I nod at him and raise my hand. Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding. I keep walking down the centre aisle. I’ll just ask him to step away for a moment, so we can talk.

“Simon Snow,” he says again, and everyone hears.

They all turn to look at me. To gape.

“Is it really him?”

“Does he really have dragon wings?”

“How did he get through the gates?”

“Smith,” I say. I’m more than halfway up the aisle. “I need to talk to you.”

My wings flutter, and I fly forward a few feet. (That happens sometimes when I’m not focused on staying grounded.) The crowd gasps. It makes me anxious—instead of landing, I fly higher.

“Smith,” I say, “don’t cast the spell. We need to talk.”

“Simon Snow,” Smith says again, even louder, in his stage voice. “I know you’re angry about being replaced. But you won’t stop the good work we’re doing here.”

“What?” I’m hovering before him. “Smith, that’s not—”

“Your years of deception have come to an end!” he shouts. “You’ve done enough to hurt the World of Mages!”

HEADMISTRESS BUNCE

Don’t I have enough on my plate?

I know I’m not supposed to think that—I could never say it out loud—but for heaven’s snakes, could I just have one day where nothing falls apart?

I have enough to manage, trying to keep the walls of Watford standing with scant resources and even less support. The Mage nearly ran this place into the ground … The library was empty. The curriculum was a shambles. I’ve got eighth years who can’t cast a complete sentence and fourth years who only cast Internet memes. To think that my teachers thought pop songs were unstable—my own son brought down a classroom wall with a “Yeet.”

It was Pacey. He’s 17. And, frankly, the least of my problems.

I can say this with authority because I lie in bed most nights, ranking my list of problems—and ranking my list of problematic children. There are five of them; it’s a dynamic list.

Premal, my oldest, usually owns the top spot. Holed up in his room back in Hounslow, still grieving the Mage, almost two years after the man’s death—after Premal and I found him dead. I worry that Prem will never move on. I worry about what he’ll move on to. I worry that no one is bringing him dinner when I’m here at Watford …

Alternately, I worry that his 12-year-old sister, Priya, is bringing him dinner, hovering over him and mothering him in my place. I know that she mothers Pip, the youngest. I worry about Pip, too, because I can’t yet see how I’m failing him.