After lunch, I tolerate poking and prodding and measuring as my grandmother does her best to work out how to fit the dress to me. While I have her, I take the opportunity to ask questions. Not the ones I really want to ask, about how she and my dad ended up estranged. Not yet. But I'm still curious about the idea of my dad as a child, and I haven't met anyone who knew him then before.

She's only too happy to answer my questions. He was about what I would have expected if I'd thought about it properly: quietly studious, with a fierce ambition and a strong sense of justice. It wasn't normal for people in his little village to go to law school, but he earnt a full scholarship and made it happen despite everyone telling him it was impossible.

It's impossible not to contrast that with my own experience. I had so many advantages that he didn't, and yet…

I'm not my father, though, and not just because he was better than I am. I'm not passionate about the law in the way he is. I'm not ambitious, or not in the same way. I haven't found my purpose, my mission in life.

Reading between the lines, it's clear how proud she is of her son and everything he's achieved. It makes me more curious than ever what happened between them when my mother entered the scene. I can't imagine her cutting him off – or conversely – without something truly serious, more than just a clash of personalities between the two women.

I will ask about it. Once I know her better, once I'm sure she won't react badly to me dredging up old memories. But for now I'm content to hear stories of my dad's younger self.

She eventually releases me so she can unpack and start sewing. I retreat to the living room and decide to work on magical theory for a while. It's a little awkward with my dad in the same room, but he focuses on his book and lets me focus on my own work.

And so the afternoon passes. I make slow but steady progress, enjoying the little moments of satisfaction when I finally understand a tricky concept. Though sometimes it's more frustration that it took me so long.

But it's a good way to keep my mind occupied, so I don't spend as much time thinking about how I'm not used to working in this room, with my dad, and how someone else is occupying the space that used to be mine. It's strange, how that bothers me far more than sharing a dormitory for a whole term did. But I guess having my own space was a large part of what made this place feel like home. And now I've been exiled.

We have another tea break mid-afternoon. None of us have that much to report. My dad was reading a history of Rasin's constitution, which he says he's finding interesting. "The way things have been going recently, I'll end up litigating a constitutional crisis. Might as well get a head start on the background reading."

I laugh. My grandmother doesn't.

"That might actually happen, you know," she says. "If Lord Blackthorn makes a claim for the throne, he'll need his family lawyers to justify it."

"There is no justification for that. Unless he claims to be a Mage Reborn, which no-one would believe. Or he marries into the royal family, which is illegal. I wouldn't give him a legal justification for that."

"I admire your commitment to principle, but in this hypothetical… it would have consequences."

My grandmother is right: I can't imagine Lord Blackthorn taking no for an answer like that. My dad would turn from a useful tool to an obstacle. "Well. It's a good thing he's not planning to seize the throne, then, isn't it?"

"How do you know that?"

I grimace. My answer is Edward told me, which… I know he's telling the truth, but persuading others that Lord Blackthorn's son isn't just lying for him would not being easy. And even then, just because Edward believes it… I have no doubt that if Lord Blackthorn was plotting a coup, he wouldn't tell anyone who wasn't essential to his plan.

"It would never work, to begin with. There'd be a revolution within days. The people would never accept him as king."

"I think you're overestimating how much the people care who rules them."

I recognise that argument. Many historians have made it in reference to both Civil Wars: most ordinary people didn't much mind who was king, as long as they had enough to eat and their lives weren't in danger. It's true to an extent, but I'm not sure it's applicable to this scenario. "And I think you're underestimating how much the people hate the Blackthorns. Besides, he'd need the support of Parliament as well."

I'm not even going to try and convince my grandmother of what I suspect is the real reason he wouldn't try to claim the throne: he thinks he's more useful to the country doing what he does now. And he has little patience for politics. I think that would be almost impossible to believe without knowing the man rather than the legend.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"That would be trickier, you're right. I wish Sierra were here, she'd actually know what she was talking about. I'm just repeating things I've picked up from her." She laughs awkwardly.

"You say that like I know what I'm talking about, either."

"I'm assuming you at least know more than I do, if your book collection is anything to go by. And you've actually met him."

"Fair," I admit.

"Well," my dad says, "I haven't seen any evidence he's plotting a coup. But it's not as if he tells me anything, so…" he shrugs.

I can't imagine Lord Blackthorn ever confiding in my dad. Or anyone else, for that matter. It must be lonely. But I hope very much for my dad's sake that I'm right about his intentions.

Thankfully, that topic of conversation dies quickly. As does the conversation itself. I try not to let the awkward silence bother me too much, and focus on slowly sipping tea. After a while, my dad asks what I was working on, and I have to try and explain enchantment theory to people who don't know anything about enchantment theory. Which is not easy. I can tell they're just politely pretending to understand things. At least that means I can get the explanation over with.

I eventually manage to redirect the conversation to a more accessible discussion of the uses of enchantments. Which is mostly my dad trying to work out what enchanted items I can make for us. The answer is "not many, at least until I've learnt a lot more about enchanting". It's a little frustrating to explain that just because I'm a magician doesn't mean I can do everything that's possible to do with magic. Not even close.

It does give me some ideas, though, for projects I could work on once I've learnt a bit more of the background. If I ever learn more of the background and have time for extracurricular projects.

We finish our tea and return to our own projects. I volunteer to wash and dry the mugs, because I want an excuse to procrastinate. This magical theory work is fine to do when I'm in the flow of it, but getting started is a lot harder.

Not that washing mugs is any more fun. It only takes a few minutes, but it uses up a little more of my already low motivation. So I end up just curled up on the sofa, staring at the textbook and not taking in anything it says.

I do eventually manage a little more progress before dinner time. My grandmother insists on helping to cook. In theory that should make things easier, having an extra pair of hands. But in reality the way she does things is different to the way my dad does things and no-one is quite sure who should be doing what. I suppose it'll get easier as we get more used to each other. And while I was worried for a little while, we succeed in producing a perfectly edible stew.

Though we've misjudged the portion size a little, none of us being used to cooking for three. There's still a large portion left over by the time we've eaten as much as we want and a bit more.

"Well, that's lunch for tomorrow sorted," my dad says, laughing. "And I suppose we know for next time."

My grandmother suggests playing cards in the evening. My dad and I don't know what we're getting into by agreeing: she's terrifyingly good at the games we play. I'm glad that we're not playing for anything more than bragging rights.

I do enjoy it, though, especially as I gradually figure out the strategy rather than just guessing the best card to play and being spectacularly wrong half the time. I can tell my dad is the same, and the games gradually become more evenly matched. There's nothing I can do about the occasional round of awful luck, unfortunately.

"I swear," my dad complains, "whatever stars watch over card games must hate me."

"It'll even out eventually," my grandmother replies with the smile of someone who's very much blessed by those stars.

"Sure it will."

We don't bother keeping score, but my dad definitely doesn't win as often as chance dictates he should. And while my grandmother might just be better than us, I'm not noticeably better than him. So I start to wonder if he has a point.

After an hour or so of that, my grandmother retires, pleading tiredness from her journey. My dad teasingly accuses her of trying to quit while she's ahead, but allows her to do so. And then it's me and my dad sitting awkwardly at the table together, not able to escape each other's company.

Which is fine, I tell myself firmly. A little awkward, sure, and not what I'm used to, but I can deal with that.

I spend the rest of the evening reading; thankfully I had the foresight to store the books I borrowed from the library somewhere that isn't my – my grandmother's room. So even though physical escape isn't possible, I can still mentally flee into the past.

So I'm startled when my dad's voice breaks my concentration by reminding me that it's nearly ten after noon and we should probably sleep soon. "Yeah," I agree reluctantly. "Fine."

I don't sleep particularly well, which is perhaps unsurprising: the sofa can never be as comfortable as a proper bed. But at least I didn't fall off it in the night as I was a little scared I might. And at least the lack of comfort makes it easier to get up.

My dad and I wake up at about the same time. I'm not sure if that's just coincidence or it's because we're in the same room and one of us moving woke the other. But we blink tiredly at each other until I manage to find words: "You can have the bathroom first."

Only logical, when he has work and I don't. While he does that, I disentangle myself from the blankets. More challenging than it's supposed to be, probably, especially while I'm still half-asleep. But I eventually separate myself from them and arrange them in some semblance of neatness on the sofa. Then I start some water boiling for our morning tea.

My dad finishes washing and dressing before that's done, and takes over preparing breakfast while I get dressed. I catch myself spending longer on my hair than I normally would; I guess I'm a little more self-conscious now that there's someone else living with us.

My grandmother still hasn't emerged from her room by the time we sit down to breakfast. My dad is anxious about that: he doesn't want to go to work without saying goodbye to her, but he also doesn't want to wake her up while she's still recovering from the journey and while it's the holidays.

"If it's the holidays," I say half-jokingly, "shouldn't you not be going to work?"

He laughs. "Not Holy Days proper yet. And the work has to be done. Simon's on my case about taxes and all the end-of-year paperwork we need to deal with."

I make vaguely sympathetic noises, even though I've never had to pay taxes. I'm sure I'll have that experience soon enough. I try not to think about how soon that might be or what I might end up doing. Denial is the only effective coping mechanism I've found for not knowing what I'm going to do after I become a qualified magician. And that's if I survive that long and don't fail my exams.

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