“Let’s try…” Smith stood up and walked to his desk. He unlocked a drawer and pulled out a different wand, made of milky green glass. “This.”

I traded him for it. It was heavy. “I’ve never seen a glass wand before.”

“It was my father’s. Now, take a deep breath, Simon. Remember that intention counts. And conviction.”

I got to my feet and pointed the glass wand away from us. I tried to believe in it. In me. In Smith. I imagined the end of the wand lighting up like a candle. “Light of day!”

Nothing.

I took a deep breath. I held the wand more firmly. I pictured Baz back in Magic Words class, standing with his chin up and his shoulders back. I pictured every consonant as I pronounced them—“Fire burn and cauldron bubble!”

More nothing.

Right, I thought, that’s that. That settles it.

Smith was rubbing his chin. “Let’s try…”

“No,” I said, turning the wand and holding the handle out to him. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Maybe you just need to get your confidence back—”

“No.” No, no, no. I set the wand on his desk and ran my fingers through my hair. “It didn’t work, Smith. I don’t feel anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a spark.”

Smith was frowning. Thinking. “What did your magic used to feel like?”

“Like a forest fire,” I said quickly. “Look, I’m sorry—”

“Let’s try again, Simon.”

“Smith, no—”

He was already pointing his wand at me. “Let it all out!”

I didn’t even feel the bubble popping the second time. I think Smith could feel the spell fail on his end, too. He looked down at his pool-cue wand, then let his arm drop to his side. “Simon … I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Smith.” It would be all right. It would. I tried to smile at him, so he didn’t feel bad. “Maybe this is useful. Now you know how it feels to cast the spell on a Normal.”

Smith’s face had completely fallen. He was in shock, I think. “I really believed you were a magician, Simon…”

“You weren’t the only one.”

“You gave yourself wings…”

“I should go.” I started for the door.

“Wait—” He reached out to me. “We should talk.”

I sighed. “No offence, Smith. But you don’t have to comfort me. I’ve been living like this for more than a year. If anything, I should thank you. This confirms what I already suspected: I was never a magician. I don’t need to be healed.”

I was never a magician. Never magic.

I was just some kid the Mage picked out, with no family who could object. I think I must have been part of an experiment—like one of those swords the Mage tried to enchant. He used me. He lied to me.