Will snorts. Nikki says, “No, I’m listening.” Mathias looks down at the desk. Alone of the four, he has no actual revision notes in the lever arch folder in front of him. He knows he has left it very late. He is starting to panic, and the panic has frozen him. You should really have caught this and had a reassuring chat with him by now.

“Or, I’m just saying,” says Aneeta, “we could tell an appropriate adult what’s happening, let them sort it out, and focus on our exams.”

Will rounds on her. “We are adults,” he snaps. “We’re eighteen, okay, we’re fucking grown-ups, we’re magicians. It’s up to us now. Niks has been working so hard on this, do you even realise? And we’re the people here. We’re the ones who can do this.”

“Maybe,” says Mathias softly.

“Who do we tell?” Nikki says. “Who haven’t we tried?”

Children are only children. They are not part of your territory. You do not rule them. But the staff are another matter. Your dominion over their minds is subtle and absolute. You have sunk yourself into the system of Chetwood School, and institutions have powerful hooks; the contract of employment is as binding as any summoning array. Sometimes the Headmaster will stare into the modern fireplace in his nice house in the village with a half-grimace drawing lines on his brow. Over the Easter holidays, during their two-week escape, a few people remarked to partners or friends, “It just doesn’t seem like a happy staffroom at the moment … I don’t know, I might start looking.”

But it is too late in the academic year to start seriously looking. They will check the Times Educational Supplement job postings over summer, but they will be back in September. They will forget soon afterwards that they ever wanted to leave. The TES alerts will sit unopened in their inboxes.

(A junior Spanish teacher went home to Madrid over Easter and did not come back. She gave no explanation to the school. Her department, covering her timetable, are all very annoyed.)

Upper Sixth have tried:

Matron—her headshot and email address and exhortations to come to her with any worries are posted all over the school. Nikki and Mathias sit down to dinner with her at the family table in School House three times a week, and bow their heads politely for grace, though neither is a regular attendee at chapel. She is a good listener. She did not hear a word they said.

Reverend Ezekiel—the only person apart from yourself qualified to teach an A-level in Invocation, and indeed the teacher of the current Year Twelve set. An ideal person to tell about any demonic suspicions. But he will not hear them now.

The new Chief Marshal—who sent them away; who seemed surprised to be spoken to by children.