My second morning at the academy began with Milo confiscating my shirt.
"That one's for formal assemblies."
I looked down at the shirt in my hands. "It has sleeves. Buttons. An opening for my head. Seems versatile."
"The collar's different." He offered another one and waited while I examined the apparently significant distinction. I had survived two lifetimes only to be defeated by laundry classifications.
"Who told you?"
"Master Pell. He oversees the household attendants."
"Sounds dangerous."
Milo's mouth twitched. "He said first impressions matter."
"I made mine yesterday. I think we're committed."
He continued holding out the shirt. A terrifying development. He was learning patience from the women who had raised me. I changed, and he folded the rejected garment with considerably more care than I would have given it.
My books stood beside the door in a neat stack, along with my medical pouch and the academy identification token I distinctly remembered leaving somewhere else. Milo consulted a small notebook while I fastened my cuffs.
"Mana theory first. Then introductory history. Practical assessment review after lunch."
"Sounds like an exciting day."
"You need your equipment declaration."
"I handed that in."
"The examiner's copy. This one needs your signature."
He held out a sheet. I read it, discovered he was right, and accepted the pen he had already prepared. Without him, I would have arrived at the review carrying an undeclared magical firearm. Probably frowned upon.
"Good catch," I said, signing. "I needed that."
Milo straightened slightly. It was a small movement, but I noticed.
"Will you be around at lunch?" I asked.
"I have instruction with Master Pell."
"You can go another time if—"
"I want to go."
The answer came quickly. Then he looked worried about how quickly, as though enthusiasm for something that took him away from me required an explanation.
"All right," I said.
"He's teaching us correspondence. And how to keep household accounts."
"Useful. Mine currently involves buying things and hoping Father doesn't notice."
Milo glanced at my satchel. "I need to learn what to do when I'm not with you."
Fair enough. I could respect a man with a training plan, even a very small one. I thanked him, took my books, and left him checking the room against whatever terrifying standards Master Pell had established.
Tomas was already in the classroom when I arrived. He had chosen a desk near a window and arranged his books in a straight line. An ambitious standard. I sat beside him and immediately ruined it with my elbow.
"Morning."
"Morning." He moved his ink bottle out of danger.
"So," I said, "did you understand the reading?"
"I was going to ask you."
"Excellent. Strong start for both of us."
He laughed, and that made the whole thing easier. Yesterday, our introduction had involved scattered books, an audience, and a viscount's son requiring a brief explanation of the family hierarchy. Today, we were simply two students being confused together.
Our instructor entered carrying a wooden frame fitted with three blue crystals. Mistress Soren was a compact woman with gray-streaked hair and the expression of someone who had already heard every excuse.
"Yesterday, I told you control matters more than output," she said, setting the frame on her desk. "Today, you will demonstrate that you listened."
She touched the first crystal. A blue light struck the opposite wall. The second produced a broad wash, while the third created a tiny, concentrated point.
"Identical reserves. Different distribution."
I leaned forward. Now we were getting somewhere.
"You will work in pairs. One student operates a pulse frame. The other intercepts the pulse with a training ward." She gestured toward smaller frames arranged along the wall. "Barrier-system students may use their own skills under supervision. Everyone else will use the supplied warding discs."
Tomas looked at the equipment, then at his hands.
"Want to pair up?" I asked.
He nodded and followed me to an empty station.
The exercise sounded simple. The frame released harmless pulses of force toward a suspended ribbon, and our job was to prevent that ribbon from moving. Mistress Soren demonstrated the controls, checked our positions, and gave permission to begin.
I operated the frame first. Tomas raised one hand, creating a translucent shape between the device and the ribbon. It wasn't a glowing fortress wall. It looked more like a pane of faintly tinted glass.
The first pulse struck. His barrier rippled, but the ribbon stayed still.
"Nice."
He shrugged. "Again."
I adjusted the frame. The second pulse arrived slightly higher, and Tomas moved his barrier instead of enlarging it. The third came lower. He shifted again, making small adjustments with minimal wasted motion.
I had expected him to struggle. Instead, he looked almost comfortable.
"Been practicing?"
"Since my system awakened."
"On what?"
He hesitated. "Mother's drying lines. When it rained."
I stared at him. He looked embarrassed.
"Only small sections. I couldn't cover the whole yard."
I glanced at the ribbon, then back at him. "You developed defensive magic to protect laundry."
"It needed protecting."
Absolutely unassailable logic.
My turn was less impressive. The warding disc responded to mana, forming a shield where I directed it. In theory. My first attempt appeared crooked, and the pulse clipped its edge before striking the ribbon.
I put more mana into the disc. The shield brightened, but the next pulse caught the same weak angle. The ribbon swung again.
Tomas watched me prepare a third attempt. "You're feeding the mistake."
I stopped. "Excuse me?"
"The position. More mana won't straighten it."
I looked at the disc, then at him. He immediately seemed to reconsider speaking.
"I just meant—"
"No. Show me."
He stepped beside me and pointed without touching my arm. "Your shield's following your wrist. You're turning it when you tense."
I tried again with less force and a straighter wrist. The pulse struck squarely. The ribbon stayed still.
Well. That was irritatingly effective.
I had arrived at the academy expecting people to marvel at my extraordinary abilities. Instead, a tailor's son was explaining that I couldn't hold a magical dinner plate correctly. Apparently, my protagonist package included peer review.
Mistress Soren stopped beside us. "Reed. Why the smaller barrier?"
"Less area to maintain."
"And the disadvantage?"
"Less room for error."
"Good. Lewis, what corrected your ward?"
"Listening to my partner."
Her gaze moved between us before she nodded. "Continue."
Tomas waited until she had gone. "You didn't have to say that."
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
"Because you corrected it." I reset the frame. "Besides, if I take credit for everything, you'll stop giving me useful advice."
His mouth twitched. "So this is selfish."
"Deeply."
"Good to know."
The next pulse struck, and his barrier held.
By the time class ended, I could stop the standard pulse reliably, and Tomas had managed several changes of direction without dropping his shield. We left discussing which part of the exercise had been harder, a conversation that carried us through history and into lunch.
We ate beneath an open gallery overlooking one of the courtyards. Tomas had bread, soup, and the cautious appetite of someone making sure none of it cost extra.
"It's included," I told him.
"I know."
He looked toward the serving tables, hesitated, then went back for more bread.
We talked about home. His mother repaired work clothes, traveling coats, and occasionally expensive garments whose owners insisted the damage wasn't their fault.
"My favorite customers," I said. "I also enjoy blaming furniture."
"She would charge you anyway."
"A formidable woman."
"She'd like you." He paused. "Probably."
I accepted the qualification.
When he asked about my training, I told him about Veronica. Not every detail, just enough to explain why I occasionally responded to instructions as though failure might result in a burning trouser leg.
By the time I reached the sand-filled casualty named Darien, he was laughing too hard to eat.
Friendship, apparently, could grow from mutual respect. It could also grow from discovering that somebody else had suffered ridiculous teachers.
The afternoon passed without explosions, a disappointing but probably healthy development. By evening, my head contained three historical dates, two new regulations, and a strong suspicion that Tomas would become dangerous if anyone threatened a clothesline.
I returned to my room and found Milo at the desk. My correspondence had been sorted into two small piles.
"Household matters," he explained, pointing. "And academy notices."
One envelope bore Mother's handwriting. Beside it lay a page covered in careful columns: practice accounts.
"You've been busy."
He nodded. "Master Pell says remembering isn't enough. Someone else should be able to understand the record."
I examined the figures. Neat. Legible. Already better than my handwriting. A low bar, but still.
"Good lesson."
He looked at the arranged books. "Was everything right this morning?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
I put down my satchel. "Milo. You did well."
He looked up. For a moment, he seemed uncertain whether to say something. Then his fingers pressed against the notebook.
"You helped me when I couldn't do anything. And Lottie." He glanced toward the correspondence. "I want to be good at something that helps you."
I stayed quiet for a moment. Then I took the signed declaration from my satchel and placed it beside his notebook.
"I needed this today. You made sure I had it."
His grip loosened.
"Tomorrow, I'll need you to check the updated timetable. They moved the practical review."
"I can do that."
"I know."
He smiled, small and proud, then made a note so he wouldn't forget.
I picked up Mother's letter while he returned to his columns. Yesterday, being the protagonist had meant putting an arrogant noble in his place. Today, it meant listening when Tomas knew better and trusting Milo when he wanted to learn.
Less dramatic, certainly. But as I opened the envelope and heard Milo quietly checking his sums, I decided I could get used to days like this.