It’s a pure love; appreciation, adoration, lust, honour, all. Shyan, Fassn, Cang, Abianarin, and the peasants love the floorboards, the deer’s head mounted over the fireplace (which they love), the shutters and the ceiling beams and the dew on their emptied mugs of grog.
Abianarin blinks against the enchantment. Her cells alight with interest. She loves the alchemist for making possible this probing sensation. She wants to know its source, the manner of its potency. She loves that she wants to know.
“So you see,” the alchemist says, “I’m an alchemist.”
The team loves this.
“And I’m buying,” she continues.
They love this even more. She names her price. They love it.