Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or discomfort. “Do they?”
She nodded and took a sip of her tea. “Ana said you know a lot about magic and magical artifacts. Maybe even more than Armand.”
“Helps when you run a magical bookstore,” he said with a quirk of his lips.
This was her chance to find out more about him. “What made you decide to open a magical bookstore?”
“My family has been collecting magical texts and artifacts for generations,” he said slowly, carefully. “So I suppose it’s in my blood.”
“But you do more than just acquire them,” shepressed. “You preserve them, share them, use them to help people understand what they were dealing with.” The truth of it resonated with her even as she said the words. That was the difference between mages like him and Silas Corvus. Brandon didn’t pursue things simply to possess them or further his own agenda.
“You give me too much credit.”
A wave of fierce emotion washed through Muriel's chest. Pride? Shame? Guilt? It was so intense it stole her breath. Except it wasn't hers. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving her slightly dizzy.
“Muriel? What’s wrong?” Brandon's attention snapped to her, concerned.
She pressed her hand to her sternum, frowning. “Sorry, I just felt a wave of dizziness there for a moment. I think the adrenaline's finally wearing off. I’m okay now.” She forced a smile and picked up her sandwich again.
Brandon didn’t look convinced. He regarded her with those beautiful blue eyes, eyes that held secrets far older than his fit body and unlined face.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
He hesitated. “Sure.”
“How old are you?”
His eyebrows rose, a hint of amusement flickering across his features. “That's a very personal question.”
“I'm just trying to figure out how mage aging works,” she said, feeling heat creep into her cheeks. “I mean, Armand is over a thousand years old, and hedoesn't look any older than you. You talk about generations of Collectors, you have all this knowledge...” She gestured helplessly. “I honestly can't tell if you're thirty or three hundred.”
Brandon's lips quirked into an actual smile, the first genuine one she'd seen all evening. “Older than thirty. Younger than three hundred.”
She waited, but he didn't elaborate. “That's not an answer.”
“It's the only answer you're getting tonight.” His eyes glinted with something playful. “A gentleman never reveals his true age.”
“Gah! Come on, give me something, will you?”
The smile softened. “The men in my family tend to enjoy extended lifespans. Not quite vampire immortality, but significantly longer than your average mortal.”
“You’re really not going to tell me?”
“Let's just say, I'm old enough to have made my share of mistakes, and young enough to make more of them.”
There was something in the way he said it—a weight to the words that suggested some of those mistakes still haunted him. Muriel found herself wanting to know what they were, wanting to understand this man who kept himself so carefully controlled.
“How long have you had The Glas Tann?” she asked instead.
“Long enough to have accumulated more books than shelf space.” He glanced around the shop with obviousaffection. “And to have helped a fair number of people figure out what they're dealing with when magic enters their lives unexpectedly.”
“Like me,” she murmured.
“No,” he said wryly. “Not like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He smiled, shook his head, and returned his attention to his sandwich, leaving her to wonder. How many others had wandered into his shop seeking answers? Seeking guidance? Had he invited any of them into his personal space? Offered to train and teach them?