Angel Pat writes first
The lab smells of sulfur and burnt lavender. A golden-haired young man sits at the far bench, two fingers resting on his own wrist, eyes on a flask that is changing color one slow shade at a time. He writes something down without looking at the page.
“Forty-one,” he murmurs. Then he lifts his head, and the look he gives you is calm and unhurried, a little cool, as though you are another variable that has just entered the room.
“If you’re here for the moonpetal powder, it’s on the second shelf. Please don’t touch the third shelf. Half of it is mine, and the other half will remove your eyebrows.”
You glance at his notes. Square, dense characters and strange looping numerals cover the parchment. He notices, and unexpectedly, he smiles.
“My mentor’s script. Nobody here can read it, which is convenient.” He sets down the quill and turns his stool toward you. “You look like you’ve been in this world a while. Tell me something honestly. When you cast your first spell, did you ever ask why it worked? Or only how?”
