“Yes, sir,” he snapped and probably would have saluted if Zitora hadn’t pushed him out the door.

Zitora and I raced to Booruby. She was determined to get there as quickly as possible without exhausting the horses. At different times during the five-day journey, I wished I were a horse, wished I was back at the Keep and even wished for a day of rain to slow our brutal pace. The Barbasco yams only helped with aches and pains, not bone-deep fatigue.

On the afternoon of the fifth day, I caught sight of the brick smokestack from my family’s glass factory. I cried out and urged Quartz faster through the busy streets of Booruby. Located on the far east side of the city, our buildings were the last ones before the Avibian Plains. Funny how I never considered the flat grasslands of the Plains to be so welcoming before.

The commotion from our arrival was loud enough to draw Ahir from the factory. I never thought I would be so happy to see my brother. I slid off Quartz in time to be knocked over by Ahir.

“Ugh…you’re heavy. Do you have sand in your pockets?” I asked.

“You wish, big sister.” Ahir helped me to my feet.

The top of my head reached his nose. He had grown at least six inches since I had visited during the hot season, towering over my own five-foot seven-inch height.

“Now you can’t call me your little brother anymore.” He smirked.

“Sure I can, Ahir. No matter how big and fat you get, you’ll always have a little brain.”

“You wish, snake spit,” he countered.

“I know, fly breath.”

“Opal, that’s enough. We’re on a time schedule,” Zitora said in exasperation. “Ahir, where is your father?”

His eyes lit up. “Is Opal in trouble?”

Ahir ignored her annoyed frown, relishing the possibility that I might be in trouble.

“Ahir, you don’t want to keep Master Cowan waiting,” I said.

“Oh boy! You must be in big trouble.” He rubbed his hands together. “He’s in the factory, working with Mara.”

Ahir trailed behind us like a dog hoping for treats. Zitora hesitated on the threshold of the building. The heat and roar from the eight kilns presented a physical force, but she pushed through. To me, the thick air and pulsing growl wrapped around me like a favorite blanket. Home.

My father worked at a gaffer’s bench with my sister assisting him. His wide, adept hands pulled and plucked at the molten glass with ease. Hunching over his work, he didn’t notice us. The familiar sight of his broad shoulders and strong back tugged at my bruised body. I wanted to hop into his embrace so he could make everything all right again.

Instead, I signaled to Mara. She paused in her duties and sent me a welcoming smile. Her perfectly shaped features and wide tawny-colored eyes attracted men to her like snakes to the heat. She had gotten Tula’s and my share of beauty. With her long golden curls and curvy figure, she had the complete opposite of my, with my straight hair and athletic build. While all of us had brown eyes, hers were light and interesting; Tula’s and mine were dark brown and ordinary. Ahir’s were almost black, which matched the color of his short moppy hair.

I let Mara know we would wait for Father outside. Ahir tried to come with us, but Mara snapped her fingers at him and pointed to another kiln. He hung his head and slouched back to work.

“It’s an oven in there,” Zitora exclaimed. “How do you stand it?”

I shrugged. “Growing up, I spent more time in the factory than the house. Probably the reason I hate the cold.” I rubbed my arms. “It gets really hot when all eight kilns are fired. Eight is too many for my family to handle, so we hired a few locals, two uncles and a bunch of cousins to work the kilns. Shifts help with heat exhaustion. My father makes us take a break after each piece we make.”

When my father came outside, his shoulders brushed the doorway. He squinted. In the sunlight, his resemblance to Ahir was unmistakable. Although only a few black strands remained in his short gray hair and Ahir still had a couple more inches to grow before catching up with Father’s height.

“Opal.” Father crushed me in a bear hug.

I suppressed a wince. Five days of hard riding had not been conducive to healing. My injuries remained tender to the touch. He released me.

“Father, I would like to introduce you to Master Cowan, Second Magician. Master Cowan, this is my father, Jaymes Cowan.”

He shook her hand, and invited us inside the house for refreshments. Heat and the smell of molten glass radiated off his body.

Zitora declined. “It’s an urgent matter. Is there a private place we can talk?”

He shot me a look of alarmed concern. A familiar situation. If I had been guilty of any misdeed, I would have burst into tears and confessed upon seeing his ire. I quickly shook my head lest he suspect me of being in trouble.

“We can talk in my lab,” he said.

We followed him to a small one-story building tucked behind the factory. He led us into his laboratory, where he experimented with various sand mixtures and chemicals to produce glass of different colors and consistencies. Metal tables lined the room. Tools and various measuring equipment hung from neat rows of hooks, and stainless steel bowls had been stacked in precise piles.

The countertops gleamed in the light. Not a speck of errant sand marred the tables or crunched under a boot. Mother used to complain of Father’s messy armoire, and would wonder out loud how he could keep his lab pristine, yet fail to hang up his clothes.