Page 66 of Spark of Sorcery
I glance towards my very narrow, very single bed.
“Oh,” I say.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says quickly.
“You can’t sleep on the floor!”
“I can.”
“I don’t have any spare bedding or…”
He weaves his hand in the air and a thin mattress with blankets appears alongside the small space beside my bed.
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
He blinks. Things are different but they’re still really awkward.
I walk to my bed and rest the stone down on my pillow.
“I don’t even have any food or drink to offer you,” I mumble. “Can you magic those up too?”
“No,” he says. “Food and drink are essential factors of life. Weavers can not conjure them.”
“That doesn’t exactly make any sense to me, but a lot of things in this world don’t.” I flop down to sit on the edge of my bed with a sigh. “Like why the stupid Quarters and the stupid academy and the stupid system exist in the first place.”
“They exist because they protect us.”
“Tell that to the people living back in Slate Quarter,” I mumble.
“You would have things differently, then, I suppose?”
“Yes,” I say emphatically, “people would be free to decide where they lived and how they lived.”
“Sounds like a recipe for chaos to me.”
“It sounds like people would be free to choose their own fate.”
“Fate is a complex force,” he mutters. “None of us can be free of it.”
A creature scuttles in the thatch above our heads and we both look up.
“This room is a shithole.”
“It’s about a million times better than home,” I tell him.
“I find it hard to believe.”
“Three regular meals a day.” I smile and pat my belly. “It’s heaven.” I pat the mattress next to me. “You don’t have to spend the entire evening standing, you know. You can sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m not going to bite. I mean you are hot, of course, but I think I can control myself.” Alarm sparks in his eyes. “Oh, come on, like you don’t know about the little fan club that watches you train every morning. I bet you love giving them that little show.”
“What?” he says, sounding genuinely confused.
“Look, I think I can control myself. I’m not some nymphomaniac. I promise not to launch myself across the bed at you,” I tease.
“I’m fine,” he replies.
