And to think, for a brief moment, everything in Sedgewick's life had been going perfectly.

He slowly puffed out air through his nose and rubbed his temple. The headache that had been pounding off-and-on for the past few days had spiked again. Maybe Feyla could check it later. Papers were strewn across his desk, scribbled with any and all ideas for how to catch whoever had started the Healing House's fire. Sedgewick snorted. "Whoever" indeed. Feyla's description of the man matched Desden Carrow, and since she'd apparently been the one to catch Dormaeus, he trusted her to be able to tell the difference. Coupled with Sandrina supposedly spotted him by the docks near the healing house and it had been the only explanation that made sense.

And yet he knew he'd seen Dormaeus! It would take an idiot to not draw a connection between his reappearance and the Healing House attack. Could the man be using his younger brother to do his dirty work? The similarity between the Healing House fire and Dormaeus's burning of Lady Calinya's summer house were too similar to each other. Desden must have been, if not guided by, at least inspired by his older brother's work.

But what is the point of it all? Sedgewick thought, rubbing his temple again. It couldn't have been revenge since Dormaeus was apparently still alive. The attack seemed as random as the Calinya one years prior except...

Sedgewick growled under his breath before turning back to his notes and scribbling down a few other locations he wanted to check. He needed to know what Desden Carrow had stolen. Curse Feyla's silence and guild loyalty and healers in general. It was times like this that he wished Crayden hadn't betrayed him. The man might have been a scoundrel with no qualms about selling spells and spell materials to dangerous people, but he also knew whenever a black magic user so much as turned over a rock. Pity his intelligence stopped being useful once the man decided to exploit Sedgewick's moment of weakness.

Sedgewick growled under his breath. He should have expected this. Ministry going well? Magic in order? Mere months away from starting a life and eventually a family with the woman he loved? Obviously time for something to blow up in his face or crash down on his ears.

Except this time, it would crash on those under him as well. If the Magic Ministry's support and responsibilities were cut, there went half his undermages, not to mention his research projects and the expensive apprenticeships the ministry sponsored. And all because some arrogant young healer who knew something he didn't had decided he could do the job Sedgewick had been perfecting for centuries.

But you didn't think about all that, did you? You stupid, smug, handsy little—

Sedgewick banged his head on his desk once. Then twice. That's enough, he thought, raising his head back up. Moping was ineffective. He settled back down to finish drafting his search plan when the door to his office flung open like there was a hurricane behind it.

Feyla dashed through the door as if hellgates was behind her. She jerked to a stop in front of Sedgewick and grabbed him like her hands were a hawk's talons. "Do you love me?"

Sedgewick unhooked her nails from his shoulders. "No, I'm bonding with you for your coffee making skills," he grumbled. Spending more time than he probably should have dancing with Feyla at the gala had almost made him forget the fact that her silence was making this search twice as hard. Almost. "Is everything—"

"Good!" Feyla tugged him away from his desk and ran toward the door to his research lab in the back of the office. She pulled him inside and slammed the door. "I wanted to do this slowly, in stages, but there's no time. So you'll just have to be your brilliant self and soak it all in right now."

"Feyla, why am I in here?" he asked, waving at the room in exasperation.

"My mother's coming," Feyla said, her voice dropping low like she'd just announced the end of the world.

"For mid-meal?"

"No, she's coming down the hall!" Feyla practically shouted, digging her nails into his arm again. Her voice wavered and Sedgewick thought he spotted liquid collecting in the corners of her eyes.

He unhooked her talons again and grasped her shaking hands until they stilled. "I can run her off if you don't want to speak with her. You know I'm good at that sort of thing."

Feyla's pupils contracted, and she shook her head. "No! Do the exact opposite of that. Now, I need you to listen. There are a few things we need to work on." Feyla reached out and began smoothing back his hair and tugging his coat into place. The new, freshly tailored one from last night had been stuck back in his closet when Sedgewick had opted for his more comfortable one. The shoulders sagged off him and there was a hole near his wrist from when he'd neglected to roll up the sleeves while brewing potions.

Feyla huffed and tugged it off him. "The mage thing is unavoidable, but try not to talk about work. Don't ask about my father, but my brother is okay. Be polite, but not too polite. I'm pretty sure she can sense fear. Don't address her by her first name unless she says you can. Stick to safe topics. The weather, maybe some new theatre performances. If she asks how we met, don't tell her about how you insulted me."

"I thought you liked that story," Sedgewick managed to squeeze out in-between Feyla's breathes.

"I do! But she won't find it funny. And try to downplay the whole engagement thing."

Sedgewick finally collected himself enough to bristled. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing! Except—" Feyla gasped as her hands flew to her hair. She collected it at the nape of her neck and tugged a cover off a nearby scrying mirror Sedgewick had been making. "Can you please go grab my purse off my desk? I need my hair pins. Oh, why can't she ever write before visiting?"

Sedgewick ducked out of the room while Feyla kept muttering something about not being dress right. He rapped his finger against her desk while he scanned it for the bag. This wasn't like Feyla. Fear of social interactions was never on her list of worries. His mind drifted to all the tips she'd rattled off. All tips about him.

Sedgewick snatched the bag off the table and clenched it in his hand. What was it Feyla had said about Delia? "I want her to like you!" That hope had gone up in flames, but this one wouldn't. If Feyla wanted him to impress her mother, then that is exactly what he would do.

Sedgewick strode toward the research lab when a voice rang from down the hall. It sounded like Henna, the woman in charge of distributing assignments and handling wages for some of the undermages. Her voice had risen to a pitch, and Sedgewick could almost see the frazzled ends of her hair rising as the noise carried through the door.

"Madam! You're not supposed to—"

Something slumped against the floor outside the door. Sedgewick dropped Feyla's purse on his nearby desk. The magic in Sedgewick's veins hummed against his fingertips as he reached out and levitated his staff to his hand. Magic shifted into the essantium core within the cool polished outer layer. The handle on the door twisted, and Sedgewick raised his staff slowly. Whoever was blithely fight their way down his hallway was going to have a very unpleasant welcome.

The door slid open smoothly and Sedgewick's staff nearly slipped from his hand. If he hadn't seen Feyla enter the room behind him, he would have thought she'd just arrived. But no, Sedgewick realized. Not quite Feyla. He lowered his staff slowly. Merely a version of Feyla. One who had thrown away all her flattering, meticulously-chosen dresses and spent the next four or so centuries frowning at the world.

"Master Alverdyne," the elder Everbloom said, less of a question and more of an acknowledgment of his presence.

Sedgewick nodded once, finally setting his staff aside. Same honey-gold hair that complimented her and Feyla's dark, tawny-brown skin. Same heart-shaped face. Same height, although the woman's figure was obscured by the long, white, high collared robe she wore. But there was something...

Her cool, collected gaze slid from his hat to the staff he'd set aside. Ah. The eyes. The eyes were all wrong. His Feyla's were a deep blue-green that reminded Sedgewick of an ever-changing ocean he could drown in happily. Hers were a dirty green, more like a moss he might collect as a potion ingredient. "Can I help you, madam?" Polite. He must be polite. Even if she did barge into his office without an appointment.

The woman strolled over to Feyla's desk and ran her finger across the top of it, checking for dust. "I'm here to collect my daughter."

***************************

Author's Note: She's been hinted at for most of the book, and finally here's our first glimpse at Feyla's mother!

Chapter 17: Feyla held her breath, wishing she could hold Sedgewick's words back with it. Please don't, she thought. Just this once.