“You are so exceedingly unpleasant,” I say. “I almost forgot that for a few hours. You’re so much easier to be around when you’re yelling at goats.”

“Yeah, well, we have that in common.” We’re at a stop sign, and Niamh is redoing her bun again, making it even tighter. I’m this close to telling her how bad it looks that way. But she doesn’t deserve constructive advice. I huff instead.

She ignores me.

I try to ignore her back, but it only lasts a minute. “I don’t want Watford to fall, by the way. I’ve helped save Watford multiple times. Tangentially.”

“Well,” she says, “all your efforts will be in vain if the goats leave.”

“Oh good, back to the goats again.”

“I know that you believe the Goats of Watford are just a myth. But a myth is just another word for a story, and what do we have if we don’t have stories!”

“Niamh! I’ve never even heard of the Goats of Watford—should I have?”

She rolls her eyes. “I mean, I think so. I think the heritage and care of magickal animals matter, that these are things we should study and share and—”

“Wait, they’re magickal goats?”

Niamh puffs out a frustrated breath. “Why doesn’t anyone know this? The goats are part of Watford history! They’re in the coat of arms!”

“I thought those were pegasus … ses.”

“No, they’re goats.”

“But they have wings,” I say.

“So do the goats.”

“What?”

“How do you think the goats are getting out over the wall, Agatha?”

“I thought they were jumping. They’re magickal, flying goats?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously not obviously. Do people know this?”

“They should!” she half shouts, then looks embarrassed to have raised her voice. Her shoulders fall. “The story’s so old that it seems like an old wives’ tale now,” she mutters. “And it’s hard to find any scholarly accounts. The Mage hoarded books on magickal history but didn’t let anyone else read them—and he was notoriously dismissive of animals and creatures. He’s the reason we haven’t had a vet in years—”

“Tell me the story.”

“Agatha, I’m trying—”

“No, tell me the old wives’ tale. About the goats.”

“Oh.” She glances over at me like she’s trying to make sure I’m being sincere. “Well.” She looks at me again. “The story goes that the same herd has been watching over Watford as long as it’s existed. If they ever choose to leave, it would mean the school is truly lost. The goats would take all of their protection with them.”

“Wait, really?”

“Well, really according to the story.”

“That doesn’t sound any less legitimate than half the stuff they taught us in Magickal History,” I say. “Professor Bunce honestly doesn’t care?”