“When Jamie told us how it felt—” Baz and I look at each other. That’s gotta be Jamie Salisbury; has his magic been fixed already? “—it’s not that I didn’t believe him. I did! But I thought … Well, I thought he must have something that I don’t. That he was from an older family. Or that he must have more latent magic than I have. But I was wrong.”

Smith-Richards wraps his arm around her, and she leans against him. “You’re a mage,” he says into the microphone. “That’s all that matters, Beth. Magic is your birthright.” He looks around the room. “It’s all of our birthright.”

People at the front of the room are clapping, but everyone in the back seems distracted by something. Baz clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

Bloody hell … they’re distracted by me. I slouch down, as much as my folded-up wings will let me.

Smith-Richards is looking out into the audience, trying to figure out what everyone is looking at.

“Snakes alive,” Beth says, still standing close to the microphone, “it’s the Chosen One!”

Smith-Richards looks down at her, confused. But then he looks out into the audience again and makes eye contact with me. His eyes get wide. “Simon Snow,” he says into the mic.

Everyone who wasn’t already staring turns to gawk at me now. I sit up in my chair, smiling uncomfortably. Time to lean in, I suppose. Smith-Richards is walking towards me, down the centre aisle.

“If he touches you,” Baz murmurs, “I’m eviscerating him.”

Smith-Richards stops at our row. He’s even better looking this close. High cheekbones, square chin. He looks like a Burberry model. “It’s such an honour to have you here,” he says. He looks around, and everyone starts clapping, like they agree with him.

I smile tightly, sort of nodding at the rest of the room. If there’s one thing I can thank the Mage for, it’s that he never sent me out on dog and pony shows. Most of these magicians have never seen me in person before.

“We all owe you such a debt,” Smith-Richards says gravely, “for serving the World of Mages to the best of your ability.”

That seems like an insult, but I smile anyway and mutter, “Yeah, thanks, mate.”

“Is this your first meeting?” he asks. “Is there anything I can tell you about myself and our work?”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m good. Just came to check it out. Go ahead and, um, carry on. Thanks.”

“If you have any questions, please ask. We’re all happy to talk.” He runs a hand through his hair, like he’s embarrassed about something. The curls pop through his fingers one by one. “I’m glad you came tonight,” he says, looking out at the room again, “because this is a special night.”