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He glanced sidelong at the notice. “I—”
“It’s temporary,” Fia continued, forgetting the pitch she’d cobbled together—too busy wondering if the coins her father had given her, which she ought to save, would be enough payment for a few weeks of work. Because she had to clear her name quickly before her reputation—the shop’s reputation—was tarnished beyond repair. “I just need a little help around the shop while I take care of… some other things. What experience do you have as a spellwright?”
“I’m afraid that’s not my specialty,” he admitted, considering the advertisement again. Then a sly grin broke across his face. “But I do have very good handwriting.”
Her hope fizzled. “I really need a spellwright…”
“And a glazier, it appears.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the window and pressed his fingertips to the glass, tracing them along the jagged crack the way Fia had wanted to do the night it splintered. But she hadn’t trusted her unpredictable magic to mend the broken glass, and she certainly didn’t trust this stranger’s.
“Wait—” she cried in a panic.
He’d already begun, though. His touch was gentle, like a hand trailing through water, repairing the glass so no mark remained. And then he was casually looking back at her, as though he’d done nothing more than wipe away a smudge.
Fia hurried around the counter, and only when she stood before him did she realize how very tall he was. She had to tilt her head to see him properly. Her cheeks ridiculously warmed against her will. “It seems your specialty is magic.”
A lift of his shoulders. “Evidently.”
“Thank you for fixing the window.” She leaned toward it, noticing how he’d healed the paint too, so the script of Sable Spells was once again whole, as if her mother had only just painted it. A lump formed in her throat. “It’s perfect.”
“So I haven’t fumbled the interview?” He smiled.
“Hardly.” The words came out softer than she liked, too impressed, too grateful. She considered what else to ask him—because surely an interview required questions—but something tickled at the back of her mind now that she was so close to his face. So close to those slowly blinking eyes of his. “You look familiar.”
“Do I?” he asked uncomfortably, though she didn’t know why this of all things might bother him.
“Yes,” she said, feeling rather awkward for mentioning it at all.
“Hmm.” Again his smile slid easily into place, the corner confidently curled, and she wondered how she could have thought, even for a moment, that her words might have bothered him. “Maybe I’ve got that kind of face.”
“Maybe,” she echoed. But she knew it wasn’t that. His face was an uncommon one, especially with that one arched brow unbalancing his features. She wasn’t likely to forget him. Quickly, she shooed the silly thought away. “Um, I don’t think I caught your name.”
He held out his hand in formal introduction, and when she took it, the tiniest, most surprising glimmer of magic sparked between their palms—hers, most inelegantly, alighting gold. He watched the dust spin, distracted for a moment, and she wanted to melt into the floor.
He made no comment, finishing his introduction instead. “Penbrook Madbury.”
“Oh!” The exclamation came out more like a squeak than a word.
A Madbury! Well, no wonder he looked familiar. And no wonder he wore the sharp-collared suit with the overlarge cravat so ahead of the fashion in Trivoris. He was from one of the most powerful families in all of Fantillian—perhaps in all of Orium—known as the Mad Magicians, much to their amusement. Fia had seen his face, or those of his many siblings, splashed in the gossip sheets for years—their affairs and their breakups, their incredible displays of magic and their lavish parties, where it was said they charmed the sun to sleep a little longer so the midnight revelry might go on and on.
So what was Penbrook doing here, looking for an unglamorous post like this?
She retrieved her hand from his, feeling as if their roles had been reversed. As if he were the one interviewing her.
“And have you got a name?” he asked, oblivious to her discomfort.
She folded her arms, more vulnerable than she’d like in front of this powerful magician. “Fia Ives.”
“A pleasure.”
“Why…” She cleared her throat, speeding past pleasantries to ask, “Why are you looking for a job like this?”
There he went, straightening his cuff again when he really should have been straightening his hair. It fell across his forehead, dark and distracting. She tore her gaze away, determined to focus.
“In truth—”
“When you start a sentence like that, I hardly think the truth is what you’ll give me.” A bubble of laughter spilled out with her unusually bold words.
Penbrook’s mouth closed, forestalling whatever he’d planned to say. His jaw tightened next, as if he didn’t like the taste of those stopped-up words, or maybe the ones he chose to say in their place. “In that case, you should know that working here would horrify my father—and in turn would delight me.” Yet he looked far from delighted.
