Jenny nodded doubtfully. “So I’m going to dig a pit here, even though we have no boggart to bind?”

“Yes, you got it first time. It’s good to know that you’re listening to what I say,” I told her, failing to keep the sarcasm from my voice. My dad always used to say, “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit!” He’d had no time for it, and I was suddenly disappointed in myself. I resolved to do my best to avoid it in the future. It wasn’t a good idea when you were trying to teach someone.

“This is a practical lesson, and you are going to dig a practice pit,” I explained more kindly. “Ours is a craft that involves certain skills, and this is one of them. You have to dig the pit to meet precise measurements, because the stone lid has to fit perfectly. It’s got to be exactly six feet long, six feet deep, and three feet wide.”

“Why does the depth have to be so precise? Surely that can vary a little?”

I forced myself to control my anger. I’d certainly not questioned my master in this way. I had asked him questions—he’d encouraged me to do so on many occasions. I could hear his voice now saying those very words: “Come on, spit it out! Don’t be afraid to ask questions, lad!” But it seemed to me that there was something disrespectful in Jenny’s tone.

“The width and length have to be precise so that the stone will fit. Six feet has been proven to be the best depth for containing a boggart. Generations of spooks agree that it should measure exactly that!” I said firmly.

I showed Jenny how to use the measuring rod to mark the pit’s outline, and then I told her to start digging. After a while I could see that she was finding it hard; she was breathing heavily, and sweat was dripping from her forehead. But it was part of a spook’s trade. She had to learn how to do it.

After about an hour I took pity on her. I told her to take a break, and I leaned against the tree while she sat on the edge of the pit, red in the face from her exertions. Digging practice pits hadn’t been one of my favorite lessons, either.

“Did you hear those strange noises last night?” Jenny asked once she’d gotten her breath back.

I shook my head. I’d slept like a log, only waking when the dawn light came through the window. What strange noises did she mean? She was new to Chipenden, and what I accepted as normal might be startling to her. The boggart sometimes made noises as it moved through the garden.

“I like to sleep with my window open, and I could hear them clearly.”

“You’ve been sleeping with your window open on these cold nights?” I asked in astonishment.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s good for you. The air in a bedroom can get stale.”