I used to imagine magic as fireworks of spells and fairy-tale monsters. But I came to in a chilly alley—without money, without any gift, and without the slightest idea what to do next. The good news is that I can knit socks that warm the heart, and I know how to arrange things so that you actually want to linger in the house. Now I am the last of the Light-Handed, and my main spell is comfort.
The Magicians’ Guild demands a permit; a charming merchant tries to turn me into a source of profit; and a fussy official presses me down with rules and articles.
But I will prove this: in this world, it’s not exploits and rescue that matter most—it’s the ability to make a place where you want to live. And I think I’ve already met the one who needs that just as much.