I want to speak to Robin once I get back to the dormitory, but that doesn’t work out too well. The curtains of her bed are closed, and when I tentatively ask if she’s there I get no response. She could be somewhere else, or already sleeping. Or avoiding me. Regardless, I don’t think ripping the curtains open would end well, so I just change and then sleep.

Robin still doesn’t show herself in the morning. Not when I wake up, or when I go back to the dormitory after breakfast to fetch my things. I can’t just leave for the holidays without talking to her. But Edward is waiting outside the dormitory for me, and I don’t think I have much choice. “Goodbye, Robin,” I say, not knowing whether she’s listening. “Enjoy Holy Days.”

It’s cold when we make it outside, but it’s thankfully not raining; the walk to the South Gate with my trunk would have been miserable otherwise. As it is, it’s almost pleasant with a warming-spell. Or it would have been if I wasn’t so conscious of where I’m going – and what I’m leaving behind.

I think about my dad. I have missed him, but not in the way I thought I would when I left. At some point in these last few months, I’ve grown up and learnt to rely on myself and my friends rather than my parents.

Edward isn’t in a talkative mood. He rarely is, unless the topic of conversation is magic, but today he seems particularly withdrawn. It’s because I’m leaving, I realise. But I can’t stay. Not even for him.

At least we don’t get recognised and stopped in the street. I’ve dressed as inconspicuously as possible and concealed my face beneath my coat’s hood, but I can’t hide all my distinctively dark skin. I’ll just have to hope no-one finds me worth a second glance.

I always thought it was a long walk to the South Gate, and it is. But it seems all too short a time before we reach the City’s outer walls.

They’re taller than the inner walls, but less grand; they were designed to protect the City from invasion in a time when invasion was a very real threat. Edward tells me about how the City’s wards are built into their very stones, and how they’re enchanted to resist destruction and decay. He would know, I suppose, since it’s going to be in his job description one day.

But invasion is not a threat today, and the Gate stands open. There’s a steady stream of wagons and the occasional carriage passing out of it; early in the morning is the best time to set off on a long journey for those who don’t have the luxury of travelling by Portal Network.

The daily passenger coach to Crelt doesn’t actually enter the City; it waits for its riders a hundred yards outside. I’ll pass through the Gate on foot. That queue thankfully (or not) contains only half a dozen people. I check the time; we’re fifteen minutes early. Not the slightest risk of missing the coach.

“Well,” says Edward. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”

“I guess it is,” I agree.

“I’ll miss you. Try not to get yourself killed before the start of term.”

“I’m hardly likely to – “

“There are people who would have motivation to assassinate you. And wherever you’re staying is going to be substantially less secure than the Academy.”

I blink a few times and glance around. No-one seems to be paying attention to our conversation, thankfully. “You won’t have that problem, at least. But don’t even think about dying on me.”

He laughs. “As you wish, my lady. Enjoy Holy Days, and may your path to our next meeting be guided by the stars.” He bows theatrically.

“May you walk there under starlit skies,” I say. “See you next year.”

Edward rises, nods once, and walks away. I watch him go until a woman snaps “You in the queue, or what, girl?”

I stammer a hasty apology and shuffle forward a few steps, feeling more alone than I have in a long time.

I can’t hide my identity from the guard checking everyone’s papers are in order before they leave the City. But he’s professional enough, thankfully, and lets me pass with nothing more than an initial look of surprise.

I was a little worried the coach would be hard to find, but it’s not at all. There’s half a dozen people gathered outside it already; it seats twice that number, I recall, though not without being somewhat cramped.

I study my travelling-companions. An old lady leaning on a cane, a pair of burly men, a thin woman with a child – her son, I guess – of about four, and a younger woman in a plain neat dress not unlike my own. None seem particularly inclined to make conversation, which I’m glad of.

I have A History of the Kings of Rasin in my satchel along with food and drink; I’m hoping that I can lose myself in the book and forget the discomfort of my surroundings throughout the journey. It’s never failed me yet.

There are people who would have motivation to assassinate you. I don’t think Edward realised the effect those words would have on me; he wouldn’t have said them if he did. But now I’m wondering which of my fellow travellers could have concealed weapons. Which of them could have been hired by some unknown party to ensure my death.

I wonder what those motivations are. I don’t have enemies – except for Mildred, I suppose. But she wouldn’t resort to murder, I don’t think. Not unless she’s been driven half-mad by what happened, and the few times I’ve seen her since she hasn’t seemed quite that broken.

But the Blackthorns have more enemies than there are stars in the sky, it seems sometimes. And it’s quite likely some of them know how close Edward is to me. What my death would do to him. That would perhaps be worth contracting an assassin.

Stars.

We wait for ten minutes, and are joined by a red-headed man in a suit and an elderly couple. I relax a little; I can’t spend the next few weeks terrified that everyone I see could be trying to kill me. Edward is just being his usual paranoid self. At least, I hope he is.

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Then our driver, a young man who looks out of place in his smart uniform, jumps down from his perch on top of the coach and says “All aboard! All aboard for the journey to Crelt!”

I let the others climb in first – partly because I’m not in a rush, partly because that way I can get a seat in the outer corner and avoid being squashed between other people. I succeed in that goal, and with a few people still to arrive I have just enough room to extract A History of the Kings of Rasin from my bag.

I’m already only half-aware of my surroundings when the coach starts moving. I try to glance outside every few minutes – part of our route is supposed to be quite scenic, and I haven’t travelled it before – but that resolution lasts a predictably short time. A couple of hundred years of history later, I realise suddenly that the sun is directly overhead and I’m rather hungry.

Fortunately I did plan for this scenario, and grabbed a pastry from a street vendor on the walk. And it’s even still warm, thanks to Edward casting an enchantment on the bag I kept it in. Having a friend who’s better at magic than I am has its advantages, though I still wish I’d known that enchantment myself. It seems far more practical than much of what we’ve learnt in class.

The coach is more cramped than it was earlier, but with a little stretching I’m able to extract the pastry from my satchel without elbowing my neighbours. And better still we’ve reached a part of the scenic area I wanted to see: the road runs besides the Great River.

The river is too treacherous to travel by boat, not to mention that it forms part of the border between Rasin and Sirgal in some stretches. But the gorge in which it flows is beautiful. Just the colours of the soil and rocks, shades of orange and brown and grey of a kind not normally seen…

I drink in the view as I munch my pastry. It’s not a meal it’s possible to eat elegantly, and I’m a little conscious of the disapproving stares of the elderly couple sitting opposite me. I try not to let it bother me. But it’s hard not to be bothered by that, or the way the mid-day sun glares directly into my face, or the stiffness I can feel building up in my legs.

I try to focus on my food and the river to distract myself. A pair of swans are swimming down the river parallel to us. Or rather, floating: they’re going downstream, and the current is strong enough to carry them along without their needing to even paddle. I’m a little jealous of how freely and easily they can travel.

This is why Edward always complains about our being unable to teleport. That would make this journey and others like it trivial. But it’s illegal for us to even begin to learn before we’re qualified magicians. And I’ve heard enough horror stories about botched teleportation accidents to understand why.

That doesn’t bother Edward as much as it does me. But that’s hardly a surprise; magic isn’t something Edward could ever be truly scared of.

The swans bob along, ignorant of my worries and discomforts. I’m jealous in a new way. Their life is so simple; when did mine become so complicated?

By the time I’ve finished my lunch, the coach has veered away from the river into a thick forest. It used to be a true spirit-forest, if various historical sources I’ve encountered are reliable. I wonder what it takes to kill the spirit of a forest. It can’t be pretty.

There have been rumours this place is now haunted for the last century at least. I don’t believe in ghosts, but the shadows and the shapes of the trees have an eerie effect that makes me understand part of where the rumours come from. I resolve never to wander around a forest like this at night.

But it’s day, and we see nothing more frightening than a trio of deer who seem terrified of us to judge by the way they flee into the woods the moment they notice our approach, and hear nothing scarier than birdsong. I stuff the pastry bag away and return to the History.

Maybe fifty pages later, I read something that gives me pause: an account of a battle in the Second Civil War that took place not far from where we must be, which claims that large remnants of Felix Blackthorn’s defeated army fled into this very forest. And were never seen again.

It’s unclear whether that happened before or after the forest’s spirit was killed. If it was before, then that outcome is no surprise given how spirit-forests tend to react to intruders who fail to show them the appropriate respect. If it was after, though… what was lurking here that could destroy half an army?

And what could still be lurking here now?

As if on cue, I feel the carriage shudder to a halt. There are several exclamations of surprise from my fellow passengers, some more uncouth than others. I try to stay calm; there isn’t anything I can do without drawing attention to myself, which I’d rather not do.

It’s a minute or two of anxious waiting and listening to anxious whispers before the driver leans down to give us the bad news: one of the horses has gone lame, and the other can’t drag the coach alone. We’re not going anywhere without help.

The nearest town is maybe an hour’s ride. The driver says he’ll set off with the good horse at once.

“What, and leave us here to fend for ourselves?” one of the old women asks, outraged. “It’s getting dark. Two hours we’ll be stuck in the middle of the haunted starry forest on our own in the dark.”

“We don’t have any choice,” the driver points out. “But the coach carries two torches for emergencies. I’ll get them lit up and handed out before I go.” He jumps from his perch and goes to fetch them.

“And what if there are wolves?” the woman continues. “Does anyone even have weapons?”

One of the burly men raises his hand. “Me and Frank are on leave from the army. We’ll take care of it. I’ll fetch swords from our trunks.”

“Besides,” adds the other old woman, as we rearrange ourselves to allow Frank’s companion to clamber over to where the trunks are stored, “wolves aren’t likely to attack a large group of people with torches.”

“Wolves?” asks the young boy. “Mummy, are we going to be eaten by wolves?”

“No, dear,” his mother says, though she doesn’t look reassured. “The soldier men will protect us. And tomorrow you can tell Granny and Grandpa all about the adventure we’ve had!”

“This isn’t an adventure. It’s just dark and scary. I don’t want to be eaten by wolves.”

“It’ll be okay,” she says soothingly, but I can see the panic in her eyes.

My own thoughts are probably a bit different to those of my fellow travellers. As a magician, I’m better equipped for a situation like this than others. I don’t need torches to make a light that will let me see and keep predators away, and I know enough offensive spells to convince a wolf that I’m too much effort to kill if I have to (though a whole pack would be somewhat harder).

So I’m torn between wondering how I can best help us all and whether just revealing myself as a magician would do something to reassure people, and knowing that doing that will attract exactly the sort of attention I desperately want to avoid. A dark-skinned girl sitting quietly in a corner might not be worthy of a second glance, but once people know I’m a magician their realising who I am is almost inevitable.

The torches are lit and attached to the sides of the coach, the swords are found and the two soldiers take up guard positions, and the driver climbs onto the good horse and rides off into the distance, all while I sit in the corner, uncertain.

The young boy begins to cry. His mother is holding him tight, but he can’t be consoled. I can understand why. But the old woman who complained earlier is shooting him disdainful looks. It can’t be long before this turns into something ugly.

Unless I do something.

I lean forward in my seat and lower my head until I’m at the same level as the boy opposite. “Can I tell you a secret?” I ask.

The mother shoots me a questioning look, but the boy pulls his head from her coat and nods once.

“In the ugly darkness,” I whisper. The incantation feels appropriate today. Instead of summoning a palm-sized orb of light, though, I produce something smaller: a ball I can close my hand around, so that only the faintest traces of light escape through the gaps in between my fingers.

Then I hold my hand out to the boy. “I can do magic,” I say softly.