And of course I worry about Penelope—always Penelope. Attached at the hip to the most dangerous person in England. And now bringing home stray Normals. Morgana, I can’t deal with it! I don’t know where to start!

I need a break … I need some help …

I don’t need this from Martin now.

He believes in the Chosen One?

When did this happen? Martin is a scholar, an academic. He’s pragmatic. He believes in facts. It’s why I fell in love with him. Partly, anyway.

We’ve always laughed at magicians who lived their lives by prophecy. People like Davy, who trusted every superstition more than his own eyes and ears.

Is this because I left Martin alone?

I left for Watford, and I left him with the kids, and we agreed it would be fine, that he could handle it, because he didn’t have the Humdrum to track anymore. Pacey and Priya are at Watford with me for most of the year anyway—and Martin and I would still see each other on the weekend …

Martin and I have been married a long time.

We have a strong foundation.

Is this his midlife crisis? Joining a cult? Other people our age are coming out as bisexual or getting into Normal-style bread-making. (I would prefer either—or both.)

“Of course I’d like to be more powerful,” he said to me on the phone this morning.

I’d been complaining to him about this Smith Smith-Richards meeting—I have to stay at Watford anytime there’s an event here—and Martin said he knew all about it, that he was planning to attend.

“Why on earth?” I asked. “Are you writing a paper?”

“No.” His voice was quiet, careful. Martin’s voice is always quiet and careful. “I’ve been following Smith-Richards for a while.”

“Following like ‘keeping track’ or following like following?”

“He’s a good man, Mitali. He has extraordinary powers.”

“We all have extraordinary powers, Martin. It’s what makes us magicians.”

“Not all of us, dear.”

Then he told me that he’s been going to these meetings for months. That he’s befriended the people there—and befriended the man himself, the man who claims to be the Greatest Mage. (Martin and I don’t have friends. We have colleagues. We have children. We have each other.)

“Did you bring the children?” I asked.

“No, they wouldn’t be interested. They take after you—they don’t need Smith’s help.”

“And you do, Martin?”

“Mitali…” He sounded hurt, that I would make him say this out loud. “Of course I’d like to be more powerful. Do you think I don’t wonder, what it’s like for you?”

We argued.

I hung up.

And now here he is, in my office, wearing the suit he only gets out for weddings and funerals. I hope he doesn’t want my blessing in all this.