A flush rose to his cheeks. He extended one hand and waited. When I stared at it, confused, he muttered, “Your hand, Tisaanah.” I laid my palm in his and tried not to laugh as he planted a clumsy brush of a kiss against my knuckles. “Good luck,” he said, then too quickly dropped my fingers as he gave the three of us one final, hurried wave and was ushered away with his new instructor. “Moth, breaker of flowers, spy glasses, pitchers, and hearts,” Max mused, shaking his head. “He is your apprentice after all, Sammerin.” “He’s a little smitten, I think. But I suppose it can’t be helped.” And I
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