I warn Elsie as well, once she appears in the dining hall and joins me and Edward. Though I think she might be in a different kind of danger to the rest of us. Because Mildred still sees her as a potential follower, rather than a sworn enemy.

  “But… why would she join the Reformists in the first place?” Elsie asks. “If she hates their policies.”

  It’s a reasonable question. Mildred is not a reasonable person. “Because she wanted to be relevant. Important. Powerful. And she thought that if Carling’s gambit worked, it would offer her that.”

  Elsie stares blankly at me. “That’s… stupid.”

  “Yup,” says Edward.

  I think I see her problem. She thinks it’s stupid enough that she couldn’t imagine someone doing it. Especially not Mildred, who is not stupid, whatever else she may be.

  “You think Ariana Carling manipulated her?”

  I shrug. “Probably. To some extent. It’s hard to be sure.” I don’t entirely want to know, either. Though it would probably be useful, to have a better understanding of what Carling is capable of.

  Classes that day are unremarkable, even Countering Magical Effects. Electra is nicer than usual, which makes me a little uneasy. I’m not the only one; Edward confidently predicts that she’ll have a surprise test or some brutal practical exercises in store for us next lesson.

  I have lunch with Robin, as I promised her I would. It’s a little awkward, especially since I can’t help being conscious of Edward’s eyes boring into me from across the dining hall. After a while the conversation turns to her asking me questions about my family, about my childhood, and eventually more personal things.

  “I’ve heard of Genford,” she says. “Some noble families send their daughters there, if they don’t want to pay for tutors. Not the Siaril families, though. Education looks a little different when you know the child will become a magician.”

  “That makes sense,” I agree, thinking of the advantages those families have. Of how different my life would be if I had been able to prepare for the last few months.

  “Did you like it there?”

  My first instinct is to laugh bitterly, and my second to give a polite lie or half-truth. I suppress both and pause. “No,” I say. “I never belonged there.” The admission is a little scary, but also freeing.

  “And yet now you’re… with Edward.”

  “Would you say Edward is similar to your average rich girl?”

  She laughs. “I suppose not. It just seems unlikely.” She’s right, but it still stings a little to hear her say that. “How did you two become friends in the first place?”

  I pause, wondering for the first time what her motive for all these questions is. Whether she’s still looking for information about Edward. Half-truths it is, I decide. “He was the first student I met here. And I was probably the first student he met here who wasn’t… well.”

  “From one of the Siaril families.”

  “Yeah. I guess we just stuck together because of that, to make things less awkward, in the beginning. And then we realised we kind of liked each other’s company.”

  In reality it was probably a lot more Electra’s scheming that initially brought us together, and gave us what in stars’ names is this woman doing and how concerned should we be? in common. But I don’t want Robin connecting us to Electra and wondering what exactly she found interesting about us. Even though that particular incident has nothing to do with the anomaly.

  Robin shrugs. “Fair enough. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked about Edward, given the circumstances.”

  I don’t reply, because I can’t honestly tell her that it’s fine.

  “If it’s not too personal – were you bullied, at Genford? Is that why…”

  Why you Fell? That might be a little too personal. “I wasn’t bullied. But I was… excluded, I think.”

  There was the occasional mean remark, yes, but people didn’t go out of their way to be nasty to me. It was more that most people there barely acknowledged my existence. All the conversations about luxurious enchanted goods my family could never afford. All the slacking off on tests when I always knew I couldn’t do that and stay at Genford. All the parties no-one bothered to invite me to.

  “It was just…” I pause, trying to think how to explain that in a few simple words. “Everyone else there was so different from me. They lived in a different world, almost. And no-one cared enough to try and include me in it.”

  “You know what it’s like, then. To be the one who’s always left out. To be the one no-one notices and cares about.”

  I understand a little better why she was asking so many questions, hearing that. “I do. Yes.”

  “That explains some things.”

  Why I’m sitting with her now, she means, instead of with Edward and the others. Why I’m not giving up on her despite what she did. Is that the explanation? I hadn’t thought about it in that way before. But I suppose in some ways it is. If I hadn’t been through that, would I have noticed how she felt in the Regal, and done something about it?

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  She might be right. But part of me hopes she isn’t. Because I want to believe that people can try to help others without having experienced the same problems. Because it makes me a little sad, to see how she’s desperately searching for an explanation for something that shouldn’t need explanation.

  In the evening, for the first time since I got back, I don’t have anything urgent to do. Well, that probably depends how I’m defining urgent. But I have some amount of choice in what I do next, at least.

  I decide that I should start on my research of Ernest Hampton and his nephew, the man who killed John. I want some understanding of exactly how much influence they have, and of who their enemies are. I hate the idea that something like this could become just another turn in the endless political game. But stars, if that’s what it takes to get justice, to start something that could become real change… I’m prepared to play.

  If my actions – well, Tara’s, more likely – are going to have political repercussions, I ought to talk to Lord Blackthorn about it first. I don’t particularly want to, but after the Regal I’ll probably have to compromise with him more. I’m hoping that the more I give him what he wants when it’s not that important to me, the more I’ll be able to go against him when it matters.

  Not that any amount of credibility I build up will be enough if he finds out my secrets.

  But anyway… the Academy library’s weakness is that it doesn’t have that many recent books on topics other than magic, and in particular tells me nothing about Ernest Hampton. So I’ll have to find other sources. The City Library will probably have what I need, but finding a time when it’s open and I’m not in classes is another challenge. Which means I have to turn to my consultant on political matters.

  “Edward. Tell me everything you know about Ernest Hampton.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “No. But you’re not talking me out of it.”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything that will reflect negatively on the Blackthorns with this?”

  “It would be hard for me to do anything that would make your family’s reputation worse than, you know, your father is doing.”

  “I’m serious, Tallulah.”

  “Fine. I promise.”

  “Good. What do you want to know?”

  I’ve thought before that Edward is utterly disinterested in politics. He’s not. He’s studied it extensively – somehow, despite the fact he’s spent most of his life studying magic – and he knows about more or less every notable political figure from the last three decades. Including quite a bit of information that isn’t strictly public, which means he has to be careful what exactly he tells me. He understands how Parliament works, he has his thoughts on the political dramas currently unfolding and their implications.

  He just doesn’t want anything to do with it. It’s an academic exercise, a curiosity, someone else’s problem, a waste of time that could be better spent on magic.

  But he’s happy to help me, at least, and in that way I get a lot of the information I need. The only struggle is getting him to slow down enough for me to take notes. I realise as he talks just how much I don’t know about recent politics. After the time I’ve spent in Georgiana’s company, I’m probably better equipped to talk about the political situation leading up to the Second Civil War than about the political situation right now.

  But someday this will be history, too. I wonder what future historians will make of Carling’s attempt to form a minority government. An exercise in futility, or a sign of things to come? What issues will they focus on, when they’re writing about the political conflicts of the early 1040s?

  While that’s an interesting question to ponder, it’s not relevant to the problem I have at the moment, which is trying to understand what Edward is telling me. Ernest Hampton is retired from politics now, but he’s still a well-respected figure.

  A friend of the King, so Edward tells me. He doesn’t need to remind me that when the King is the highest court of appeal, that could make things a lot harder. Or that many lords and nobles let their opinions on most matters be determined by the King’s. And his only real political enemies were the most ardent of the Reformists.

  It doesn’t look good. But there is one flicker of hope. “Some of these Reformists are still active in politics?” I ask.

  “A few. The only one still doing anything of note would be one Victor Wilson.”

  “I’ve heard the name somewhere before,” I say. “He’s a spokesperson for the United Reformists now?”

  “On education,” Edward agrees. “He was deputy leader of a smaller reformist party until he defected to the United Reformists about six months ago. Which, by what I’m sure is a complete coincidence, is around when Ariana Carling first became a notable figure.”

  “You don’t think it’s a complete coincidence,” I say.

  “Not many people do,” he agrees. “He’s one of the prime candidates for the power behind Carling’s throne.”

  “Do you think he is that?” I ask.

  Edward hesitates for a long moment. “My opinion on that question is biased by non-public information. So I shouldn’t comment.”

  I sigh. “Fine. But you think he’d want something like this to become public? If it became a scandal about Ernest Hampton?”

  “Oh, absolutely. It would be a major victory for him and the Reformists. A major blow against the establishment. Which is exactly why you can’t work with him.”

  “…you might need to spell that out for me in more detail.” I could probably work it out for myself, given enough time, but I know Edward is going to want to say it anyway. So this is quicker.

  “If the King supports his friend, then those who break this scandal and use it as a political weapon would earn his disfavour.”

  “Which would include me.” That’s not ideal. It’s a bit of a scary thought, honestly. But if I’m honest, it doesn’t immediately make me want to abort the whole idea.

  “Yes. And you are known to be my friend. Which means your only real connection to politics is through the Blackthorns. Which means that your actions will inevitably be connected to those of the Blackthorns.”

  “…which means that the King will be annoyed at your father?”

  “If that’s the way you insist on phrasing it, yes. And that? Cannot be allowed to happen.”

  I blink. I’m vaguely aware that with the number of enemies Lord Blackthorn has, the only way he still has a job is that the King is not among that number. I just hadn’t realised my actions had the power to jeopardise that. I still can’t quite believe that’s the case, even hearing Edward spell it out.

  “So… what do you propose I do instead?” I ask.

  “Well, ideally I’d suggest choosing a case with fewer political associations, but…”

  But he doesn’t think I’d listen to that suggestion. And he’s not entirely wrong. Practically speaking it does make sense to pick my battles, to focus on Malaina rather than the reputation of a former Prime Minister. At the same time, though, I feel as if not fighting this particular battle is a concession to the idea that power and influence are more important than law and morality.

  “…it should be fine if you’re very deliberately apolitical about it. No working directly with this Victor, and if he or the Reformists try to use it for political points – “

  “This isn’t about politics,” I say. “It’s about the fact a boy was unjustly killed.”

  “Exactly.”

  That’s not true, not really. I’m learning that everything is political. But it’s close enough to the truth that I can live with it.