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“You get ten minutes.”
Genau didn’t look up from his book as he said it didn’t even blink. His voice was flat, the kind of tone that only came from a man who had watched the same crime play out too many times to keep pretending it wasn’t intentional.
Methode paused, her hand frozen mid-air above Serie’s head. She gave a slow, exaggerated blink.
“Ten minutes?” she echoed, feigning disbelief. “Genau, be serious.”
“I am.” He turned the page. “You abused the privilege.”
“I was being affectionate.”
“You were being annoying.”
“I was appreciating her! Serie is-”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Serie interrupted without lifting her eyes from the scroll she was studying. Her voice was calm, but it held the quiet threat of someone capable of making you forget your own name with a flick of her fingers.
Methode smiled sheepishly. “I was going to say ‘regal.’”
“You were going to say ‘tiny,’” Serie muttered.
Genau sighed and finally looked up. “You ambushed her in the archive room. Then again during lunch. And again, in the corridor outside the spell vault. That one lasted thirteen minutes.”
“You timed it?” Methode asked, almost impressed.
“Yes. Because she glared at me for fifteen.”
Serie made no attempt to deny it.
“Ten minutes,” Genau repeated. “Per day. Not per interaction. And it resets at dawn.”
“That’s cruel,” Methode huffed. “She needs physical affection. She’s emotionally repressed.”
“I can hear you,” Serie said, “I’m right here,” Serie added.
But Methode was already crouching next to her again, the tip of one finger gently brushing a lock of golden hair back into place. “It’s not just about you, Master,” she said solemnly. “It’s about me. My soul suffers without touch.”
Serie looked at her. Deadpan. “You’re a mage, Methode. Suffer better.”
Methode leaned in closer. “Just one more head pat?”
Genau didn’t even flinch. “Eight minutes left.”
Methode made a sound between a laugh and a groan, but she obeyed. Mostly. Her hand came down in a slow, deliberate motion, fingers barely brushing the top of Serie’s head.
Serie held herself perfectly still, like a statue tolerating a particularly affectionate bird.
“I am going to invent a time-slowing spell,” Methode whispered. “Just for this.”
“If you do, I will use it to erase the memory of you from my mind,” Serie replied.
Methode grinned.
Genau returned to his book.
And for the next seven minutes and thirty-two seconds, peace…tense, ridiculous, carefully measured peace was maintained.