That was the real question, the million-dollar question, which Walden heard over and over. She was supposed to be the staff lead on this sort of thing. She hadn’t been talking to people enough. She’d gone too inwards, too focused on the rest of her job—there were so many things involved in doing a teacher’s job! Never enough time to do everything right, she thought, but this was leadership, this was core; she’d let people down. So she had the conversation over and over, tailoring it for the audience every time, technical and thorough for the magical departments, a layman’s summary for the others: Yes, it was big. I know. We handled it. Honestly, yes, we might get another one. We’d know pretty quickly if we did. There’s a plan. We would handle it again.

She kept a glass of wine in her hand, so she’d have something to gesture with. “Listen,” she found herself saying to Ezekiel, who was grave and thoughtful as he propped up the bar tonight—Ebele had joined the knot of high-energy younger people on the dance floor—“it’s not as if we can avoid the issue. There’s no way around it. Teenage magicians attract demons. A beginner is a natural target for a magical predator, and a child beginner more so—all that power, none of the common sense. Teenage magicians without protection, without any adult support, get eaten by demons. That’s why Chetwood isn’t just another boarding school. It’s necessary. You know this.”

Ezekiel, foster father of seven sorcerers, knew. He nodded seriously.

“It used to be about families,” Walden said. “People like—oh—”

“Like me,” said Mark, coming up on Walden’s other side and nodding to the barman for a fresh drink. “Hi, Sapphire. Evening, Reverend.”

“On social occasions,” said Ezekiel, “I accept Zeke.”

Walden was still talking. “There was a time when the question of whether you’d be lucky enough to survive was based purely on how much magic the adults around you knew. Which meant all that mattered was who your parents were. The old magical dynasties of England! But it’s a stupid way to run things—worse than that, it’s an evil way to run things. Just imagine how many Nicola Conways were lost to history, just because no one around them had the training, the experience, the power to save them from something that was never their fault.”

“Hey, not all of them got eaten by demons,” said Mark. “Look on the bright side. Some hedge witches got burned at the stake instead.”

“I think my wife wants to talk to me,” said Ezekiel.

Walden barely noticed him leaving. She was rounding on Mark. “It’s not right,” she snapped. “It’s not fair.”

“How much wine have you had?” said Mark.

“Oh—hush. I’m fine.”

“You look fantastic.”

“It’s Christmas.”