“What?” I’m hovering before him. “Smith, that’s not—”
“Your years of deception have come to an end!” he shouts. “You’ve done enough to hurt the World of Mages!”
HEADMISTRESS BUNCE
Don’t I have enough on my plate?
I know I’m not supposed to think that—I could never say it out loud—but for heaven’s snakes, could I just haveone daywhere nothing falls apart?
I have enough to manage, trying to keep the walls of Watford standing with scant resources and even less support. The Mage nearly ran this place into theground. . . The library was empty. The curriculum was a shambles. I’ve got eighth years who can’t cast a complete sentence and fourth years who only cast Internet memes. To think that my teachers thoughtpop songswere unstable—my own son brought down a classroom wall with a “Yeet.”
It was Pacey. He’s 17. And, frankly, the least of my problems.
I can say this with authority because I lie in bed most nights, ranking my list of problems—and ranking my list of problematic children. There are five of them; it’s a dynamic list.
Premal, my oldest, usually owns the top spot. Holed up in his room back in Hounslow, still grieving the Mage, almost two years after the man’s death—after Premal and Ifoundhim dead. I worry that Prem will never move on. I worry about what he’ll move onto.I worry that no one is bringing him dinner when I’m here at Watford . . .
Alternately, I worry that his 12-year-old sister, Priya,isbringing him dinner, hovering over him and mothering him in my place. I know that she mothers Pip, the youngest. I worry about Pip, too, because I can’t yetseehow I’m failing him.
And of course I worry about Penelope—always Penelope. Attached at the hip to the most dangerous person in England. And now bringing home stray Normals. Morgana, I can’t deal with it! I don’t know where to start!
I need a break . . . I need some help . . .
I don’t needthisfrom Martinnow.
He believes inthe Chosen One?
When did this happen? Martin is a scholar, an academic. He’s pragmatic. He believes infacts.It’s why I fell in love with him. Partly, anyway.
We’ve always laughed at magicians who lived their lives by prophecy. People like Davy, who trusted every superstition more than his own eyes and ears.
Is this because I left Martin alone?
I left for Watford, and I left him with the kids, and we agreed it would be fine, that he could handle it, because he didn’t have the Humdrum to track anymore. Pacey and Priya are at Watford with me for most of the year anyway—and Martin and I would still see each other on the weekend . . .
Martin and I have been married a long time.
We have a strong foundation.
Is this his midlife crisis? Joining a cult? Other people our age are coming out as bisexual or getting into Normal-style bread-making. (I would prefer either—or both.)
“Of course I’d like to be more powerful,”he said to me on the phone this morning.
I’d been complaining to him about this Smith Smith-Richards meeting—I have to stay at Watford anytime there’s an event here—and Martin said he knew all about it, that he was planning to attend.
“Why on earth?”I asked.“Are you writing a paper?”
“No.”His voice was quiet, careful. Martin’s voice is always quiet and careful.“I’ve been following Smith-Richards for a while.”
“Following like ‘keeping track’ or following like following?”
“He’s a good man, Mitali. He has extraordinary powers.”
“We all have extraordinary powers, Martin. It’s what makes us magicians.”
“Not all of us, dear.”
Then he told me that he’s been going to these meetings for months. That he’s befriended the people there—and befriended the man himself, the man who claims to be the Greatest Mage. (Martin and I don’t havefriends.We have colleagues. We have children. We haveeach other.)
