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boyish. But Miranda refused to be moved by it, and continued to level at him the glare she had honed through years of public balls and supper dances.
    Corwin bowed neatly from the waist, as if acknowledging her point. “The term most commonly applied to ones such as Darius and myself is ‘Sorcerer.’ ”
    Miranda did not permit her glare to soften one bit. “And what exactly does that mean?”
    “It means we are born with the capability of shaping and wielding the power of magic.”
    A fresh wave of uncertainty swept through her, but Miranda forced herself to stand against it. “I would say there is no such thing, but that would contradict the evidence of my senses. So, I must accept it. You ... both of you”—she glanced at Darius, who was still staring out the window at the darkened lawn—“are Sorcerers. You are working magic spells. What has that to do with me, and what happened to me tonight?”
    Darius opened his mouth, but Corwin raised his hand to cut him off.
    “Are you familiar with the theory of electricity?” asked Corwin.
    Miranda inclined her head. “My father was a man of science. He read me Dr. Franklin’s papers on the subject.”
    Corwin’s brows shot up in genuine surprise this time. “Excellent. Then you are perhaps aware that the electricity may be both generated and stored.”
    “I have heard something of it, yes.”
    “It is rather the same with the power of magic. Like electricity, magic is a natural occurrence. A Sorcerer carries a store of it inside himself on which he may draw to work his art. But that store is small, and can be quickly depleted. Much larger supplies of magic exist in the natural world. Some places, indeed, are huge reservoirs of power.”
    “Then why does not the Sorcerer draw on those?” Miranda asked.
    “They do,” replied Corwin. “But tapping nature’s reservoirs can be difficult, and time-consuming. It takes great skill and sometimes many years to create the tools necessary to reach it.”
    “You’re talking of magic wands and so forth?”
    “I am.” Corwin nodded. “And such tools are not always reliable. They can channel too much magic into the wielder, or not enough, or the shape and nature of their making can warp the spell. So, most Sorcerers prefer to rely on their own inner stores of magic, or on a Catalyst.”
    “And what, pray, is that?”
    “A Catalyst is a person who can naturally attract and channel the magic of the world around them, as one of Dr. Franklin’s lightning rods channels the lightning.
    “You, Miranda Prosper, are a Catalyst.”
    Miranda hesitated, uncertain she could trust her voice. “Are you attempting to tell me I am not human?”
    “No. You are as human as we ourselves.”
    “You should perhaps have chosen a better example.”
    Corwin glanced over to Darius with something like a plea for help. Darius just shrugged and waved his hand, both gestures plainly saying, “You got yourself into this; you can get yourself out.”
    Corwin sighed with exaggerated patience. “You are perfectly human, Miranda. You are simply blessed with a particular talent. If you had been a born opera singer, or mathematician, it would be the same.”
    “No, I don’t think it would.” Miranda knotted her fingers together. “Is that why you ... came to me? Because I am this thing, this ... Catalyst?”
    For the first time since they had begun this strange conversation, Corwin stepped toward her. “I came to you, Miranda, because I was in need.” He reached out and took her hand, threading his fingers gently through hers. “I needed the strength I knew you could give me.”
    His voice was soft, and all humor gone from it. His hand against hers reminded her of all the other touches, the ones that had awakened and inflamed her. She swallowed and made herself meet his dark gaze.
    “Was the ... the ... sexual act ... necessary?”
    “Not strictly,” Corwin admitted. “But it is the swiftest and surest means for the Catalyst to