The site needed constant development as well. The school buildings were mostly not fit for purpose. Everything was either in need of restoration or in need of a complete rethink. There was always scaffolding somewhere. At the moment it fenced Scrubs, which in the 1960s had been a gloriously modern testament to the power of concrete, and now, more than half a century later, was a depressing lesson about the long-term viability of concrete. Scrubs was not even the biggest problem. Looming five years in the future was the dreadful spectre of the chapel roof. You could not just leave a beautiful, much-loved, constantly used example of fourteenth-century religious architecture to collapse in on itself—especially not when it was listed! But there were only a dozen people in the country with the skills to work on that roof, and they all got booked up years in advance and cost an absolute fortune. The Bursary was already working on building up a fund for it, but sooner or later it was going to come down to another alumni donation drive.

Understandable, then, that the Marshal barracks had fallen off the school development radar. But Laura was in her thirties, and most of her squad were older. Not all of them lived here, of course. A couple had families—there was one who lived in the village, and one who commuted from the nearest town. Still, Walden found it dissatisfying, knowing how very nice her own school-provided lodgings were, to see that Chetwood’s magical security team were living in accommodation that looked like a second-rate undergraduate rental. It could not have helped with that ‘historical culture of carelessness’ Laura had talked about either. If you did not feel like your job took you seriously, why would you ever take your job seriously?

At the very least, all of this needed repainting. And not in magnolia either, even if it was cheap.

Laura had a ground-floor room with a plaque on the door: CHIEF MARSHAL. Walden knocked. “Come in!” she heard.

The room was already half stripped. Laura was packing her life at Chetwood into two big suitcases. She wore a black tank top and faded old jeans. Her silver sword was hung on a bracket on the wall, with her armguards next to it. “Good evening,” Walden said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Laura said, “Was that meant to be ‘Good evening, Marshal Kenning, I’m here for an informal valedictory interview,’ or ‘Hi, Laura, I don’t have normal conversations very often’?”

Walden snorted. “The second one.”

“Hi, Saffy,” said Laura. “Come in. Do you want a glass of water or anything?”

“We are going to do the valedictory interview,” Walden said. “You gave the outlines of your assessment today, but I want—”