They look at you. A speaker for the group is silently elected: Aneeta, sensible and academic, unblemished good behaviour for seven years straight, ideal teacher-wrangler. “I hope it’s okay if we use the classroom,” she says. “We’ll clean the board afterwards.”

Technically they should be in the library or the sixth form common room, but school is surprisingly low on suitable spaces for small study groups, and you know the value of such work. Aneeta and Nikki urge each other on; both of them show care and support for Mathias; Will is pricked to competitive industriousness when Nikki is there. You are satisfied by these calculations, this knowledge. You gesture approval. “Feel free. I trust you lot.”

Will sits on a desk, long legs in black jeans swinging, holding his pen unmoving against a propped-up notepad. Nikki’s eyes are deep and dark and watchful. Mathias hunches in his chair. Even now, eighteen years old, three weeks before the A-level examinations begin, he has a fearful child’s reaction to unexpected adult attention. You smile on them benevolently. Benevolence is another thing you have learned, a function of your new selfhood. You are an enormously benevolent teacher.

“Good luck,” you say. “Work hard! Do let me know if you need help with anything.”

Aneeta breathes out hard when you’re gone. You could know this, if you chose to, but your attention has moved on. Children are only children. They are within your territory but not part of it; you abide by this principle as a concession to your host. She has no power to restrain you, but she becomes very irritating if you act in a manner inconsistent with the statutory guidance annually published by the government under the title of Keeping Children Safe in Education.

Will says, “So—”

“Shh,” hisses Nikki, eyes on Aneeta, who is positioned between the board and the doorway, neatly placed to watch for movement in the corridor.

After a moment, Aneeta nods. At the same time, Mathias straightens up from his miserable crouch over the desk. His acne is finally starting to clear up. He’s been trying a different cleanser.

“So,” says Will again. “Are we really sure we aren’t imagining it?”

“We’re not imagining it,” says Mathias, with the absolute certainty of a boy whose dreams have been haunted by the whispers of eager, encroaching demons since he was three years old. Some mortals lie closer to the edge of worlds than others. Some holes in the heart cry out to be filled.

“Yeah, no,” says Nikki, who—like you—wears a mask every day. Who, like you, was born for power. She puts her hand on Mathias’s arm briefly. You would have a hard time making sense of this particular mortal gesture. You have decided that the non-professional social aspects of your new existence are a low priority. After all, she hardly troubled herself with them. “Okay. Pen me.”