When Barclay didn’t respond, Master Pilzmann said, gently, “Never mind about the hair, then.”

Barclay wanted to groan. It wasn’t about the hair. It was about how Master Pilzmann was so obviously waiting for Barclay to mess up. How all of Dullshire was just waiting to get rid of him.

“If I’m a good apprentice, then why is he here?” Barclay asked, glaring at Selby, whose eyes filled with tears. “I’m a better apprentice than he has ever been.”

Master Pilzmann’s mouth hung open, aghast.

“Go to your room, I suppose,” he said, as if entirely unsure how to punish Barclay, who had never needed punishing from him before.

Barclay considered ignoring him. If there was ever a time he’d like to run, it was now. Running—like his Beast-warding charm—cleared his head. But he was also bone-tired and couldn’t afford to break more rules, so he said nothing and slugged up the rickety steps to the attic, where the two boys slept.

That night Barclay lay in bed staring at the flickering candle on the nightstand between him and Selby. Outside the charms dangling from the windows chimed. The tinging used to soothe Barclay, but now it only sounded haunted. As if the monsters the charms warded away should include him.

“What if it escapes while you sleep?” Selby whispered.

Barclay hadn’t realized the other apprentice was still awake. He rolled over so his back faced him. “It won’t. I’ll wake up every hour to check it.”

“Will it eat everyone?”

“No,” Barclay hissed. “Go to sleep.”

“Does this mean you can do magic now?”

“Selby,” he groaned. He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t want to think about this. He just wanted to wake up in the morning and learn that this day had never happened and that his very boring life had once again returned to normal.

“Promise me,” Barclay pleaded. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise,” Selby said.

Barclay sighed. “Good. I’m sorry I was mean to you.” And he relaxed enough to fall asleep with his charm clutched between his fingers, hoping that he didn’t dream of an adventure.

FOUR

Dullshire was a town of slights. Everything, from the buildings to the lampposts, leaned on a slight tilt—a remnant of Gravaldor’s earth-breaking magic from seven years ago. The roads were slightly cobbled, with stones loose enough to kick and trip over. The clocktower in the main square was slightly behind. The town wall was slightly crumbled.

The people were slightly paranoid.

Charms dangled on the ledge of every window. Pitchforks and torches rested on each porch, always at the ready.

Barclay glanced at these pitchforks warily as he walked down the street. He resisted the urge to yet again examine the Mark on his shoulder. It’d continued to thrash and prowl across his skin when he’d checked this morning, and though the bright gold hadn’t darkened, his thoughts were still in nervous tangles. Not even walking into the library helped calm him.