He grins, and his teeth are a little pointed, but his eyes are warm, so I take a deep breath, pluck the pen from his outstretched hand, and sign the paper.

‘Excellent,’ he says, winding it back up again. ‘You will join our lessons. Whatever affinity you have for our magic, we must explore it and work out what to do with you. There are rules – and customs – that you should know, whether you’re human or fae, or something in between. Magic is not something to be taken lightly. Nor to be discussed downstairs in the regular lessons. Yanny will advise, if you need it. He is a fairly good student, and he has already asserted himself as your guide, so I will entrust you to his care.’ He casts a glance at Yanny before turning back to me.

‘Lessons start at 7.30 in the morning,’ he continues, ‘and finish by 8.45. And there’s the odd differential, such as history and science, when you’ll come to us. Welcome, Stella. I am sure you’ll find what you need here, and perhaps a little more besides . . .’

He winks and flaps us out of the room, his cloak billowing.

I turn to Yanny at the top of the narrow steps, and he blows his cheeks out.

‘You could have warned me,’ I say, as he hustles me down and whisks us along the corridor to a circular, cavernous hall, where the ceiling rises in a spire, bookshelves winding up its sides. Shining wood ladders stretch right up through all the shelves, getting narrower as they go. The whole place sings at me and makes my head spin.

‘The hall-slash-library,’ he says.

‘What have you got me into, Yanny?’

‘What have I got myself into,’ he retorts, not looking the slightest bit apologetic. He looks up at the rows of books, and his eyes flash with streaks of amber. ‘Stupid. I should’ve left it all alone.’ He looks back at me. ‘I thought I could show you around without Ashworth finding us. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He sighs, but there’s still a glint in his eye as he leads me out.

‘What kind of magic do you have?’ I ask.

‘Hmm?’

‘You and Principal Ashworth – you both have the same kind of magic. Only, not the same . . .’

He turns back to me. ‘How do you know we’re not the same?’

‘It just feels different.’

He frowns.

‘You’re very perceptive for someone who claims to have so little magic of their own.’

‘We have books. Words. I know the old legends.’

‘Ah well, then you should know what I am,’ he says.

And he marches off again.

I watch him go, registering the lightness of his tread, the length of his limbs, the way his shadow on the wall is not quite a true reflection. It flickers at the edges, dancing and shifting as he moves.

‘Well, you’re not a centaur,’ I say, catching up with him. ‘Are you?’