I freeze for a second. I could just walk away, give the books to my dad to return later. But then she might follow me and find out where I live. No – the fact she’s here of all places at this precise time can’t be a coincidence. She must be – an oracle, or someone who can speak with the stars, or something – and whatever prophetic powers she has told her where to find me.

  She might have answers.

  I keep walking towards her, trying to come up with a plan as I do so and failing. Improvising it is, I suppose.

  “Hello,” she says. Her gaze is clear and focused. “I need your help.”

  “I… wait – you’re that person who I ran into the other day, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. My name is Lauren.”

  “I – call me Alice.”

  “Alice,” she repeats, as if experimenting with the sound of the name.

  “When we met then, you asked me what I was. What did you mean by that?”

  “There’s something strange about you. Not entirely human. Special. I don’t know any more.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She shrugs. “I can see those things. They’re written in the stars.”

  “You’re an… oracle? Or one of those priestesses who – “

  “Yes.” She hesitates before saying that. As if it’s not the full truth, just a convenient shorthand.

  I decide not to press any further. “And – what kind of help do you need? What makes you think I can provide it?”

  “I – need to get away.”

  That look of desperation in her eyes the last time we met. I wasn’t imagining it. “From the man who…”

  She glances around quickly, furtively, and then nods once. “He – I thought he cared about me, but he doesn’t. He only cares about what I can see. And I don’t like what he might do with what I tell him. You must have heard.”

  “I… what?”

  “That night in the market,” Lauren clarifies. “I know you were there. I even gave you a distraction.”

  I consider denying it for a second, and then decide that would be a waste of time. “When you collapsed? That was… deliberate? Fake?”

  “Yes. What were you doing there? I can’t see why, but you didn’t come intending to eavesdrop on us.”

  “I had to… deliver a message.” Technically true. It would be silly to tell her the full truth.

  I believe Lauren. She could easily have revealed my presence to the others if she’d wanted to, or explained to that man what was happening when she saw me again. And she must have some kind of power that allowed her to find me here.

  Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell her who I am. Or what I know about the anomaly. But that makes it rather difficult to explain why I can’t help her. Because I don’t have anything to offer that wouldn’t come from the Blackthorns. And getting Lord Blackthorn involved in this would be the exact opposite of helping Lauren.

  Except… I do have connections who aren’t linked to Lord Blackthorn. “Did you see who I was delivering it to?”

  Lauren hesitates before answering. “No. I was a little distracted myself by faking a seizure.”

  “The stall that sells scarves,” I say. “Its owner is a man called Omar. He might be able to help you.”

  “You mean… you can’t?”

  I shake my head. “This is all I can offer. And I can’t promise anything.” There’s so little I know. I don’t have the slightest idea what Amara and her people want. But I know that they could protect Lauren. I know they could teach her about her powers. I just don’t know whether they would.

  “It’s a risk,” I continue. “Only do it if you’d rather take that risk than stay where you are.”

  “I would,” Lauren says without hesitation.

  “Then go to him, and say I sent you. Not Alice – the girl who left the note.” The best I can do without giving her my real name. “And tell him everything.”

  The real risk is that he just won’t listen to her. Or won’t care about her problems. Because I know how much he wants to keep his people’s knowledge within their group. He only begrudgingly accepted teaching me. And Lauren is… well. White.

  But I’m leaving Crelt tomorrow. I don’t know anyone else who I could ask to shelter Lauren or help her escape. I have money which could maybe pay for a coach ride or a portal to another city, but then she’d have nothing once she got there. This is all I can offer her.

  “Okay,” Lauren says. “I’ll do that. What do you want in return?”

  I blink. “…nothing?”

  She blinks back, equally confused.

  “Wait – no – keep what you found out about me a secret. Not from Omar – or anyone he introduces you to – but from everyone else. We’ve never met.”

  “Your name isn’t really Alice.”

  “You don’t need to know my name.” I realise as I say those words that I’m imitating Lord Blackthorn. Which scares me. But stars, that’s the only model I have for handling this kind of situation.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I step past her and feed my library books into the slot, one by one. I know Lauren is trying to read their titles and piece together things about me. I don’t think she could deduce much from that.

  But really, she has enough information already. Just dark-skinned magician girl would be enough for her to make a pretty good guess, never mind how secretive I’m being or that I apparently have some cosmic significance.

  “Well then,” she says. “Thank you, stranger. May you walk under starlit skies, and may we ever remain strangers to each other.”

  “Good luck,” I reply, meaning it. Then I turn around and walk away.

  I’m reasonably sure she’s not following me, and that if she really wanted to know where I lived she could find out from whatever grants her power. But I don’t take any chances; my route home is long and meandering and includes a span of five minutes crouched behind a stack of wood in an alley. The only thing that prevents me from just not going back for an hour or two is the knowledge of how worried my dad will be if I do that.

  As it is, he still remarks on how long I’ve taken once I get back. I shrug in what I hope is a casual manner. “I took the scenic route. Felt like walking for a while.”

  I can feel myself relaxing, whatever carried me through that encounter wearing off. I’m home and safe now. I know that safety is an illusion, of course. But it’s an illusion I want to believe in. An illusion I need, or else I’ll go mad and become mala sia.

  “See any nice scenery?”

  “The usual. It was nice, though.”

  “Cold?”

  “Definitely.” That reminds me that I still haven’t removed my warming-spell, and I dismiss it. “Magic makes that easier to deal with.”

  “Stop making me jealous.” My dad laughs.

  I have to resist the urge to tell him that Malaina isn’t all that great, actually, and if he wants to go through what I have for the sake of magic he’s quite welcome to. Because while that’s true, it’s also true that magic is amazing. And that not every day is an awful one.

  And just that I don’t want to ruin this moment by starting an argument.

  But at least he hasn’t guessed that anything unexpected happened on my trip. Everything is fine. Well, if my idea of sending Lauren to Omar turns out to not be a complete disaster. But I don’t know what else I could have done, except nothing. “Where’s Grandma?” I ask. It’s my first time calling her that. It sounds strange, but my grandmother is awkward phrasing, and I’m not sure calling her by her first name would be any better.

  My dad definitely notices it, but he doesn’t comment on it. “In the bedroom, packing. She should be done soon. Your packing is all done now?”

  “Hopefully. If I haven’t forgotten things.”

  I don’t remember anything I’ve forgotten over the rest of the afternoon. I alternate between reading Georgiana’s diary and writing mine. I’ve been keeping it up the last couple of days, but I haven’t really found much to write about. Well, not things that are safe to write down, anyway.

  I don’t like that I have to be so hesitant about what I put down on paper. It’ll be better once I’ve learnt some spells or enchantments that could prevent it being read. But none of that sort of magic is invulnerable, and I really don’t want to take any chances when I’m dealing with Lord Blackthorn.

  That’s not the only thing that prevents me from truly confiding in the diary. I’m afraid that once I start writing, every thought I’ve been suppressing and every feeling I’ve been holding back will come spilling out, and I won’t be able to halt that tide until I find myself in the midst of an active episode.

  It’s better not to take that chance.

  Georgiana is hiding her true feelings from the reader as well, I’m beginning to suspect. Those times when her normally lively, detailed tone changes to formal and awkward. Talk of her duty to her family. Words that are very proper and mature and not at all what any real seven-year-old would think.

  Of course my deepest wish is for the King to be restored to good health, and I pray for this every day, as I am sure we all do. Because the King is ill, now, and I know as Georgiana cannot that she will never be restored to good health. I can see, even if she can’t, the political shadow games being played about the prospective regency.

  The way Felix Blackthorn encourages his daughter’s friendship with the King’s son can’t be innocent. Even if Georgiana herself is completely innocent, and I don’t know that she is. She writes of a serious conversation with her father where he told her that being close to Charles was her duty to the family. Mostly she seemed confused, because she was going to be his friend regardless.

  But I can see the seeds of conflicted loyalties being planted. I have some idea of what they’ll one day become, the tragedy that awaits. It makes me wonder whether some future historian will read my diary with their future knowledge and think the same thoughts about me.

  What tragedy awaits me? Which of my mistakes and my conflicted loyalties would be picked out as the beginning of something that would end in disaster?

  What if I’m wrong, and Lord Blackthorn does want the throne? What happens to me then?

  I have to stop reading and pace around the room to try and silence those dark thoughts. I’m distracting my dad from his reading and my grandmother from her sewing. She’s embroidering flowers on a handkerchief now. As a gift, she says without elaborating. I’m pretty sure it’s for Sierra. I really want to meet Sierra one day.

  “What’s wrong?” my grandmother asks.

  “Nothing,” I lie. “Just needed to stretch my legs.”

  Neither of them presses me on it, which I’m glad of. I sit back down and pick up Georgiana’s diary again, trying to make my mind remain in the past without applying her life to mine.

  My grandmother wins the race to the kitchen to cook our last proper meal together. There’ll be breakfast tomorrow morning, but that will be a hasty affair, and I’d be surprised if any of us are really awake for it. I’m already not looking forward to the early start after staying up until midnight tonight.

  I keep reading, trying to piece together the politics happening behind the scenes of the King’s sickbed from what little Georgiana notices. I take careful notes to compare to existing historical sources when I get the chance. I’m a little overwhelmed by the thought of really trying to fit this into context and work out what new things it can tell historians.

  Food is ready too soon, and I have to drag myself away partway through scribbling down another note. I hope I remember what I was trying to write whenever I return to it.

  It’s worth temporarily abandoning Georgiana, though. I didn’t realise quite how hungry I was until now, with a plateful of delicious stew in front of me. I devour my portion with enthusiasm. My grandmother’s cooking really is amazing. I’ll miss it, even if the food offered at the Academy is also excellent. There’s something about it being homemade by someone who cares about me.

  I volunteer to do dishes, since I haven’t done any cooking today. I experiment with scrubbing plates and pots by magic. It’s not that successful. The difficulty is in the fine control I need to apply just the right amount of pressure, something that I can do instinctively by hand. That insight applies more generally, I think, that muscle memory doesn’t carry over to magic.

  I eventually have to give up and just do things the hard way. With more practice, I think I’ll be able to make the magical approach work, but that would likely involve being here for several hours. There’s a limit to how much patience I have with dishes.

  Once those are done, I realise I have a couple of hours’ more evening than usual. I feel like I should be doing something with my family rather than just returning to Georgiana’s company, but they don’t suggest any plans when I return to the living room, so I assume I’m allowed to do so.

  My notes grow in length, and I work my way gradually through the King’s illness, over the next few hours. At some point I realise my legs are stiff and I need to go to the bathroom. It’s ten and twenty. I should be asleep, but it’s Esteral night. The skies are still cloudy, I discover by looking out of the bathroom window. There’s some superstition about that, but I can’t remember the details. The stars’ intentions are unclear, or they’re hiding something, or it’s a bad omen.

  “I don’t believe in bad omens,” I say to the hidden stars. I’m trying to convince myself as much as anything. But I still have a vague sense of foreboding. I think it’s that I’ve spent so long reading Georgiana’s diary while knowing the inevitable tragedy coming for her. It’s made me think that inevitable tragedy is just a fact of life.

  It’s not. I’m not going to be a victim of it. My story will have a happy ending someday.