After a couple more laps of the lake, and by the time I’ve described the interior of the Regal as much as I can, we wander back indoors just in time for the afternoon’s lessons. One of which is taught by Electra. She’s every bit her usual self. I find myself wincing every time she directs a tough question or a harsh remark towards Elsie or Robin. They both seem okay, though. I wonder how much Electra knows about them. And then I regret letting my thoughts wander in her class as I scramble to recall a complex technical definition.

  Her class is the only one to teach much new content all day. I’ve decided that I am frustrated with it. Because it feels like a waste of time, when there are a thousand things I need to do that would be more useful to me than going over how to cast spells I already know. Or if nothing else I could be reading Georgiana’s diary.

  Edward feels the same way, when I mention it to him in between classes. That’s how he feels about most of our lessons. He says he deals with it by taking meticulously detailed notes (sometimes with snarky footnotes about how oversimplified the taught material is) and inventing more advanced versions of the exercises for himself. And sometimes just by trying to solve complex problems in his head or practice simultaneous casting without being seen.

  None of that helps me feel much better about the situation. I try taking more detailed notes, mentioning where topics link to other things I know or things I’m curious about, but all that does is make me realise how much extracurricular magic I could be learning and am not. I imagine it’ll get better – for me, at least, if not for Edward – after a few days.

  And finally it’s the evening, and time for another walk around the lake. The garden is even quieter than before, which is hardly surprising given that it’s dark enough you can’t even appreciate the scenery. I cup a light-spell in my hands, just bright enough that we can see where we’re going. It’ll draw attention to us both, but that can’t be helped. Hopefully no-one else is mad enough to be out here to see it. That risk is probably lower than the risk of walking into the lake without my light.

  So I tell Elsie everything Amara told me about oracles. I’m undoubtedly missing subtleties and crucial details, because I don’t really understand much of it. But I can remember almost everything, and I’ll just have to hope that’s enough.

  “Stars, Tallulah, how did you find this out?” Elsie asks after a while.

  “I – I can’t tell you.”

  “You – of course you can’t. Tell me you didn’t do anything reckless, and that you don’t owe anyone your first-born child.”

  “I don’t owe anyone my first-born child.” I laugh a little at the fanciful idea, but I understand what she’s really asking. What price did I pay for this knowledge? What have I sacrificed from her sake. “Seriously, though. It’s fine. The only price was secrecy.” And what Amara made me promise, to not repeat past mistakes, but I don’t think that’s anything I wouldn’t hold myself to regardless.

  “If you told me where to find your source…”

  Then I don’t think Elsie would have much luck. Amara only gave me as much as she did because of the colour of my skin and the strangeness of my magic. She has neither of those advantages.

  It does make me wonder, though: if Elsie understood her powers more, if she unlocked the gift of prophecy as Amara described it… would she be able to understand the anomaly? Could she give me the answers I so desperately need?

  Could I ask that of her? Could I trust her with what I know about it?

  I’m not going to say anything about it. Not yet. “I shouldn’t tell you,” I say. But she might well be able to work it out on her own. It wasn’t a hard deduction, that the fortune-teller who unlocked Elsie’s gift would know something about it.

  Elsie sighs. “Fine. Go on.”

  I do. It takes an hour or two before I’ve dredged up everything I remember, by which point I’m becoming numb with cold – another disadvantage of the light is that I can’t also maintain a warming-spell – and my voice is hoarse from so much talking. “We should go back,” I say, trying to stop my teeth from chattering.

  “Yes,” Elsie agrees. She’s shivering, too. I don’t know if she has a warming-spell: while she’s not maintaining another spell, she might not have learnt the warming-spell. I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t got sick of freezing to death while Edward was perfectly comfortable. I’m still a little jealous of his ability to simultaneously cast when it comes to things like this.

  “I need to think,” Elsie continues. “And to… experiment.”

  “I hope it helps,” I say, though the words feel hopelessly inadequate. “But – it might be best that you don’t tell me about your experiments. If someone overheard…”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She grimaces. At least, I think she does; my light-spell isn’t good enough that I can be confident in making out facial expressions. “If this is about what I wrote in that letter… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I know that now.”

  It is and it isn’t. I can’t really be angry at her for it, not when she’s the one who has to face the consequences of her mistake. But I don’t want her to repeat it. “It’s okay. But… we should be more careful. Both of us. I’m going to learn wardwork, and then we’ll have actual security.”

  Hopefully.

  “In the meantime,” Elsie laughs, “we have the security of being the only people crazy enough to be outdoors in the depths of a midwinter night.”

  Though that craziness disappears quickly now that I’ve told her everything, and we make our way back indoors and part ways. I stumble back to my dormitory and wriggle out of my warm coat, enjoying the feeling of warmth gradually returning to my body.

  The curtains of the bed next to mine twitch open and Robin pokes her head out. “You were outside?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, because there’s no point in denying it. “Went for a walk with Elsie.”

  “…in the dark?”

  “Well, we have classes most hours it’s light, so there wouldn’t be time.”

  “Did you consider the option of… not going for a walk?”

  I shrug. “What would be the point in that?”

  Robin laughs. “Fair. Well, hope you warm up quickly, and don’t stay up too late reading.”

  “I would never,” I blatantly lie.

  On this particular night, I don’t. By the time I’ve thawed out enough that my fingers are capable of turning pages, it’s late enough that I just want to sleep instead. So I change quickly and collapse into bed.

  I don’t sleep well. I think because of the cold, or just because I still haven’t got used to being here again rather than curled up on the sofa in my dad’s living room. I never thought I’d miss that, but it was much… cosier, more comforting. Maybe I just felt less alone.

  Regardless, I’m awake enough the next morning that making it down to breakfast isn’t too much of a struggle, and that Edward doesn’t remark on how tired I look. He just asks me where I was yesterday evening, and accepts the same half-truth I gave Robin.

  Then he shows me the newspaper headline. “And this is the woman you want to talk to,” he says.

  It’s Ariana Carling, now officially leader of the Parliamentary opposition, who presented as her first motion a plan to increase the taxes paid by the Siaril families.

  “That’s not an anti-Blackthorn proposal,” I say.

  “It’s not hard to frame it as one, if you don’t know my father,” he replies. “And it’ll be popular among her supporters, even if it doesn’t pass.”

  “Will it pass?” I ask.

  Edward shrugs. “Hard to predict. Depends on what the moderate wing of the King’s Party want. Though it might not matter, considering their new coalition partners are sure to be against it. But I think this is more a way of removing a thorn in her side.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, which of the United Reformists would detest the thought of voting for this motion?”

  Ah. “A certain Lady Cavendish,” I say.

  Edward nods. “She’s a liability to Carling, now that the gambit failed. She’s the opposite of what the Reformists stand for, and dangerously unstable besides.”

  Unstable. That’s a word I’m more used to hearing to describe Malaina. But it’s not wrong in this context. I wonder if Edward’s use of it was deliberate.

  “So if she doesn’t vote for this, then Carling has a pretext to remove her from the party?” I ask.

  “Precisely.”

  Ariana Carling throwing someone out of her party – even someone she never wanted there in the first place – without any justification could have her framed as a petty tyrant. Throwing someone out of her party for rebelling against its stance on their very first motion, though? That would just be preserving the party’s integrity.

  “Mildred could just vote for the motion, though,” I point out.

  “She would hate herself for it. Well, she would if she was capable of self-loathing. She would hate everything that drove her, a completely innocent victim of circumstance, to that point. And she’d lose any credibility she could hope for as an advocate for the Siaril families.”

  So the choices are equally awful for her. I’d almost pity Mildred, if it wasn’t for the fact it was her own choices that led her to this position.

  “I think,” I say, “we should be concerned.”

  Edward blinks. “Why?”

  “You remember what your father told me about her at the Regal?”

  “Oh,” says Edward flatly.

  Indeed. Cavendish is a wounded animal. And what does a wounded animal do when it’s cornered? She can’t do anything to hurt Ariana Carling, or Lord Blackthorn, not really. But she could hurt Edward, or me, or Robin, or Elsie. And I suspect she’s fast running out of reasons not to.

  “Yeah. I need to – “ I glance around the dining hall. There’s no sign of Elsie, but Robin and Elizabeth are sitting together at the next table along. I’m glad they’re together. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Where are you – “ Edward follows my gaze, realises I’m going to warn Robin, and that he can’t talk me out of it. “Fine,” he says grimly.

  “Tallulah!” says Robin once we’re close enough to speak. “What are you – “ she glances over to where Edward is now sitting alone.

  “I just wanted to tell you to be careful about Mildred,” I say.

  She laughs. “Because I would otherwise have treated her like she was my best friend.”

  “No – I mean – have you seen Carling’s motion?”

  Robin nods. Elizabeth asks what it is. I’ll let Robin explain later. “Edward and I think it’s a ploy to get Mildred removed from the United Reformists. We’re worried she could do something reckless in response, and you’re one of the people she might target.”

  “As are you,” she points out.

  “Yeah. I know. But – “ I suddenly feel awkward. “Be careful. I – I don’t want you getting hurt by her.”

  “If she does decide to… there’s not exactly much I can do, in response.”

  “I know,” I repeat. “But it’s better that you know, at least.”

  “I suppose,” Robin replies, unconvinced.

  I wish there was something I could do to help her. But I feel powerless. I suppose it would help to leave her alone, at least. So I wander, dismayed, back to my place with Edward.

  “Did it help you, to do that?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t trying to help myself. I was trying to help her. I’m not sure if it did anything. But at least she knows to be careful now.”

  Edward sighs. “I guess.”