I still don’t see Jamie. There’s a guy I recognize from Watford … Ian somebody, a few years older than us. And a woman who plays tennis at the club. Are all of these people low-magicians? Or are they just normal magicians who think they deserve better?

Alan, the man who got the power-up last week, was holding court at the back of the room when we came in, regaling everyone with stories about all the big spells he can cast now.

Smith-Richards is ratcheting up the intensity tonight. He’s saying he wants to help more people, more quickly—that they shouldn’t have to wait any longer for their birthright.

Daphne’s enthralled. Her mouth is actually hanging open.

Simon is leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, taking in every word. Does he truly believe all this? He keeps giving Smith-Richards the full benefit of the doubt, and more. It’s like Simon wants someone else to be the real Chosen One—and he wants it to be someone like Smith-Richards, someone who’ll wear the crown more comfortably than he himself ever did. I lay my hand on Simon’s neck and scratch at the back of his hair, where it’s too short to curl. He glances over his shoulder to smile at me.

We’re going hunting after this. And then we’re getting fish and chips. And then we’re going back to Simon’s apartment together. Tomorrow morning, we’ll have toast in bed.

I rub his neck, and he doesn’t shrug me off. (This must be another place where it’s okay to be gay—or whatever Simon is.)

I look over my other shoulder, scanning the other side of the room for Jamie. I’ve seen most of these people before. Oh, there’s Máire. I thought she’d already chosen a Chosen One. Hedging her bets, apparently. I wonder where Agatha’s old roommate is tonight; I haven’t seen her yet.

I look back up at Smith-Richards and cross my legs, trying to at least appear as if I’m paying attention. He’s still being clinically sincere: “I’ve been consulting with some of my most loyal friends and looking at ways to expand my reach. If I can cast the spell on one mage, why not cast the same spell on two or three—”

My breath catches in my throat. Agatha’s old roommate!

“Or six.”

That’s who she is.

“When we next meet, tomorrow, I’ll be bringing six of my most faithful—”

The girl.

“—and steadfast supporters—”

The quiet girl. At the door. Pippa.

“—onto the stage, to stand beside me—”

It’s Philippa! Agatha’s old roommate, from Watford. She lost her voice.

“—and step into their destiny.”

I stole her voice. In fifth year.

“My dear friends…”

I stole her voice.

“Patrick, Melinda—”

Miss Possibelf said it would come back. She promised.

“Eliza, Gloria, Daphne—”