Rylan was having a little trouble wrapping his mind around his father's excited explanation. Apparently, in order to properly create the waveform, he would have to find the right rhythm to excite the mana at. However, that rhythm couldn't just be a steady one. Rather, it would have to be a mix of different frequencies, as his father was demonstrating by tapping increasingly complex patterns on the table with his fingers.

"So you've got the slow pattern for the overall shape—that's my thumb right now," Artoran reiterated. "And then the faster ones—my index and middle fingers—to create the sharp corners. The tricky part is to figure out what frequencies and phases they're supposed to be at to get the shape right, and that's where your experience with the texture comes in; you have to get a feeling for it."

Rylan squinted at the man's fingers. He'd thought the tapping had been random at first, but he was now seeing that each finger was holding a steady rhythm—apart from the occasional jitter—and it was actually the way their patterns interacted that created the complexity.

"I think I get it," he said slowly. "By the way, your fingers are looking pretty dextrous today."

"I know! I do feel like it's gotten a little easier to move them lately. But let's stay on topic. In music, what I'm doing is called a polyrhythm. There's actually a surprising amount of overlap between music and the formation of textured mana; they're both all about patterns and timing."

"Hmm. I'm not sure how helpful that comparison will be for me," Rylan admitted. "I don't know that much about music. And I have to say, I still don't fully understand how a rhythm can create a shape."

"It's not very intuitive at first," Artoran admitted. "Actually, maybe a demonstration is in order..." Artoran stopped tapping, furrowing his brows in concentration as he lifted his hand in front of him instead. A moment later, a ball of white light rose up from the man's palm.

As Rylan watched, Artoran slowly started to move his fingers again, and with each little jerk of a digit, the ball of mana wobbled. Slowly, a number of outward-rotating spirals came into existence over the surface, fading and overlapping at their edges.

Wide-eyed, Rylan leaned in closer.

"Pretty neat, huh?" Artoran said with a grin. "This is the waveform of my own Skill, Rotate. I don't actually need to move my fingers to form it, but it does help me time the little jolts I'm—oh, hey honey!"

Artoran stopped his finger motions, looking over Rylan's shoulder with an almost guilty expression. The ripples over the ball of mana's surface quickly died down, leaving it smooth.

Turning around, Rylan found Leahna standing in the doorway, a woven kelp bag in each hand.

Rylan blinked. "Oh, hey. Would you like some help with—"

"I've got it," Leahna interrupted, bustling in and heading for the counter. "I, ehm, I would offer you dinner, but I hadn't anticipated you'd still be here, and I don't think I bought enough..."

"That's all right," Rylan replied, trying to hide his disappointment. "I think I learned enough to get started, so I should probably head out in a minute anyway."

Leahna put down her bags and straightened up with a sigh, stretching out her back. "Oh... all right, then." She turned to Artoran. "I'm just going to freshen up, then I'll get started on dinner. Are you good?"

Artoran nodded, his hand back down on his lap, the ball of mana dissipated. "I'm fine, darling. Your brother took good care of me."

"Good. Excuse me."

She moved back into the hall, shooting Rylan a tight smile as she walked past.

Rylan nodded at her. As soon as she cleared the room, he let out a sigh. "Thanks for the lesson," he said. "Is it all right if we pick this up later?"

"Of course," Artoran said quickly. "Anytime. Also...try not to take it to heart. Your sister is having a rough time of it at the moment."

"Right," Rylan said, some bitterness making its way into his voice despite his best efforts. "I guess it's just not what I'd imagined having a sister would be like."

"It's not. Or at least, it doesn't have to be."

Rylan shook his head. "I should get going."

As he was about to get to his feet, however, his father spoke again.

"You know... I had a younger sister."

"Oh?" Rylan asked, unable to withstand the lure of more of his family's history.

Artoran's eyes turned to the window as if he were staring out, even though the shutters were closed. A melancholy smile crossed his face. "Her name was Rose. She was amazing. We lost her to a fever when she was pretty young still, and not a day goes by that I don't miss her."

"That's terrible. I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." Artoran turned his eyes back to Rylan's, his brows pinching together. "The reason I'm saying this... I know you and Leahna will never have those shared childhood memories, that bond of having grown up together... But at least you're both here. You're alive, and still young. You can still get to know each other. And if I had another chance to have Rose in my life, in any shape, way, or form... I would take it with both hands."

Rylan hesitated. "It... doesn't really seem like Leahna is willing to give me the opportunity."

"Well," Artoran started, leaning back with a sigh. "Part of that is just displaced anger with me, I'm afraid. She's very touchy about anything to do with her mother and, unfortunately, you're living proof that I've once loved another woman. However, that's only part of it. If I'm honest, I think the way you came into our lives didn't help."

Rylan's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

"When you met her, you didn't reveal your identity to her. You were completely focused on me and my letter—and I don't blame you; I get it! However, it didn't really make Leahna feel like you cared to meet her."

"I wasn't even sure if she and I were related when we met," Rylan protested. "What was I supposed to say, you may be my sister? Besides, I can't go around spreading my identity; the Talons are looking for me!"

Stolen novel; please report.

"All perfectly reasonable arguments," Artoran said, holding up his hands in innocence. "But relationships aren't just in our heads, they're in our hearts, too. And your sister... well, please don't tell her I said this, but I think she rather envies you."

Rylan blinked. "She envies a runaway indentured servant whose own mother pretends she didn't give birth to him?"

"That... may be how you see yourself," Artoran replied with a wince, "but she knows you as the mysterious Quinthar chef who's all the rage and makes twice her salary. And to make matters worse, you're actually making progress with what she's been failing to do for over a season; nursing her father back to health."

"Oh..."

There was a muffled thump from upstairs, and Rylan glanced up at the arched stone ceiling.

[Don't worry, Boss; she's not eavesdropping,] Arphin said. [I'll let you know when she's headed back downstairs!]

"Look, Rylan," Artoran continued. "Life is short. If you want to bond with your sister, then bond with your sister. Think of all the effort you put into finding me. Don't you think your sister is worth some effort as well?"

Rylan narrowed his eyes at the man. "Why are you telling me all this? Shouldn't you be trying to convince Leahna?"

"You think I'm not?" Artoran asked drily. "Your sister can be very stubborn. And she's unfortunately grown immune to my pretty eyes."

Despite himself, Rylan snorted.

"Look, I get it. It's scary," Artoran continued gently. "Putting yourself out there, being vulnerable, risking rejection... But sometimes, the hardest things in life are also most worth doing."

Rylan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "How would I even start? She barely lets me finish a sentence..."

"Well then, why don't you write her a letter?"

Rylan scrunched up his nose. "Wouldn't that be a bit... odd, when we see each other regularly?"

"No, it's perfect!" Artoran exclaimed, lowering his voice again after another thump from upstairs. "Writing it down will give you time to think about what it is you want to convey, and Leah won't be able to interrupt you."

Rylan scratched the back of his head. "If you think it's a good idea, I guess..."

"Trust me: your sister appreciates a good letter," Artoran said with a smile. "She's had a pen pal for almost seven years now! Just make sure you write neatly; she can be a bit of a snob about handwriting."

Rylan groaned. "Great..."

[Boss, she's coming downstairs!]

He got up with a sigh, and reluctantly returned Artoran's beaming smile. Somehow, he had the feeling he'd been expertly manipulated.

Well, his father had made a lot of sense, and he really would like to get along better with Leahna. It was hard to imagine the kind of bond other siblings had, but deep down, a part of Rylan definitely craved it.

"Good luck, son!" Artoran whispered as Rylan opened the door to the hallway, obnoxiously sticking up both thumbs.

Rylan rolled his eyes. "Yeah yeah. Thanks for the talk. I'll see you soon."

Slowly, meticulously, Leahna's quill traced a lightly pencilled shape on the thick sheet of bamboo paper lying on her slanted desk.

She liked working in the stationer's shop. It was generally quiet—save for the scratching of her and her colleagues' quills—and it smelled kind of sweet, like paper and dust.

There was a satisfaction to be found in the work as well, in the slow coming together of a meticulously crafted piece, in copying something rare and precious so that it could be enjoyed by more people, and wouldn't be lost to the fog of time.

The oversized capital letter she was working on was slowly coming together, the precious golden ink still flowing smoothly, producing no splotches or spatters for the shop's strict corrector to get upset about.

Even this precise task had gotten routine, however, allowing her mind to wander back to the previous night.

Coming home to find her half-brother discussing mana exercises with her father had been... unexpected.

Irksome.

Her father had really taken to Rylan, which was understandable. What she didn't understand was his insistence that she start treating him like some long-lost sibling as well.

Perhaps she would've felt that way if she'd actually been informed about his existence, and been given some time to get used to the idea.

As it was, she found it hard to see him as anything but a complete stranger who had suddenly entered their lives, and she felt she'd done a perfectly adequate job at being nothing but polite to him.

Granted, it was very kind of him to be helping her father recover, but she didn't really feel like he owed them that, nor that she owed him anything other than gratitude in return. Certainly not any form of feigned familial affection.

At least her father had seemingly stopped harping on her to 'give her brother a chance.' Like, what was she even supposed to do? Have tea with him? Ask him what his favourite thing was about being a Quinthar?

On the last stroke, she used a bit more force than intended, and her quill slipped a little.

"Shoot!" she muttered, carefully pulling back the implement, her heartbeat accelerating.

She couldn't afford to have another page rejected by the corrector. Worse than the cost of the lost materials would be the time loss, as she was paid per finished page.

"What happened?" her colleague Zimone asked, finishing up a neat loop before she lifted her own quill and looked over.

"I slipped," Leahna said, her eyes flitting back and forth between the symbol and the original she'd been copying.

Zimone leaned over. "On the arc? Hmm... it doesn't look that bad. It's a bit bold, but I think you'll get away with it. It almost looks intentional."

Leahna shot her a grateful smile, leaning back with a sigh as she massaged the ball of her hand and surveyed the rest of her work. One of the illuminations along the edge of the page was a bit narrow, so she might do another pass there, but other than that, the page was practically done.

The clearing of a throat betrayed the presence of someone just behind her, and she froze, the hairs on the back of her neck rising.

She turned around with dread pooling in her stomach, but it wasn't the stern corrector standing behind her, but rather her boss.

Stationer Thakir was getting on in years, as evidenced by his greying hair and the wrinkles next to his kind eyes, thus he mostly handled the administration these days. Today, he was wearing his usual dark red waistcoat and a bemused expression. In his hand, rather than his whalebone pipe, was a letter.

"Ah, Leandra..." he said, as if he hadn't just walked up to her and cleared his throat. "This was just dropped off for you."

"Oh?"

That was odd. Cassie usually sent her letters to Leahna's home address, and either way, she didn't expect her weekly correspondence until three days from now. Had something happened?

"Hmm, yes," her boss said as she accepted his offering. "Nice arc there. Quite bold. Hmm? Oh, right..."

She suppressed her smile as he walked off, pretending to have been called over as he often did. She shared a knowing look with Zimone, then turned her attention to the letter to see who it was from.

Upon turning it over and spotting the name of the sender, her brows rose to her hairline.

It came from... Chef Ironbeard.

Her brows drawing together, she broke the simple wax seal and unfolded it.

'Dear Leahna,' it read.

'I don't really know how to start this letter, so I'm just going to write what I wish to tell you. First of all, I'm sorry for barging into your life the way I did. Even more so, I am sorry for what happened to Artoran. I want you to know that I will stop at nothing to cure him. That said, there's something I have failed to adequately express thus far, and I feel it is high time I did.

'The truth is, I didn't come here just to find my father; I came here to find my family. That is to say, I came here to find you, as well. You see, I've never had a family before. Not that I knew, anyway. Perhaps that explains a little of the mess I made of our introduction.

'What I'm trying to say is, I would really, really like us to start over. So, if you'll allow it, here goes. Hi. My name is Rylan Cloudgift, and I believe I may be your brother. I know this must come as a shock, and I'm sure you have a lot going on already, but if you could make a little room in your life for me, so that I can get to know you, I would be terribly grateful.

'And if there's anything I can do to help you, please don't hesitate to ask. I would gladly be of assistance.

'Sincerely, Your brother, The Shaven Clodpoll.'

Slightly dazed by the unexpected emotional assault, she lowered the letter, staring blankly at the cabinet full of scrolls and curiosities in front of her. After a moment, she shook herself out of it, lifted the letter up, and started reading it a second time.

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