Myrskyjärvi isn’t a particularly big lake by Finnish standards, but it’s big enough to have a handful of islands scattered across it like pebbles tossed in a puddle. The school’s on the largest island, connected to the mainland by a proper road bridge. To the west of the school lie the boarding houses: Kivitalo and Pilvitalo. Gods how I wish I could go to a school far away from everyone who knows me.

The rain is falling in stinging sheets now, and for a moment, I contemplate taking the shortcut past the caretaker’s squat little cottage. This day is crappy enough without risking an encounter with a cranky former battle mage and her pet dragon.

Instead, I hurry across the bridge, taking the long way round, squinting through the downpour as if Natalie might materialize at any second.

Stupid, the little voice at the back of my mind chides. Ekaterina’s probably right and Natalie is avoiding me, especially after what I said to her this morning.

“Thank you.” That’s all I needed to say. Was it really that hard?

Stupid, stupid, stupid sings the voice, and I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to make my eyes water.

I cross the slippery bridge, my crows squawking their displeasure at having to follow me through the rain. Sometimes I think they might be my only friends. Wish I could talk to them, but that’s a shamanic specialization not offered at the school.

The National Museum of Magical Artifacts, aka the library, rises out of the murk all granite and steatite. On an island all to itself, it’s meant to be impressive, added to the estate over one hundred years ago when the United Council of Magic Wielders—UCMW—decided Finland would be the best place to store some of the world’s most ancient magical relics.

Disappointingly, the museum doesn’t house anything particularly powerful. Stuff like that is kept in a vault on Svalbard. There they’re supposed to be safe, wrapped up in dozens of protection spells and guarded by battle mages, making the vault an impenetrable fortress no one would ever dream of breaking in to.

Until two weeks ago, that is, when someone actually tried it. According to the newsfeeds, the investigation is ongoing. I pitched the Messenger with a piece explaining my own suspicions about who could’ve done it and why, but it never made it to print because kids at this school would only care if someone stole their stuff.

Shaking off the rain, I head for the library’s side entrance.

And…the day gets worse. Again.

The school’s resident Komodo dragon stands beneath the eaves munching on a pigeon. The bones crack as the bird disappears down the gullet of the enormous lizard.

“Hi Fiona.” I attempt friendliness. “You’re looking rather lovely in your sweater today.”