Niamh had thought, once, that she knew most of what there was to know about magic. That there was little beyond her reach. She was, after all, of a thoroughly magically-inclined race, and her people ought to have gotten something out of their little compact.
Oh, she had been so naive. So arrogant. Since the moment she had come into her second life--a second life she hadn't even thought possible--her eyes had been opened. There was so, so much that she did not know. Eve her signature spell was thoroughly paltry next to the magic that she now knew existed. And it made her heart race to think of it.
She'd slipped back into her old home, recovered her books and ingredients and all her spellwork, but she was well and settled in at the Tremere Chantry now, safe and away from any prying mortal eyes that might come banging about.Now, she'd curled herself up in the back of one of the libraries, her own notes on her prismatic magic to one side and a stack of tomes on thaumaturgical manipulation of the elements to the other. Had she hoarded all such tomes she could get her hand son? Yes.
But if someone else wanted one, that was their problem, not hers.
Uta
