I’ll never fit in at this school. I don’t know why I keep trying. It doesn’t matter that I know the Intermediate Spell-Weaving textbook by heart, that I know all the house runes and how to combine them into sigils better than most of the tenth graders studying Runelore, or that I can recite almost all of the spells Emmi teaches in Advanced Thaumaturgy to twelfth graders. What does knowing any of that matter when I’ll never be able to do anything?

And, no matter how many textbooks I study, no matter the many hours I spend poring over the tomes in the library, I’ll never find the answer to the only question that matters.

Why the hell don’t I have magic?

“Feel free to move about,” Emmi says. “Just don’t go beyond the parking lot or MacCrone’s cottage.”

The groups spread out, fingers sparking magic as they search the forest for energy.

If you know how to look, magical energy can be found almost everywhere in Finland. Even in urban areas, pockets of the stuff exist and might even be coaxed from cracks in concrete, if you’re strong enough. Out here in the countryside it’s much easier.

The forest around Myrskyjärvi is old, like ancient, and still resonates with power. Apparently. Not that I can feel even the faintest thrum of magic the way the others can.

The school was originally an old manor house, built some 250 years ago for the legendary Gustafsson family. Hard-core mages—very famous back in the day—who detected and then called dibs on the thick artery of power running right beneath our feet. When Old Man Gustafsson kicked the bucket, he left his estate to the National Board of Mages (his descendants are still ticked off about that), specifically to be used for educational purposes, and so here we are. Now kids come from all over the world to Myrskyjärvi to “develop and hone their craft,” or so goes the sales pitch.

An oak towers over me and I gaze up into its branches, hoping to catch a glimpse of…something. All I get is an eyeful of the crows Mom spelled to watch over me. That’s right, I’ve got a murder of babysitters even though I turned fifteen last month. Musti has a smudge of white, Rekku has the ragged tail, and Kamu is basically a football with feathers.

Warily, I pull off my mitten and place my bare hand on the tree.

Rough bark, damp wood, cold air. Not sure why I expected anything else.

Emmi settles on the log beside me. A large tabby with four white socks drops from the branches and curls into Emmi’s lap. Kalma, Emmi’s familiar, regards me with yellow, unblinking eyes.

“Are you all right?” Emmi’s kind face is pinched with concern as she strokes the vibrating feline.