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Elliott listened. Silas drank from his cup again, and this time, he swallowed too much at once, so that the tea did burn a bit on the way down.

“It’s like she doesn’t get what a gift it is to do what you all can do,” Silas said. “Like she’s afraid of it or something. I mean, to go to school here—”

“Margaret didn’t attend Emberwind Academy,” Elliott said, his voice low.

Silas’s eyes snapped up. “What?”

“She didn’t go here,” Elliott said, setting down his cup. “And the rest of it, I’m afraid, is not for me to share. But I will say this. Magic is not something that should be wielded without thought and care. It is pliable in the hands of those who respect it. It does not appear the same way in each person. And our understanding of how magic can and should be wielded has changed considerably in recent years. Some, like myself, maintain a more open mind about its practices. But when Margaret was a child . . .”

Elliott shook his head.

“The point is that there is much about Miss Nettle that you do not know,” Elliott said. “And while I applaud your willingness to help her, I urge you not to judge her without knowing more. She may surprise you with her answers.”

“But that’s the thing,” Silas said. “Every time I think she’s closer to sharing with me, she shuts down. Even with Liza—”

“Liza is Margaret’s dearest friend,” Elliott said. “One who has known Margaret since they were children. But have you considered that some things might be better if told to you by Margaret herself? That she may want to tell her own story, rather than having you rely on her friend’s account of her?”

Silas hadn’t considered this. The way Liza put it, Margaret was a no on so many issues that had been pushed in the past and weren’t worth pushing again. But at the same time . . . Silas had fixed the roof because his heart had told him it was the right thing to do. Maybe Margaret would get angry if he asked about things. Or maybe she wouldn’t.

“The best advice,” Elliott said, eyes twinkling, “is to simply ask, my boy.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The opening of Fox Bar arrived with an explosion, one that quite literally shook the ground that Margaret was standing on. At first, she wondered if another kurlop had gotten into the pub, but no. When she looked out her window, she saw Patrick Kerrigan and several other sorcerers standing outside the newly opened bar, fireworks roaring forth from each of their wands to detonate in the sky. The resulting sparks glittered in red, silver, gold, and blinding white as they took the forms of hippogriffs flying through the sky, of dragons roaring and casting fire, of Santa Claus aboard his sleigh soaring through the air. The fireworks also twisted and changed at the end, charmed to transform into gilded invitations that tumbled down into the eager hands of those who had stopped to watch the stunning display.

Margaret looked around the pub. Silas had been here earlier with her, tending to the record player to ensure that the music sounded pure as honey as it flowed out. The entire time, Bernie had either swooped around Silas’s head or settled on his shoulder. Now, the creature was in the window next to Margaret, and she could’ve sworn they were both glaring at the ghosts of the fireworks still left in the sky.

“We’ll see you all tonight!” Patrick called, then let a roll of gleaming parchment burst from his wand to float in the sky just outside the bar. With his wand, he painted letters in red and green: Grand Opening Tonight!

“Ugh,” said a voice from inside the bar. “Can’t you do anything about the smoke?”

It was Imogen. It didn’t matter that the pub didn’t officially open for another hour. Once the girl had deduced that knocking on the door meant that Margaret would assume she was Wyatt and open it to let her in—and that Margaret wasn’t quite rude enough to turn the girl away once she realized she was not—she had taken to haunting the door and knocking until Margaret granted her access. Her friends, thankfully, did not join her, and it seemed like they’d gone away for the holidays, leaving Imogen alone.

“No,” Margaret said, coughing. All the windows and the door were closed, but smoke was seeping in nonetheless.

“Disgusting,” Imogen said, getting out her own wand and flicking it in the air. Instantly, the smoke cleared, and Margaret could breathe again.

Imogen raised her eyebrow. “You could say thank you.”

“I didn’t ask you to clear it,” Margaret said.

“So, you only thank people for things you ask them to do?”

“No,” Margaret said, rethinking whether she could be rude.

Imogen sighed. “You’re so annoying.”

“Pardon?” Margaret snapped, now really rethinking her kindness. “I believe I’m the one letting you be here before we open.”

Imogen shrugged. “I could be somewhere else.”

“And yet,” Margaret snapped.

They were at a stalemate. Imogen pouted her lips and crossed her arms before tossing her hair over her shoulder. The tilt of her chin was a clear dare for Margaret to tell her to leave.

Margaret nearly did it. After all, the girl was just killing time before going to the opening of Fox Bar, wasn’t she? Still, if it was going to be an emptier night—Margaret didn’t want to believe it would be, but after the fireworks, she had her worries—she might as well make money off a paying customer while she could.

“Would you like something to eat?” Margaret asked. “I was going to make myself a sandwich.”