The others believe my story. They don’t really have a choice when none of them are prepared to go into the forest themselves. And I can understand why: if I wasn’t a magician, there’s a good chance that creature would have killed me.

Better still, they largely leave me alone. I’m not sure why, though I think at least some people are feeling guilty about sending me into a dangerous situation. But I’m definitely pleased about it: the less I interact with these people, the less likely they are to make the connection between the young dark-skinned magician girl in front of them and Tallulah Roberts. I’m painfully aware that it would take only a few pointed questions to make my false identity crumble.

Even Matthew leaves me alone at his mother’s insistence. At least he’s not crying any more. At least something good came of this mess.

I keep seeing the creature in my mind, over and over again. I’ve started using that word instead of monster. When it was considering me, it seemed thoughtful rather than predatory. It had at least some intelligence and some understanding that violence isn’t the only answer.

Either that, or it decided that I would defeat it in a fight. Which is an absurd idea… except I remember Edward’s fight with Electra under the influence of the anomaly. Someone that powerful who knew what that thing was and how to fight it would be a real threat.

But that would require the creature somehow identifying the anomaly. If I only knew what it was… I feel the urge to run all the way to the nearest library again. I supress it by returning to the book I do have with me, casting a dim spell-light to read by.

I struggle to lose myself in history, for once. It’s something about the loss of the natural light, the feeling that my light and the light of the torches are isolated islands in a sea of darkness. And how alone I’m feeling, knowing that there’s no-one here I can trust and rely on but myself.

And the awful thoughts that keep drifting into my mind: if there are monsters in the forest, are our lights really enough to keep them away? The driver went alone. What if something happened to him, and we’re waiting for someone who isn’t coming back? What if one of those assassins Edward was half-joking about decides that now is a good time to strike?

It takes me too long to notice that the feeling of general worry and fear has built into something greater. My heart is beating too quickly, and the fear is starting to fade into something abstract, a stranger’s feelings. Maybe, I think distantly, I’m the real monster after all.

Charles First-King. Edwin the Just. I have just the presence of mind to extinguish my light, which is flickering rapidly, before it does something that would give me away. Electra told me once that entering an episode while actively maintaining a spell makes it far more likely to become an active one, because the magic has such an easy outlet.

Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender. Eleanor the Bold. I try to focus on breathing. Sometimes just trying to be more aware of reality helps, but not this time. I don’t feel safe in this reality. And I don’t have a way out of this situation. Or anyone here to help me.

Timothy the Peacemaker. Maria the Seafarer.

I think of Edward’s voice again. Try not to get yourself killed. He didn’t say anything about active episodes there, but I can pretend he did. The outcome of an active episode here and now might not be that much better than death – no. No, I shouldn’t think about that, it’ll only make things worse –

I’m running out of time –

Richard Blackbeard. Lucy the Fair. There has to be something I can do. I’m not letting it end like this. Not after everything I’ve survived. I can’t have an active episode right now.

That’s not the right way of thinking about it. Fighting Malaina with sheer force of will is doomed to failure. It’s not how things are supposed to work.

The same way reaching a flow state through sheer force of will isn’t how things are supposed to work.

Suddenly my heart rate slows, and I begin to breathe calmly and slowly. The feeling of unreality doesn’t go anywhere. I’m still a spectator in my own body, watching as it’s influenced by a powerful magical force beyond my control. But I know with a certainty I can’t justify that this isn’t Malaina.

The anomaly can save me from Malaina episodes. That’s the answer to my problems. I have perfect control now, to the extent that were I to work on trying to write with an animated quill I’m certain my handwriting would be flawless. All I have to do right now is pretend everything is normal, which won’t be at all hard, since I’m completely okay again.

“In the ugly – “ I whisper, intending to cast my light-spell again. And then I stop. This is not okay. This is not normal. Anything that can supress a Malaina episode like this is immensely powerful – and immensely dangerous.

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The moment I realise that I feel a familiar quickening of my heart again. Malaina is still there, just… held back. Alfred the Short. I focus on breathing. Slowly, steadily. Gradually, the sensation passes. But I don’t know if the anomaly is still keeping the worst of the episode away. I don’t know if it’s still influencing my mind.

The uncertainty is a sign that it isn’t, I decide: the intoxicating thing about it is the confidence and certainty it gives me. The feeling that I’m capable of whatever I need to do. I don’t feel like that right now. I feel lost and alone and afraid, and I can’t even trust my own mind.

I’m myself again. Stars help me.

I wait for what I assume is a couple of minutes just to be sure, and then risk the light-spell. It works normally: no flickers, just a dim silvery-grey light. I return to my book.

I’m feeling something that I very much hope is the emotional dampening that follows a Malaina episode, and I’m glad of it. The fears and worries and uncertainties can’t consume me right now. They’ll come back to haunt me before too long, I suspect, but with any luck by then we’ll have at least made it out of this stars-forsaken forest.

I return to A History of the Kings of Rasin, and this time lose myself in its pages without noticeable difficulty.

After what might have been a few minutes or a few hours, I’m startled from my history-induced daze by the sound of hoofbeats. Someone is coming for us. We’re going to escape the forest. I smile.

It is indeed our salvation: the driver has returned, with three horses and a companion. He’s greeted with scattered cheers from the travellers. The driver and the other man work efficiently to hitch two of the horses to the coach and untether the lame one, which makes me realise why the third horse is there: the other man intends to lead the lame horse out of the forest.

I’m glad that’s the case. I wouldn’t wish being abandoned in this place on my worst enemy, never mind an innocent horse.

Regardless, within ten minutes of rescue arriving the coach is moving once again.

It’s nearly eight after noon before we reach the inn, and we’re all desperate to get a good meal and then sleep in a quiet room with not a monster to be found. The room is included in the coach booking, though food isn’t.

One of the soldiers suggests we should all share a meal together, to celebrate making it out of the forest. I want to refuse, but enough people agree it’s a good idea that I don’t feel like I can. We stumble stiffly out of the coach and into the inn, with apologies for our lateness and explanations of what happened.

The innkeeper is a large woman with short curly black hair and a warm smile. She explains that the inn stopped serving food half an hour ago, but she’ll make an exception for us if we’re willing to wait for everything to be cooked from scratch. And while we’re waiting, why don’t we go settle into our rooms?

We order our meals and then line up to receive our room keys from a boy of about thirteen who must be the innkeeper’s son. The soldiers are at the front of the queue, and the boy asks one of them to sign the inn’s register before they can collect the key.

Which might be a problem for someone who, say, happens to be travelling under a false name. I’m thankful for the lingering emotional damping. Would it be illegal to sign the register using a name not my own? I know it’s against the law to do that on official documents, but I can’t remember exactly how that law defined official documents.

Is it worth the risk? The alternative is to sign with my real name and hope that none of the other travellers are sufficiently nosy to notice it. What are the odds? If I knew for sure that using a false name was illegal, I’d have to use my real one – and ignorance of the law is not a defence, I remind myself – and I can’t exactly ask the innkeeper whether it would be legal. I’ll have to use my real name.

I do so when it’s my turn. My trembling hand unintentionally obscures my signature, though not to the extent that it could be plausibly mistaken for anything involving Alice. In exchange I’m rewarded with a key to the first scraps of privacy I’ve had since leaving the Academy this morning. It was definitely worth paying extra for my own room, even if it was more expensive than I’d have liked.

By the time I’ve hauled my trunk upstairs, the exhaustion of the day is catching up to me. I’m very tempted to just collapse on the bed fully clothed and not move until the next morning. But I do need to eat; tomorrow will be another nightmare if I don’t. Reluctantly, I leave the room, lock my door and return to the inn’s common room.

I’m painfully aware that a locked door isn’t much of an obstacle to a sufficiently determined magician. It’s a wonder that more magicians don’t use their powers to commit theft; but then I suppose there are plenty of legal ways to use magic to make a respectable sum of money, and besides anything truly valuable would be protected by wards.

While I was gone a keg of beer was brought out for the weary travellers; the innkeeper is offering it for free to help us recover from our ordeal in the forest. I do appreciate the gesture, but I wish she could have chosen something else. I couldn’t legally partake in the drink for another few weeks even if I wanted to, and I really don’t want to be around a large number of drunk people right now.

I sit down in the corner with Matthew and his mother, who I assume are also intending to remain sober – well, I very much hope a toddler is not going to be getting drunk, and it would be irresponsible of the person responsible for said toddler, anyway.

Matthew is dealing with the day surprisingly well; I don’t quite know how much credit to give to my magic for that and how much to his mother’s patience and his own resilience. But he’s tired now, and is leaning on his mother as if she’s a comfortable pillow. I know how he feels.

It hits me then, looking at the two of them, that I’ll never be able to rely on my mother for that sort of comfort again. I don’t regret my choices about that, not at all, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss the person she used to be.

Our food seems to take forever to arrive. It’s getting later, and people are getting drunker, and I just want this ordeal of a day to be over. I wish it wasn’t rude to read A History of the Kings of Rasin at the table, so at least I’d have something to distract myself with. Instead I just stare at the wall and wait.

When my steak finally arrives, I wolf it down as quickly as I can (which isn’t very, despite my hunger), bid my fellow travellers goodnight, and flee to my room. I’m asleep almost instantly.