Jaenelle peered into the space between the chair arms. “Saetan?” she said in a small, quivery voice. “Saetan, are you all right?”

Using Craft, Saetan sent the top chair back to the blackwood desk. “I’m fine, witch-child.” He stuffed his feet into his shoes and gingerly stood up. “That’s the most excitement I’ve had in centuries.”

“Really?” He straightened his black tunic-jacket and smoothed back his hair.

“Yes, really.” And Guardian or not, a man his age shouldn’t have his heart gallop around his rib cage like this. Saetan looked around the study and stifled a groan.