And with that, she’s gone, leaving us with a very confused, bleary-eyed Yanny.

‘Well, she’s pretty awesome,’ Zara says. ‘Is she human?’

‘Yes.’

‘So humans can have magic of their own . . .’

‘Course they can,’ whispers Yanny. ‘If they want to.’ He chuckles to himself, steam still billowing.

‘Is this what he usually looks like?’ Zara whispers.

‘Yes, when he’s not using a glamour to disguise himself.’

‘What about you?’ she asks, staring me up and down. ‘Are you like Mrs Mandrake?’

Yanny laughs harder, and the wisps of his wings glow orange. I glower at him.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m . . . a bit more like Yanny.’

‘But it doesn’t show?’

‘It’s a long story.’ I try a smile at her, though it feels wobbly – everything feels very precarious right now. Will she mind that I haven’t already told her? ‘Can we talk about it later, once we’re out of here?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘And you don’t need to look so panicked about it. I knew there was something different about both of you. Now, how are we going to get him out of here without anyone noticing?’

‘We wait until the last bell goes. And then we’ll just have to go for it.’

‘Stella can glamour for me,’ Yanny says, stumbling to his feet. ‘Come on. I need to get out of here now.’ He looks at Zara. ‘You found your way up, then.’ He gives a broad smile. ‘Knew you would, one day.’

‘You could’ve told me,’ she says.

‘No.’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘Not allowed. Nor was Stella.’

‘It was Tash who let her in,’ I say. ‘But that’s beside the point. Principal Ashworth said there were life-and-death exceptions – and you did look pretty deathly – and Mrs Mandrake said she’d sort it. For now, we need to work out what we’re going to do with you – I can’t glamour!’

‘Oh you can,’ he says tiredly. ‘Just try, please? I need to get home.’

‘I’ve never done it before though – I’ve never needed to!’

‘Lucky you,’ he says. He picks up his bag with a grunt and stands in front of us, pale and swaying on his feet, his expression utterly determined. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

He tears through the corridor, bangs out through the double doors, and careers down the stairs. Fortunately most of the kids are in lessons, only a couple rushing late, so we charge out with him, through reception, past a startled Mrs Edge, and into the clear, cool air of the mid-afternoon. Yanny sags a little as we reach the school gate, but his pace doesn’t falter, and so we head off towards town.

‘Just cover me,’ he says as we start off down the street. His would-be wings are like dark smoke, the whole sense of him is fierce, fragile, and unmistakeably one hundred per cent fae.

‘I don’t know how to glamour!’ I howl.

‘Wait a minute,’ says Zara, stopping him with her hand. ‘Yanny. Stop.’