satisfying cup of hot chocolate in winter, and a quality selection of pastries every day of the year—and that was before one even came to the display cases of colorful confections made on the premises.
“Good morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Hinderstone, beaming. She stood next to the till. Above the till, hanging from the ceiling, was a sign that read Books on the dark arts may be found in the cellar, free of charge. And should you locate the cellar, kindly feed the phantom behemoth inside. Regards, E. Constantinos.
Before Mrs. Hinderstone had taken over the premises, the place had been a bookshop run by none other than the Master of the Domain’s paternal grandfather—though no one knew it then, not even the prince himself. Mrs. Hinderstone had kept some of the books, a rather large collection for her customers to browse through as they waited for their orders or drank their morning tea. And she had kept most of the bookshop’s signs, including one that said I would rather read than eat. Iolanthe had immediately liked Mrs. Hinderstone for her self-deprecating sense of humor.
“Good morning,” Iolanthe returned the greeting. “How are you?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to come in to tell you this. I’ve had so many potions and elixirs for my elbow over the years, but that draught of yours—it’s a miracle! I can’t thank you enough.”
“All right!” Iolanthe smiled—she did very much enjoy being helpful. “Nothing feels as good as not hurting anywhere, does it?”
“Tell me about it. The usual for you today?”
“Yes, please.”
“A chocolate croissant and a cup of café au lait for Miss Hilland,” Mrs. Hinderstone said to her helpers behind the counter. She turned back to Iolanthe. “You are always up so early on Saturdays. Don’t you go out and have fun Friday nights?”
“Oh, I do. Last night I went to an aerial polo game with my friends. The Conservatory’s team won, so we celebrated by singing in the quadrangle, loudly and badly, until two in the morning.”
Her throat was still slightly scratchy—it had been a riotous good time.
“But it’s barely seven.” The shop had just opened and was without its usual crowd, since it was so early.
“It’s the only time of the week I have a chance at my favorite seat,” said Iolanthe.
She had no idea why she always woke up the same time on Saturday as she did on school days. She never set her alarm on Friday nights, but every Saturday morning she opened her eyes as the sun rose.
One of Mrs. Hinderstone’s helpers brought Iolanthe’s coffee and croissant. Iolanthe opened her wallet.
“Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Hinderstone. “That is on the house.”
Iolanthe thanked Mrs. Hinderstone and took her tray to the small table by the window. The shop sat on the corner of Hyacinth Street and University Avenue, across from the Conservatory’s famous statue garden. Mages came from all over the city for their early morning walk, and one never knew who one might see.
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Hinderstone herself came to refill Iolanthe’s cup. “You know, miss, Iolanthe Seabourne used to come here as a child. If you don’t mind my saying it, you look a bit like her.”
“Why would I mind? Please, do compare me to the great heroine of the Last Great Rebellion.”
They both chortled.
In fact, Mrs. Hinderstone was not the first to comment on Iolanthe Hilland’s resemblance to Iolanthe Seabourne. Her second year at the conservatory, she had taken a class from a big, flame-haired professor named Hippolyta Eventide, and Professor Eventide had made a similar observation. But Iolanthe didn’t mention it to Mrs. Hinderstone. That would be bragging.
Mrs. Hinderstone set down her coffeepot on the table. “And guess who came into my shop two days ago? His Highness!”
Iolanthe could not suppress a half squeal.
It was no secret that the Master of the Domain visited Mrs. Hinderstone’s from time to time—one of the reasons that her place was so popular. But Iolanthe had never had the good fortune of running into him here.
“Yes, he did, and placed an order for a picnic basket to be delivered to the Citadel today.”
She had no idea the prince picnicked. She thought he worked all the time—and maybe occasionally went for a long walk in the Labyrinthine Mountains.
“And you know what? After I took down his order, I kept thinking of you. He named everything on the menu that you like—summer salad, pâté sandwich, spinach quiche, and pinemelon ice.”
“My goodness.” That could easily have been a picnic basket she ordered for herself.
“You