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infallible ego, so do not play the rogue with me. And true Midsummer is not until tonight.”
    Rusty placed his hands over his chest. “Wounded to the soul!” he cried, and then he collapsed to the ground. His wide-brimmed hat fell over his face.
    She giggled. “Your soul is equally protected by your ego, silly boy.”
    “Boy?” Rusty stretched his legs long, and then he sprang to his feet with the grace of an acrobat. Standing tall, he plucked his hat from mid-air and placed it rakishly on his head. “I’m no more a boy than you are a girl.”
    “I am sixteen,” she said with a shrug. “Village law clearly brands me a child until my seventeenth birthday.”
    “You’re old enough to be married to hulking Brend come autumn.”
    “When I will be seventeen.”
    “If you’re old enough to be almost married, then you’re a woman,” Rusty insisted. “And as I’m a full thirty days your senior, that makes me a man. Boy, indeed!” He harrumphed, and ruined the effect with a laugh. “‘Boyish charm.’ Yes, you meant to say ‘boyish charm.’ Apology accepted!”
    Bromwyn muffled another giggle. “As you say.”
    “Indeed I do. Say, I didn’t mean to interrupt your witchy thing.”
    She smiled fondly. Witchy thing. Those who didn’t cast magic couldn’t possibly understand the concentration it took, or how draining it was. At least he wasn’t awed by her power. To him, she was Winnie. Had anyone else attempted to call her by such an endearment, she would have spelled the offender’s clothing with imaginary fire ants.
    “It was of no consequence,” she said. “Ending my practice early will harm me none.”
    “Glad to hear it,” he said, extending a hand to her. “Magic makes me itch.”
    Bromwyn placed her hand in his, allowing him to help her to her feet. “That would be all of the flour that found its way into your shirt. How did you escape the bakery, today of all days?”
    He grinned hugely. “You’re assuming I was there in the first place.”
    She groaned. “Rusty … ”
    “Don’t you ‘Rusty’ me,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “I’ve had years and years of Midsummer Festival baking misery, and when I got up before dawn today to start hauling sacks of flour, I decided I’ve had quite enough of it, thank you. Besides, I’m sure my da is happy I’m not there. I accidentally burned the bread yesterday.”
    “An accident, eh?”
    “Truth,” he swore emphatically. “It stank up the shop something fierce. Customers walked out. Da was furious.”
    Bromwyn thought of how she had so easily infuriated Jessamin earlier. “As you with your father yesterday, so was I with my mother today.”
    “You burned the bread in your mam’s kitchen?”
    “I said things I should never have voiced.” She let out a tired sigh. “It seems that both of us have been grave disappointments as of late.”
    Rusty grabbed her hands and began to dance with her across the roof, ignoring her startled protest.
    “My darling Winnie,” he crowed, “you’re far too serious for me!”
    “I am supposed to be serious!” she screeched. “I am a witch!”
    “So?” he asked as he dipped her. “When did you trade your sense of humor for magic?”
    “Let me go!”
    “Now? As I’m dipping you? Seems dangerous, if you ask me.”
    “Rusty!” she spluttered. “Fire and Air, let me up! Now! Or I shall magic you into a toad!”
    “That’s how it is, then?” He pulled her back up and continued to lead her in a dance. “Threatening poor villagers who don’t grasp your magical know-how?”
    She twisted out of his arms and fumed at him as he continued waltzing. Be calm, she commanded herself. Do. Not. Get. Angry.
    She growled, “You make me forget myself.”
    “Like that’s so hard.”
    Her look should have killed him on the spot. “Rusty!”
    “Tell me, Winnie,” he said as he danced, “what has your garters in a knot this fine morn? It has to be more than you and your mam pecking at each other