Nearly every individual teacher in the magical departments, even as far as Miss Tibbett, whom Aneeta thinks seems nice and enthusiastic and whom Will scorns as Yeah but I don’t rate her, do you?

The school counsellor. Their form tutors. Their teachers in other subjects—Aneeta, darling of the Chemistry Department, has very good relationships with all her academic mentors. The rowing coach, the Head of Sixth Form, the Head of Careers. Mr Cartwright the site manager, which was Mathias’s idea, and which came closest to succeeding: he was the only one so far who even seemed to be listening.

The Headmaster, which was nerve-racking, and just as pointless as all the others.

They have not tried to tell Will’s uncle, the impressive Mr Daubery. He has not been seen at Chetwood in months. As a matter of fact, no one on the school site—not even Will—remembers that he ever existed.

“I know no one in school is listening,” says Aneeta. “So what if … not school?”

“We’ve been over this,” says Nikki. Phones suddenly have no signal. Emails return error messages. It is your nature to dwell in systems, and so these systems are not secret from you. Nothing seems to work.

“It’s not letting information out,” Aneeta says. “But it might let us out.”

A pause.

“I’m out of exeats,” says Will.

“I wasn’t saying let’s ask permission.”

“Sorry, I assumed because you basically always sound like you’re saying Let’s ask permission—” Touchy, embarrassed.

“Will,” says Nikki, and it quiets him, unless that’s her hand on his shoulder, which he glances at with the terrified wonder of a person encountering the rare and exquisitely beautiful in its natural habitat. To Aneeta, she says, “And go where? Your parents?”

Aneeta displays a website on her phone, a mar.gov.uk website. The phone is in a blue leather case. There is a neat little incursion ward scratched into the case with the back of an earring; this phone will never acquire an invading imp. It’s a shame you’ve never noticed this, because it is such a simple, obvious, and intelligent solution that you should have insisted on it for the whole school years ago. But then Aneeta is truly, remarkably, blissfully sensible. The you-that-was would shower her in the accolades that barely mean anything to a Year Thirteen this late in the game—the house points, the school prizes, the mention in assembly—for being the only one of these brave idiot children to remember the very first rule of keeping themselves safe: Tell a trusted grown-up.