And last, just as Barclay plunged into the crowd of the festival, he heard Falk holler “Barclay Thorne just did magic!”

FIVE

As Barclay ducked behind a fried food stall to hide, he tripped over a loose cobblestone and barreled into a sack of potatoes. The freshly dug-up vegetables tumbled out over Barclay’s clothes, covering his hands and clothes in dirt.

But Barclay had more important worries on his mind than Dullshire’s rule about cleanliness.

Once he had checked to make sure he was safely out of sight of the festivalgoers, he wrenched down his collar to look at his shoulder, where the Mark writhed, as golden as ever.

Sudden winds didn’t just pick up history books and throw them at bullies.

Barclay’s stomach turned, thinking of what Falk had shouted. Barclay Thorne just did magic! Falk wasn’t bright, but he had quickly guessed the truth—and made even quicker work of spreading it. Already, anyone who was listening was probably horrified. Magic? In Dullshire?

Barclay struggled to his feet, stumbling over more potatoes. He needed to think fast if he was going to fix this.

But what if he didn’t deserve to? He hadn’t just accidentally used magic—he’d accidentally used magic to hurt someone. It didn’t matter if Falk was due a broken nose. Barclay had been so worried about the Beast escaping its Mark that he hadn’t considered that he was just as dangerous.

Maybe he should leave. He could run into the Woods and never come back, but that meant leaving everything behind. Barclay’s everything wasn’t much—it was no friends, one apprenticeship, and two graves.

But it was still his home.

Barclay took a deep breath and emerged from behind the fried food stall, only to come face-to-face with Poldi.

“Here he is!” Poldi shouted, and Barclay froze like a startled deer. Then Poldi lunged for him, and Barclay darted away. Maybe he was imagining it, but he swore he was running as fast as he had in the Woods. His feet barely even seemed to scrape the ground, and he had no control over his balance. He raced through the festival, tripping over fallen streamers, slamming into dancers, knocking over barrels of beer and apple juice.

“Oi! B-boy!” stammered Mrs. Kraus as onions and carrots toppled from her produce stand.

“There’s no running in town!” blustered Mr. Jager, a lawmaker who had been awarding another father the second-place ham.

“Barclay Thorne!” called out the baker.

But Barclay was too busy fleeing Poldi to pay any of them attention. Until Barclay skidded around a game of hammer throwing—ducking so as not to be clocked in the head—and collided with Marco. The two of them crashed into a bale of hay.

Barclay recovered first. He stood and held his hands up to Marco in front of him and Poldi behind him. “I can explain,” he choked out.

“You can’t trick us,” Marco snarled. “We saw it!”

As the two of them took menacing steps forward, two more winds tore across the square. Marco and Poldi were swept off their feet and thrown back ten feet through the air.