“Hello, Dev.”

“Well, if it isn’t Basilton Pitch. Did you take a break from getting your cock sucked and remember that you have friends and family?”

“Took a break from sucking cock, actually.”

Simon’s head spun around. I shrugged, apologetically, and turned away from him in my chair.

Dev sighed. “You don’t call, you don’t write.”

“I’ve been busy studying. Haven’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Uni is a ball-ache. As it turns out, pledging allegiance to the Mage twice a week and working on my diction did nothing to prepare me for higher education.”

I snorted. “I’ve heard the new headmistress is making people do maths.”

“Unacceptable! Cares she not for tradition?”

“What’s next,” I said, “geography?”

Dev’s voice dropped, confidentially. “Niall’s brother says it’s worlds better down at Wats these days. They can have mobile phones. And they brought back the admissions test. Old Bunce has some standards.”

I decided to push on while Dev was being sincere; it only happens biannually. “Say, have you been hearing this twaddle about a new Greatest Mage?”

“Aw. Poor Baz. Threw it all away for the Chosen One, and now you have to start over.”

“So you have heard about it.”

“Crowley,” Dev swore, “it’s all my grandmother talks about. She follows one of them on Facebook.”

“On Facebook? What do they call themselves?”

Dev sounded amused: “Baz, are you actually interested? Have you found religion?”

“Nah. I have a friend who’s all caught up in it. I want to make sure they’re not in any trouble.”

“A friend, eh? Well, it’s not me, and it’s not Niall. Has Simon Snow joined a saviour cult? That’s rich.”

“You don’t think there’s anything to all this, do you?”

“Do I think the Greatest Mage has been hiding out in Swansea, and my grandmother was the first to know? No, dear cousin, I do not. I think some greedy tosser wants to make sure I don’t inherit her Aston Martin.”

“Your poor grandmother,” I said.

“My poor car,” he replied.

“So, it’s all a financial scam?”

“Grandmum’s Facebook saviour? Assuredly. But better him than the Chosen wanker Máire Clark is following around.”

“Máire Clark, is that someone I know?”

“Year ahead of us at Watford. Dark hair. Good legs. The Mage arrested her dad for insider dealing.”

“Oh right.” Máire. Scottish. Sat near me in Magic Words.

“She’s obsessed with some ‘miracle worker.’ Volunteers at his compound. The guy bleeds from his palms, spits doves, the whole bit.”

“What’s the difference between miracles,” I asked, “and good old-fashioned magic?”

“Don’t ask Máire,” Dev groaned. “She’ll gnaw your bloody ear off—and her legs won’t even be a distraction for you.”

“So, what’s that one called? Máire’s miracle worker?”