have no sordid history with magic,” I said. “I simply see no reason to respect the sort of people who have the power to do a great deal of good, but can’t be bothered to.”

“Oh, some can,” he said. “Though they’re few and far between. Must magic be useful? Can’t it simply be beautiful, like art? If you tried it, you might find you enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it,” I repeated, thinking of the crater in the wall of the old shelter. That was art to him, was it?

“Yes,” he said. “Is that a foreign concept? Enjoyment?”

“I don’t take your meaning,” I said coldly.

He shrugged. “Do you do anything for yourself? You spend morning to night taking care of your menagerie.”

“How do you—” I groaned. “Yannick.”

“He didn’t have to tell me that. We’ve lived together for some time now. I’ve heard you stomping about until midnight sometimes, cleaning, moving cages about, talking to those cats. I certainly haven’t heard you throwing any parties.”

I went red thinking about the silly nonsense I said to the cats when we were alone. He’d heard all that?

“They need me,” I said levelly. “Someone has to care for them—nobody else is doing it. And anyway, I like what I do. What business is it of yours how I spend my time? Are you trying to convince me that I should see magic as some sort of—holiday?”

In reply, he held out the pen. He was all cold confidence again, no trace of awkwardness remaining, which I had come to interpret as the magic within him rising to the surface. I had no fear of him in that moment, though, only curiosity. After a pause, I took the pen. His hand brushed mine, and I thought of the embers of lightning I had felt on his skin after he fought Valérie.

“Now,” he said, opening the cabinet and removing the gold chain I had been admiring before. The links were delicate imperfect circles. “Hold this, and speak the command. The enchantment trapped in the gold will reveal itself.”

He said something then, obviously a magic word, so inhuman-sounding it might as well have been birdsong.

“I can’t pronounce that!” I exclaimed. “I can barely remember it.”

“It gets easier with practice.” He repeated the word again.

“Ellnose uz?” I tried.

He winced.

“This is pointless,” I said, trying to give the pen back. He put his hand around my wrist, stopping me.

“It’s the language of the Rivenwood,” he said. “It takes time to perfect, even for magicians. I’ll say it slowly.” He did.

“Helnez althz,” I said, which sounded a little better, but still a ways off. It was a sharp-edged, hissing sort of language, and it reminded me of fire: the rustle of the flames punctuated by the snap of sparks. Somehow it was easier to say with him standing so close, enveloped in the disquieting scent of magic.

“Close enough,” Havelock said. He was still holding my wrist, his thumb brushing the place where my pulse beat, and we both seemed to realize it at the same time. He released me and stepped back.

“There are actually only a handful of commands used to release spells from their vessels,” he said. “That’s one of the simpler ones—they increase in complexity for the more difficult spells.”

“Is that why ordinary people have more trouble casting spells?” I said. “They can’t get the pronunciation right?”