I receive Tara’s reply to my letter the next morning. She’s talked to Simon and my dad about the latest developments. My dad wants it known for the record that he’s against proceeding with this case, but acknowledges that he has no power to stop us. Simon doesn’t object as long as we’re reasonably sure it won’t have negative consequences for Roberts and Bryant.

  Tara herself is… conflicted, from what I can gather. She writes that it would be more pragmatic in many ways to choose a different case, but that what we’re trying to do is not in any way pragmatic. Given the concerns Edward raised, she doesn’t feel comfortable proceeding without knowing Lord Blackthorn doesn’t object and ideally consulting him or someone else who understands politics better than either of us.

  And I’m the one who has to talk to him. She doesn’t say that, but it’s obvious: unlike Tara, I know him, and he tolerates me more than he does most people. Besides, he’ll hopefully be glad I’m asking rather than just going ahead without bothering to consult him. That might be wishful thinking.

  Still, it has to be done. I can’t very well write to him to ask his opinion, because the knowledge that I’m planning to do this with his input would just give ammunition to those who’d want to argue that it’s politically motivated.

  So I just mention to Edward, when I emerge from the post room to get breakfast, that I’d like it if he could arrange a meeting with Lord Blackthorn about the project. And hope that Lord Blackthorn doesn’t decide this is worth interrupting my classes or sleep for.

  He nods absently; he’s scanning the newspapers for details of the fallout of Mildred’s resignation and any new policy announcements he finds relevant. I’m not sure I want to know what he defines as relevant. I take a copy of the Herald and page through it myself, since I’m not going to get much conversation out of him.

  Most of the news is still focused on the opening of Parliament and the largely ceremonial duties it’s been performing for the last few days. Other than that, there’s talk of the King approving plans to refurbish the buildings of the Central Ring (the Academy isn’t mentioned, but I do wonder about it), and the inevitable speculation on the health of the High Princess and when she plans to withdraw from official duties in advance of her child’s birth.

  I do find the profiles of the ministers and other figures of importance in the new government interesting, though. I imagine Edward would have skipped it because he already knows all the information it contains. But while I’m reasonably informed about politics, there are still unfamiliar names in the list. And I’m becoming increasingly aware that reasonably informed just isn’t good enough for what I want to do.

  Lord Blackthorn isn’t the only relative of one of my classmates to feature in the list. The new defence minister is one Angelica Wilde. Some relation of Robin’s, clearly, though I don’t know her family tree well enough to be exactly sure. Only that Robin wouldn’t be in line to inherit much of anything or play an active role in politics herself, even if she were on good terms with the rest of them. I don’t think she’s too bothered by that.

  Angelica, according to her profile, believes in a notion of careful, guarded peace, in armies and weapons and powerful magics as deterrents. She’s neutral on most political matters, though she acts to preserve the power and influence of her own family where necessary. There’s speculation that she wants Lord Blackthorn’s job, which she denies (but of course she would).

  There’s nothing in the profile about whether it was her idea to have Robin spy on Edward. I imagine she would have known about it, at least, and approved of it. That makes me dislike her, regardless of her politics or of her apparent attempts to position herself and her family as rivals to the Blackthorns.

  “Oh,” says Edward, glancing up from his own reading and seeing what I’m looking at. “Her.”

  “You have an opinion on her?” I ask.

  “I have my dad’s opinion. Which is that she’s less corrupt than most, but not as competent as she’d like to think.”

  “Do you agree with that?” I ask, more because his phrasing bothers me a little than out of interest.

  Edward shrugs. “He knows her far better than I do.”

  That answer doesn’t satisfy me, but I wasn’t expecting a satisfactory answer. My problem, I realise, is that he’s taking his father’s opinion as a kind of sacred truth. That he can’t seem to conceive of a world in which Lord Blackthorn is wrong.

  And what does that mean for my hopes of someday being able to tell him things I could never tell his father? I do not like the answer to that question.

  I ignore my discomfort, swallow another spoonful of porridge, turn the page of the newspaper.

  We’re finally moving onto new topics in classes, which is good. Well, mostly; in Enchantments, the “new topic” is conditional enchantments, which I taught myself last term under Edward’s direction. I didn’t realise at the time just how far that knowledge would put me ahead of my classmates. I guess spending so much time with Edward has skewed my standards.

  But we’re working on more advanced potion-brewing techniques in Alchemy. Even Edward doesn’t get them straight away. I suspect he’s done comparatively little work on it compared to the other subjects, because he doesn’t see alchemy as proper magic.

  It means he and I are in the same position for once, learning something completely new. And… he’s still better than me at just absorbing and retaining information, at putting theory into practice. I shouldn’t be surprised, really. And I certainly shouldn’t be a little disappointed.

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  But, secretly, I am. Even if I also hate myself a little for it.

  Edward makes me return to wardwork that evening. Well, he doesn’t make me as such. I’m sure that if I told him I wanted to go and read Georgiana’s diary instead, he’d shrug and let me. But I’m also sure he’d be sad. And I wouldn’t be happy either, for all I want to bury myself in the diary and not emerge for weeks.

  Quite apart from wanting to have fairly secure conversations without having to resort to walking around the lake in the freezing cold and darkness, I’ve made a commitment to this. It’s something I’ll need, and something I’ll regret not doing.

  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Thankfully, the work itself is absorbing enough that it’s easier once I get started. But after five failed attempts and chalk-stains on my fingers, I grow frustrated.

  “Let’s change direction a bit,” says Edward. “What exactly is a ward?”

  Ah. Theory. I should have known it wouldn’t be too long before he dragged my attention in that direction. I’m sceptical about how helpful I’ll find this, but I’m also a little curious despite myself, so I consider the question. I’m surprised to find that I don’t immediately have a good answer. I have a lot of examples, and some knowledge of their uses, but that doesn’t equal a definition.

  After thinking for half a minute, I answer tentatively “A magic that has a lasting effect and is tied to a… place?” I’m not sure exactly what word I mean there. But I want something that encompasses a building, or a room, or an entire city, or just the interior of a chalk circle, without being too broad and including magics that are better considered as enchantments.

  “Not bad,” Edward replies thoughtfully. “The notion of place is vague at best, though. The standard way of theorising it is as the interior of some boundary, which may be physical or metaphysical in nature. Of course, mathematically speaking the choice of which side of a boundary is the interior is effectively arbitrary, but in practice there is generally only one sensible choice.”

  “Say that again in Rasina.”

  “Fine.” Edward grabs a piece of parchment and a quill, and sketches a rough circle. “This circle is a boundary. Normally we’d say the area inside it – “ he gestures with the quill, letting a drop of ink fall into the circle’s centre – “is the interior, and the rest of the paper is the exterior. But we could just as well say it’s the other way round, and everything here – “ now he gestures to a corner of the paper – “is inside and this part is outside.”

  “…why would you want to do that?”

  “Exactly. You wouldn’t, in most applications. But it’s important to remember that that’s a choice that’s being made. And if for some stars-forsaken reason you made the other choice when working on practical magic…”

  “…you’d be trying to apply the effects of a ward to the whole world except the area of your little chalk circle. Which is a bad idea.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Edward agrees. “Of course, for some wards your choice of orientation is irrelevant, because you merely want to prevent an effect from spreading between the two.”

  “The no-entry – no, that’s not an example. Because you can still leave the area of effect.”

  “Yes. Though it could be modified to make it an example, with little theoretical complication – in fact, perhaps making the theoretical formulation simpler.”

  He’s implying that there are practical difficulties. I don’t know if I want to dig into those. “So… what would be an example?” I ask.

  “The first one that occurs to me is the City’s anti-teleportation wards: you can teleport between locations within the City, and you can teleport between locations outside, but you can’t teleport from inside to outside, or outside to inside. Though those wards are… a special case, and one I’ve studied extensively.”

  Because the Royal Magicians are responsible for maintaining those wards. Which means that someday, Edward will be. And he takes his responsibilities – or future responsibilities – seriously.

  “That makes sense,” I reply.

  I let him talk about theory for a little longer. It means I don’t have to get any more chalk on my fingers – I didn’t realise until today how much I disliked the feeling – and I don’t have to fail again. I’m not sure how much it’ll help me succeed whenever I next try, though. I think it does help me to have some form of intuition helping me to understand the magic I’m trying to do, but it’s not the same theoretical, mathematical, rigorous “intuition” Edward relies on.

  I’m not sure what exactly it is. I find that question more intriguing than the one Edward is discussing of how wards source their power, and it distracts me a little. But what he’s saying is also interesting.

  “If I were to say wards combine the strengths of enchantment and ritual, what would you think I meant?” Edward asks.

  I blink. That probably would have been easier to answer if I had listened to his last couple of sentences. I wonder if he knew my attention was wandering, and that’s why he asked.

  “The main strength of enchantments is that… they don’t need a magician to maintain them? Which is – at least to some extent – true of wards?”

  “True. Though to some extent is vague. What extent do you mean?”

  “The wards will keep working even if they’re not actively maintained by a magician. But… some wards can be adjusted and activated, which does need work. Or… if you want to modify a complex system?”

  “I suppose that’s good enough, for now.”

  High praise, from him.

  “And rituals?”

  I grimace. I know far less about rituals than enchantments. I’ve never performed a ritual, or seriously studied how one would be performed. My knowledge is only a few things I’ve heard from Edward, and the ideas I’ve absorbed over the years from books and newspaper articles. What is the purpose of rituals? In stories, it’s to make dark sacrifices and deals for power. In reality, I doubt it’s that. I try to remember what I’ve heard Edward talking about.

  “Rituals are a way of… amplifying power?”

  “In a way,” Edward says. “More specifically, they allow magical power to be drawn from the ambience in a probably harmless way, which would not be possible with a spell.”

  “And wards also do that,” I say, trying not to pay attention to the word probably.

  “Precisely.”

  There’s silence for a moment. Ideas are taking form in my mind. “This seems,” I say thoughtfully, “too good to be true.”

  “I don’t think that’s accurate,” Edward replies, “but we haven’t yet discussed weaknesses of wards. So now seems a good time to do that.”

  “They can be broken,” I say immediately. “Which is part of the point of these sessions.”

  “In what ways can wards be broken, then?” Edward asks.

  It’s frustrating, this way of teaching. Sometimes I wish he’d just give me the answers. Because I don’t know. But I set aside that frustration and try to remember everything I’ve picked up about ward-breaking. “You once mentioned something called the Explosion Theory,” I say. “If you want to break a ward on a building, blow up a wall of the building.”

  “Yes. It’s a crude phrasing, but it’s true. Why does this work?”

  “Because… the ward is tied to the boundary,” I realise. “So if you break the boundary, you break the ward.”

  “Yes. Now that works well enough when the boundary is entirely physical, but for more metaphysical examples…”