“Show me a young person with her brains and talent who wouldn’t,” said Walden. “Marshal, I understand your concern. As you say, it’s your job. My job, among other things, is to consider the needs of our students. I don’t deny that you’re an expert on demons; will you grant that I am an expert on teenagers?” And on demons, more than you, she could have said. She had multiple university degrees in academic magic. Kenning had the eighteen-week Marshal training course, probably over a decade ago now, and whatever she’d picked up along the way in terms of practical experience since then. There was no comparison. But Kenning already knew all of that—Ms Walden, indeed—and Walden didn’t need to antagonise her any more than she already was.

Instead she tried—not for the first time—being straightforward and reasonable. “Nicola Conway is going to deal with demons in her life. She is far too talented to avoid it. She is already considerably more thoughtful, and more careful, than most magicians her age—precisely because of the history that worries you so much. In my professional judgement, she and her classmates are ready for this practical. Delaying it would only create more risk of a demonic incursion. And if one begins, I would rather it happened in front of me, in a lab I warded myself, rather than in someone’s bedroom at two in the morning.”

“I’ll be observing,” said Kenning.

“We’d be delighted to have you,” Walden lied.

They stared at each other a moment longer. Walden became aware that she was wearing a white towelling dressing gown over a ratty set of pyjamas she’d owned since university. If Kenning was going to make a habit of dropping in impeccably uniformed and unannounced at this time of night, then Walden would have to start spending her evenings in the outfits she thought of as her professional armour—sharply cut blazers, A-line skirts, a brooch from the jewellery box she’d inherited from her grandmother.

“I apologise for disturbing you so late,” said Kenning abruptly.

You could have led with that, Walden thought. “Not at all,” she said. “I’m always willing to listen to my colleagues’ concerns. I’ll see you in the morning, Marshal.”

“Did you know that clock is possessed?” Kenning said, gesturing to the wall clock. “I can sort it out for you.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Walden. “It’s not doing any harm.”

“It’s a demon.”

“Only a very small one,” Walden said soothingly. “Good night, Marshal.”

After Kenning was gone, Walden sat back in her chair and sighed. The risk assessment form glared accusingly up from her desk. The wall clock, in an unusual burst of activity, gave out thirteen very fast chimes and then manifested a cuckoo which emerged with glowing red eyes, opened its beak, and screamed.