He laughed, now, when people asked him if his lucks were magic, when people looked at him askance when he explained what he did. Numair made it a hobby, now, to throw some wild theory about his luck-working at him, usually over breakfast, and would grin when Thom spluttered his juice across the table or choked on his porridge.
Thom rather liked the theory that the lucks were compensation for growing up with Alanna, himself. It was wrong, but it made Alanna turn a lovely shade of purple whenever he brought it up.
No, Thom no longer questioned whether his lucks were magic or not. He was a luck-worker, that was all, and all good luck-workers know the secret of luck:
You make your own.