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what would only sound like rhetoric,
that the Groves were living testimonials to their ancestors, to the
Families who’d passed or were passing. Like me, she thought
bitterly. You can’t wait for us to be gone.
    “Reminders aren’t always welcome, are they?”
she asked quietly. “It’s not lineage, heritage, or remembering.
Forgetting is what spell-casters want.”
    “Forgetting?” he echoed, surprised by the
cold, controlled tenor of her voice.
    “Powerless Groves, powerless Families,
powerless spell-casters are all reminders that the world is still
changing. The magic of this world was banished to a place where it
expected to flourish, and when that failed we returned in the hopes
that, because this world was the original source of our power, it
would return. But magic continues to fade and no magic worker cares
for reminders.”
    “You think of yourself as an unwanted
reminder?"
    "Don’t patronize me,” she retorted. “I’m
neither blind nor deaf. I see the disapproval and I hear the
whispers. Apparently I am possessed of limitless gall, socializing
with spell-casters as if I might consider myself one of them,” her
fury was evident in her quiet voice, like low thunder. “The general
consensus seems to be that I should restrict my relationships to
the average, non-magical humans.”
    Magus Teomond spoke deliberately. “This will
probably seem unlikely to you, but I have some acquaintance with
the same attitude.”
    “I cautioned you against patronizing me.” She
bridled under what she thought was mild mockery.
    “Not at all,” his reply was not defensive in
tone. “I didn’t become Magus by shaking hands and kissing the
cheeks or curly-haired toddlers,” he advised her. “That came
after.” The last was spoken with wry humor.
    “Oh,” Yule remarked with small chagrin. “I
didn’t think to compare—not that our positions are comparable, but
it didn’t occur to me that you may have experienced the same kind
of,” she put a hand over her mouth to stop her nervous prattle.
    This action elicited a vague smile from
Prosser. “If I promise not to wind you off to some remote Incan
ruin will it help to calm your nerves?”
    “What about a Mayan ruin?” she asked,
removing her hand from her mouth.
    His smile was more apparent. “Quite right,
there are any number of remote locales to which I might spirit
you.”
    “Or even a quaint bed-and-breakfast,” she
ventured, rewarded with a chuckle.
    “I see why the intrepid Marc Woodmont sent
you to solicit my support, you’re unexpectedly disarming.”
    Unfamiliar with what felt like flirtation,
Yule was relatively certain her cheeks grew pink. “I don’t think
that was his reasoning at all,” she protested. “We chose our own
projects, you see, and I picked you.”
    “I am flattered,” he responded with tone and
expression that made Yule suddenly find her wine glass
excruciatingly interesting.
    “I want you to know how much I appreciate the
opportunity you gave me, to speak to you about the Project,
especially since we began so awkwardly.”
    “Extremely awkwardly,” Prosser agreed.
    Yule smiled, feeling an unanticipated
sensation of relaxation steal through her body and mind. Everything
about the evening was unanticipated, she drowsily mused, beginning
with waking in the Jaguar.
    “Yes, please, I think I would,” she accepted,
feeling a wave of giddiness wash over her. She imagined the
amazement on their faces when she told the others about this
evening, Brenna’s infuriated pout and Marc’s enthusiastic
gratitude.
    “Perhaps you’ve had enough,” he joked as he
stood and crossed to the bar cart. “You seem quite lighthearted
already.”
    Yule tried unsuccessfully to dim the glow on
her face. “Sorry, it’s just this—impression I got. You’re going to
endorse the Project, aren’t you?”
    “That sounded suspiciously rhetorical,” he
kidded, returning with an open bottle of wine. “I haven’t promised
anything,” he