Five days into my stay, the estate had a rhythm.
Mornings belonged to Alastor. Two hours on the observatory balcony, casting until my channels ached, while he took my spells apart with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world and none to waste. Afternoons belonged to Nero's scroll and my sword. Evenings belonged to whatever Rachel decided they belonged to.
The mornings were humbling.
Laplace, it turned out, was not something I could simply decide to do. Every time I tried to stop calculating and start listening, the ambient mana roared into my senses like a crowd all talking at once, and the spell collapsed before it reached the second circle. Alastor watched me fail eleven times on the first day and nine on the second. He didn't comment either time.
On the third day he said, "Better," after a failure that looked exactly like the others to me.
