I dream of Georgiana. Except not, because the girl in my dreams has an older brother, who’s Edward. They adore each other, but Edward confides in her far more than he should, far more than any seven-year-old could handle, even one as precocious as Georgiana is. She lets something slip to their father – I’m not quite sure whether he’s the present or past Lord Blackthorn, though he’s definitely an intimidating figure – and Edward is in trouble because of that.

  I wake halfway through his attempts to defend himself, wondering if this is a metaphor. If I’m Georgiana, out of my depth not because of my age but because I’m so new to magic and politics and everything Edward’s grown up knowing. If I’m going to make a mistake that has consequences for him.

  If he should be trusting me and relying on me as much as he does.

  It’s still the middle of the night, as I discover by looking out of the tiny bathroom window and seeing the stars. It brings to mind a line of a song or poem, something about Esteral night or Esteral light. But that’s wrong, because Esteral night is tomorrow, not today.

  I shrug and pad back to the living room, still not entirely awake. I’m clumsy in this state, so it takes me several attempts to wrap myself in blankets, but once that’s done I easily slip back into sleep.

  The next time I wake up, it’s morning. Which doesn’t make me any keener to get up. I lie still for a few minutes before accepting that I won’t be able to fall asleep again. By then my dad is stirring, and I watch him for a second before deciding it feels weird to watch my dad wake up and dragging myself to the bathroom again.

  By the time I’m back my grandmother has emerged from her room and is making breakfast. “Morning,” I say as I stumble into the kitchen. “Happy Esteral.”

  “And a miraculous Esteral to you too,” she replies, smiling.

  Esteral is occasionally known as the Day of Miracles, mostly by those who want consistency in the names of the Holy Days. That doesn’t really work, though, because there’s no constellation called the Miracle. The day has no constellation, in fact, and is sacred to all of the stars equally.

  I don’t like the name. Because I don’t think I believe in miracles. Oh, magic can do things that look miraculous, but they’re not. They require knowledge and effort on the part of the magician. Calling something a miracle feels like it’s ignoring human achievement.

  I’m not sure whether that applies to the original miracle, the Mages’ resurrection of the boy who would one day become Charles First-King. It might not. If it were possible for someone to be resurrected by magic, surely that would have happened more than once in all of recorded history.

  If it was a real resurrection – not some form of trickery, or healing from a near-death state – it must have been something that only the Mages could do. Maybe something like that could be called a miracle.

  I’m not awake enough for this kind of philosophising, I decide, and offer to help with breakfast instead.

  My grandmother announces that she’ll be spending the morning in private prayer and contemplation once breakfast has been eaten. That’s a common thing for the devout to do on Esteral. It makes me feel a little as if I should do the same, despite the fact I’m far from devout. But that thought is unfair to her, and I ignore it.

  It does raise more practical concerns, though. “You’d be doing that in the bedroom, right?”

  “Yes?”

  “Because some of my things are in there still. And I need to pack.”

  I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m going back to the Academy tomorrow. It doesn’t feel quite real.

  “There should be time in the afternoon for that, shouldn’t there?” my dad asks, ever the diplomat.

  “…probably.” Mostly I just want to get it over with so I don’t have it hanging over me all day. But there’s no real reason I can’t just pack in the afternoon, and it would be mean to my grandmother not to do that. “I’ll do that, then.”

  My grandmother thanks me and retreats to the bedroom, leaving me alone at the kitchen table with my dad.

  “Well,” he says. “Last day.”

  “Last day,” I agree.

  “I’ll miss you,” he says. “Really. I didn’t realise how lonely this place felt until I wasn’t alone any more.”

  “I’ll miss you too. Really.” I don’t know what I want to say next. Can’t find the words.

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  “I’ll file the divorce suit in a day or two, I suppose. I don’t know how she’ll take it. The paperwork should take about a month to process, if she doesn’t contest it. Longer if she does. But I don’t think the courts should have a problem with what I’m asking for, even if she does.”

  It’s been surprisingly easy to forget about my mother here. I think part of what worried me about coming home was that I’d be haunted by her, and that hasn’t been the case at all. But she’s still my father’s wife, at least for now.

  “Once that’s done I’ll be able to afford to live somewhere with more than one bedroom. So hopefully when you come back for spring break it’ll be to a much nicer place.”

  “I don’t mind this place,” I say. “Well, I’d rather neither of us have to spend the whole of spring break sleeping on the sofa. But other than that.”

  “We would both benefit from more space and comfort. Because wherever I end up living, it’ll be your home as well. For as long as you need it.”

  “Thank you.” It seems inadequate. I don’t know what else to say.

  “Write to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “And once the divorce is settled, I’ll be able to afford the portal toll to visit you on occasion. And – do you need money? If – “

  “It’s fine. I’ve got some coins saved, and I barely spend anything. But thank you for offering.” If I do end up in financial trouble, if I’m really desperate, I know Edward would give me whatever I needed without a second thought. But I don’t think saying that to my dad is a good idea.

  “If you say so. But if that changes, please tell me. And – look after yourself, okay? Don’t do anything dangerous. And make sure to sleep.”

  I laugh to cover up the awkward mix of emotions that I’m flooded with. I’ve survived this far, I don’t need his fussing – or maybe I kind of do, because I do not trust myself to get enough sleep without him there and with the temptation of Georgiana’s diary – but at the same time, he’s doing it because he cares about me and wants me to be safe and happy, and I appreciate that more than words can express.

  “Sleep is important. Got it. I’ll do my best not to end up in danger, but danger may have other plans for me.”

  “Not helping.”

  “Sorry. But – I can’t pretend it won’t. I’ll be okay. I have friends there. I have people I trust.”

  By which I mean Edward Blackthorn, mostly, which is also probably not remotely reassuring to my dad. But the thought that Edward will be there works to reassure me.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he says flatly. I sense he’s not entirely convinced, and I can hardly blame him given that I haven’t even fully convinced myself. But I have to go back. And stars, I want to go back.

  I pass the morning reading more of Georgiana’s diary. It’s a way of saying a temporary goodbye to her, because I know I won’t be able to spend much time with her in the next few days. I can’t read it on the coach, not in the presence of so many strangers. And then once I get back to the Academy there’ll be so many other things I need to do, so many people I need to talk to, that I’m not sure when I’ll have time to myself again.

  I suppose that’s the price of these last few weeks.

  My dad takes advantage of my grandmother’s seclusion to make lunch. He accepts my help, and I take the opportunity to bring up the strange dynamic about food between him and his mother.

  “Too many cooks, I suppose,” he says. “We both have our ways of doing things, and those ways don’t always agree, and we’re both too stubborn to change. The best way of dealing with that is just to stay out of each other’s way.”

  That doesn’t explain the whole of it, the way it’s become a competition without actually being a competition. I feel a little bad for the amount of delicious food I’ve had in the last few days compared to the effort I’ve put into producing it. At some point I’ll need to properly learn to cook.

  After we’ve eaten, I return to the bedroom to pack. It’s not as bad as I feared. The lack of most furniture means that I never really unpacked that much; most of my things are still in my trunk. Tracking down the remaining items and making sure I don’t accidentally pack anything I’ll need before tomorrow only takes an hour or so, and a fair portion of that is that I get paranoid about whether I’ve completed all my homework and have to check through my pile of papers to make sure everything is there.

  What’s left – paper and quills, the diary, clothes – can probably fit in my satchel, so I bolt the trunk firmly shut and return it to its spot under the bed. I’ll fetch it once my grandmother is awake tomorrow morning. I should check that we’re still planning to travel part of the way together, actually. It’ll be nice to not be travelling alone. Though really, I’ll be happy with the journey if we can just avoid ending up stranded in a haunted forest again.

  I remember then that I need something to read in the coach that isn’t Georgiana’s diary, and – oh, stars, I’ve completely forgotten the various books I got from Crelt’s library before Edward’s books arrived and made them seem almost worthless in comparison, and I need to return them before I leave –

  I’m sure my dad would be allowed to return them on my behalf. But I don’t want to make him go to that trouble, and I don’t have any other plans for the afternoon. I might as well. I throw the spare rolls of parchment and my new quills out of the satchel, and replace them with the books that need to be returned. Thankfully the bag is heavy-duty enough that all of them fit without any difficulty.

  “I’m going to return library books,” I announce. “Either of you need anything?”

  “No, thank you,” says my grandmother.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” my dad adds. “Be careful.”

  It’s safe, I tell myself, to walk to the library and back on my own.

  The truth is that I don’t know if it’s safe or not. But I can’t live in a world where it isn’t. I can’t shut myself away forever.

  It’s bitterly cold, with a biting wind, but at least it’s not raining. I glance nervously at the sky as I have that thought, half-convinced I’ve tempted fate. It’s a cloudy afternoon, but the rain the clouds threaten shows no sign of materialising. I shrug and cast a much-needed warming-spell.

  The streets are quiet, almost eerily so. I guess most people aren’t out and about on Esteral afternoon. Why would you be, when you could be at home celebrating with your family? It isn’t until I’m nearly at the library that I see a figure leaning against the wall. For a moment I think it’s Electra, because that faux-casual leaning is something she would definitely do, and because her hair and clothes are dark.

  But it’s not her, of course, because why would Electra be here of all places? The idea that it might be distracts me for long enough that by the time I’m close enough to see who she really is, Lauren has seen me as well.