“But of course, Braddon-Hartmead’s ethos isn’t built on money. We are very proud to have our scholarship program, offering pupils from underprivileged areas the chance of an education that their families would never otherwise have been able to afford.” Nory felt her cheeks burning, but to her surprise Ms. Strathmoore pointed straight at Katie. “Ms. Noel, I believe you were one of our scholarship pupils. I understand you run a bookshop now.” She smiled.

Dev poked his head between Ameerah’s and Nory’s. “Racist much?” he asked sardonically.

“Actually, I’m not Ms. Noel. I didn’t attend Braddon-Hartmead,” Katie piped up, with a defiant smile. “I attended Wycombe Abbey private school for girls. My parents paid in full.”

Ms. Strathmoore was momentarily ruffled.

“I was the scholarship kid,” said Nory. “And I own a secondhand bookshop.”

“Of course,” said Ms. Strathmoore, recovering herself. “I must have got my wires crossed, how silly of me.”

With the headmistress leading the way, Nory turned back to Katie and mouthed Oh my god!

Katie laughed quietly and rolled her eyes—of course this wasn’t the first time someone had made an assumption about her because of the color of her skin, but everyone was a little stunned.

“Well, if we weren’t sure before that junior wasn’t going to be attending Braddon-Hartmead, we are now,” Jeremy whispered, holding tightly on to his wife’s hand.

The dining hall had been improved, although nothing could remove the claggy scent of decades’ worth of mashed potatoes and pastry. And the assembly hall had lost none of its grandeur, and more names of pupils who had gone on to success in politics or other such worthy pursuits had been added to the large wooden plaque above the stage.

So many of the memories ignited by these surroundings contained Tristan, and once again Nory felt the familiar ache in her chest that he wasn’t with them. His name was carried on all their lips as they roamed the halls of their childhood, his kind nature fondly remembered, and his mischievous antics whispered among them like folklore. They were happy memories, mostly, and it felt unfair that he wasn’t here to share them. Suicide was greedy; it didn’t just take your friend once—it kept coming back for more, taking and taking, so that your remembrances were always bittersweet.

They left Braddon-Hartmead in a reflective mood. Perhaps none of them had quite realized how it would feel to revisit the place. Nory was glad that Jenna’s terrible tan had kept her away. Back in the car park, they hovered before climbing into Ameerah’s and Jeremy’s cars. They were only going back to the castle; they’d be apart for ten minutes and then be back together again in the warmth of Robinwood. But somehow it felt as though when they left, a spell would be broken.

“Was I an arsehole at school?” Charles asked.