Chapter 3 #3
The problem was, he’d committed to a subject and had a product to deliver, but Miss Kiappa was inadvertently pushing his focus to the wayside.
Kas allowed himself to watch a moment longer as she pulled a plush-looking blanket from thin air and beckoned for the children to join her.
As much as he wanted to continue as a silent observer of their magic lesson, he forced his attention back to his materials; he was no longer a ten-year-old mage in training and had more important things to do.
Not enough minutes later, Kas found himself watching, for the umpteenth time, as Miss Kiappa taught the twins.
It was their magic that was fascinating to watch, that’s all.
Suddenly, an hour had passed, and he hadn’t gotten much work done, what with his beautiful distraction—her interesting magic—on the other side of the glass.
With a half-chuckle at his own fool-heartedness, he peered down at his book, then flipped back a few pages because the gods knew he hadn’t processed any of it for the past several minutes.
Then it happened: pure, unadulterated insanity. One of the twins, he assumed, created a bloody dragon. Misshapen, like something out of a child’s mind, it dipped and dived, unfurling a flag of fake flames from its mouth while it chased its quarry—them.
His panic knew no bounds, which was absurd.
The creature was nonsensical. And when it was all done, when Miss Kiappa expertly saved the day with little golden birds that he didn’t understand, couldn’t explain, and wanted to know more about, Kas forced his interest into a tight ball, and packed it away.
It promptly burrowed in, digging a deep pit of frustration in his chest.
One of the king’s guards paced toward Miss Kiappa and the twins, and Kas clenched his fist, fearing she was going to get scolded for the lesson gone awry. The children darted off, summoned by a nanny, and the lad stopped before the tutor, his pale hair shiny in the sunlight.
Does she know him?
Mouth falling open, Kas made a sound of outrage when the guard grasped Miss Kiappa’s hands in his and lifted one, pressing a kiss to its back. Again?! The stab of envy knocked him off kilter, and his feet staggered back as he craned forward, torturing himself by watching their interaction.
Get a hold of yourself.
He snatched up the book he’d dropped when the nonsense began. He was on a deadline, and again, found himself distracted by Nesrina Kiappa, daughter of the late, great, Hothan Tarisden.
She’s not that interesting.
Jaw clenched, he nodded, and stomped from the library, in search of Hevva.
“I need to get back to Stormhill,” he announced, finding his sister in a downstairs corridor, mid-conversation with a member of the kitchen staff.
“All right? I—” Turning to the man she’d been talking to when he interrupted, she said, “I’ll come find you after I deal with this.” Then she offered Kas a judgmental shake of her head.
“Sorry, I have to go.”
“Why? Has something happened?”
They walked through the corridor as he explained about the madness that had just occurred on the lawn.
“Good gods, is everyone all right?”
“Yes, yes, that’s not a problem. Miss Kiappa’s excellent with them. I find myself distracted by—their magic lessons. I don’t have time to focus on learning about naughtbirins at the moment. There’s too much on my plate as it is.”
Chin held high, Hevva glided ahead of him into her office, then turned back to beckon him through the door. “Distracted by the lessons or the tutor, Kas?”
“No, Hevva. Shh.” Startled, he rushed in and closed the door. “It’s the lessons, an interesting topic. You know how I get. She’s just . . . a woman.”
“Not interesting at all then?”
“Exactly!” He sat down hard, happy she understood. “She’s a normal woman, with interesting magic.” And a beautiful face, and a sharp mind.
Pouring them each a finger of whiskey, Hevva slid him a tumbler across her desk, and sat.
Thoughts stuck on the situation, he continued, “But it’s fine, Della, Ataht, and Ehmet are all naughtbirins, too. I can speak to them instead.”
“Not her.”
“Exactly.” He sipped his drink.
“So, this woman is so ‘not interesting’ that you need to leave for Stormhill, immediately, cutting your holiday short?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“No, truly, she’s . . . about as interesting as mortar techniques, which I like, but don’t love.”
Hevva snorted.
“She’s absolutely not as interesting as sustainable mining practices, like temporarily dewatering the reservoirs to access kimberlite veins thirty fathoms down. Did you know we’re doing that up at Kabuvirib again?”
“You love that.”
“Exactly. I have work to get done. That’s why I’m here, and if it’s not getting done, I need to leave.”
With a heavy sigh, Hevva sipped her drink. “You need to stop trying to schedule every moment of your life. Just live.”
“No.”
“Don’t dismiss me so quickly.”
“Why not?”
“Kas! You’re impossible.” Thunking her glass down, Hevva leaned in, her eyes soft and imploring. “You carry a lot with the two estates, with all your other work, with the pressure you put on yourself to always be thinking about the next big thing. Stop it, relax, be distracted. It’s fine.”
“Nope.” She’d never been on a deadline—all right, that was probably false seeing as she was the queen—but Hevva thrived in chaos, and he didn’t. She found joy in spontaneity in a way he’d never been able to manage. He needed his regimen.
“Come on.”
“I’ll try,” he relented, mostly to get her to stop. “I’ll plan time for another holiday and be spontaneous then.”
She threw her head back. “Oh my gods, Kas.”
“I’m going, though, back home. I wanted to tell you, and you’re not changing my mind.”
“When are you leaving?”
“An hour? Maybe less—does that count as being spontaneous?”
“Just go.” She shook her head in silent laughter, coming around the desk to give him a hug. “Make sure you say goodbye to the children, and Ehmet. Hopefully, we’ll see you soon.”
“I’m sure you will,” he replied, squeezing her tightly, and slipping off to pack for the long ride north.