Creak. Creak.

I roll over and press my head into the pillow. If I don’t acknowledge the noise, it’ll go away, and then I can go back to sleep.

Creak. Creak.

It doesn’t work like that. It’s a rhythmic, repetitive creaking, moving past and away from me, but it isn’t stopping. I roll back to my original, more comfortable position. Even without opening my eyes, I can tell it’s light. Bright enough that it must be gone eight; I’ll be late for school.

That doesn’t particularly worry me.

Creak. Creak.

There’s a faint scent of soap in the air. The sound of footsteps. The pillow feels strange, now I think of it; I don’t like mine fluffed too much but this one is as soft and fluffy as they come. And the duvet is thick enough I’m a little warm.

I can’t summon the energy to be worried about any of this. I’m not tired, exactly, but the darkness of sleep feels warm and inviting and close. I don’t really want to be awake.

Creak. Creak.

It had stopped for a little while, long enough I thought it was gone, but now it’s moving back towards me. It’s not going to leave me alone, is it? I should wake up.

It takes me a few attempts to open my eyes, and then I have to shut them again because the sudden light pains them. I want to hide under the covers where it’s dark and safe.

My eyes adjust quickly, though, and once they do it’s not hard to tell where I am: a hospital ward. There are about fifteen beds, including mine, all of them occupied except possibly a couple hidden from view by curtains. It’s sparse but clean. There’s a window almost directly opposite my bed, through which sunlight streams.

I turn my head to see the source of the creaking: a wooden trolley, made of material old enough to protest its use, pushed by a harried-looking young nurse.

Then I hear a familiar sigh. It takes a little effort to turn myself over to see what’s on the other side of my bed. A table and chair, ugly but functional. There’s nothing on the table but a jug of water and a glass. In the chair sits my dad.

He hasn’t realised I’m awake; he’s leaning forwards, head in hands, staring into space. I can’t remember seeing him look this tired and defeated before.

“Dad,” I say. My voice doesn’t quite work the first time, so I have to repeat myself. It still comes out as a croaky rasp.

He turns to look at me immediately, a rush of emotions flickering across his face before he settles into an expression of open calmness. “Tallulah,” he says. His voice isn’t as well-controlled as his face, and I hear a note of rawness. “Are you – “

Well, I imagine he meant to finish that question, or all right? But he can’t, because it’s a stupid question. Of course I’m not all right.

It hits me then: why I’m here. What happened to me. What I did.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Other than you? No. Just a girl’s book and jacket burnt, and most of a tree. Magicians arrived and put the flames out within a few minutes.”

“Good,” I say. It still doesn’t quite feel real. I remember some of it, I think, as though it were a dream. The flames dancing along the branches of the oak tree, the way the leaves turned black and crumbled and the specks of ash fell from the sky and landed on my uniform.

“As for you, only a few minor burns. Nothing that won’t fix itself within a few weeks.”

I choke out a hoarse, bitter laugh. This isn’t going to fix itself, not within a few weeks or ever. I’ve Fallen. I’m Malaina, now: a magician forever one step away from being a monster.

“Would you like some water?” he asks.

He doesn’t know how to deal with this any more than I do, I realise.

“Yes,” I reply, “please.”

He pours me a glass. I push myself up and lean back against the headboard, wincing at a dull stab of pain from my left hand, and take it from him.

I sip in silence for a while. Something is messing with my mind. I should be horrified at what I did, or devastated for what I’ve lost, or terrified about my future and whether I even have one. Instead I just feel… numb.

Is this normal for Malaina? I suddenly realise how little I know. Magic born of trauma, magic that feeds on the magician’s fear and anger and when those emotions are too strong takes destructive action of its own. Magic that can consume the magician completely and turn them into the monsters known as mala sia.

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That’s about the sum total of my knowledge about the power I now possess – or the power that possesses me. Well, I know a little about researching things. “Could you get me books?” I ask. “About…” I hesitate: saying it makes it real. I’m being silly, of course. It’s already real, whether I want it to be or not. “Malaina.”

My dad smiles without any real warmth. “I knew you’d ask that. I’ve already been to the Crelt public library.”

Crelt is the city where my dad works, its centre about forty minutes’ walk from home. I watch my dad expectantly, but he makes no move to produce a stack of books.

“And?” I ask after a few seconds.

“The books you’re looking for don’t exist, Tallulah. Most of what I found was magical theory. A few memoirs – one of time working on the mala sia taskforce, and one of a doctor in one of the asylums. I skimmed that one but it’s really not what you’re looking for.”

“Nothing about… what it’s like? To live with it?”

He shakes his head.

No books. I guess a thick volume entitled So You’ve Fallen; Now What? and setting out in detail the answer to that question was too much to hope for, but you’d think there’d at least be something.

“Tallulah… why?”

I don’t need to ask why what. We’re done dancing around reality, then. I drain the last of my water and set the glass down on the table beside me, a little harder than necessary. My dad jumps, and then tries very hard to look like he wasn’t startled.

“I don’t know. I just… I couldn’t go on like I was any longer.”

“Were the other students – were you bullied?”

“No.” Nothing so obvious.

“One of the teachers – “

“No!” I repeat more firmly.

“Okay,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay. Then what?”

I know how Malaina usually works. I’m supposed to have a story of how I’ve been relentlessly bullied and abused and generally mistreated for years until I finally snapped and fought back. Instead I have a story of how I forgot to hand in homework and was asked for help by a girl who should have known the answers herself.

“Really. I don’t know. I don’t understand it.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t believe me. There’s the note of scepticism in his voice, but he’s not questioning me further. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Oh, now you’re here? Now it’s too late? I silence the bitter voice in the back of my mind. It’s not because of him I’m here. “Thanks,” I force myself to say. “And Mum?”

His face turns grim. “She… won’t be visiting you here.”

I imagine her reaction when she heard what had happened. Mrs Roberts, it appears your daughter has taken up arson and developed destructive magic. “What happened?”

“She was rather concerned – “

“Tell me,” I insist.

He flinches away from me. “All right,” he says. “You won’t like it.”

“Tell me,” I repeat.

“She insisted to anyone who would listen and several people who wouldn’t that the reports of the event were false, that the girl who witnessed it was lying for attention and the fire was an accident – “

I grimace. Chloe and Ruby’s father is one of the richest merchants in the country; he won’t have taken kindly to having his daughter accused of lying for attention. My dad nods. “It was as much as I could do to avoid legal trouble. Once she finally got it into her head that it wasn’t a lie, she called you several unpleasant things – “

“What?”

He’s quiet for a second.

“I need to know.”

“A deceitful, ungrateful brat who didn’t know opportunity when it was handed to her on a silver platter, and no daughter of hers.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe I didn’t need to hear that. His words pierce through the numbness and assault my mind. Words, so the saying goes, have as much power over you as you grant them.

If that’s the case, I have granted these words the power to do a great deal of hurt.

“She’ll come round,” my dad continues quickly. “It’s just the shock of it all. She still loves you.”

He’s just telling me what I want to hear. I want the truth, however much it hurts, whatever it does to me.

Then I understand why he’s doing that, why he’s been flinching every time I raise my voice or he tells me something bad.

He’s afraid of Malaina. He’s afraid of what I could do.

Sacred stars, my own father is afraid of me.

The only thing worse than that understanding is the fact I don’t even know if he’s wrong to be afraid.

“The hospital staff asked me something when I came here,” he says after a short silence. “They said that… normally Malaina doesn’t happen just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “It’s a gradual process. There’s warning. You know it’s coming.”

I nod. “Three times, since end-of-year-exams. But I didn’t realise at first what it was. I didn’t think I’m the sort of person who would…” I let the sentence trail off; it’s preferable to finishing it.

“But you knew before it happened?”

I nod. “Since yester – “ I stop as I realise something I should have thought about a lot earlier. “What day is it?”

“Fourth of the Hunter’s Moon. About ten and twenty. There’s a clock in the hospital’s reception, if you want a more precise answer.”

I shrug. “No. That’s fine.” I’ve slept for nearly a whole day. It’s silly after everything that’s happened, but losing a day is jarring. “I’ve known since the second, then.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“You weren’t there to tell,” I say with a sudden flash of anger. The strange numbness must be beginning to fade now.

He flinches back again, but it’s different this time. It’s not fear of me, it’s that my words have struck him.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“Don’t apologise. I’ve failed as a father if I couldn’t notice what was happening to my own daughter.”

“Even I didn’t notice,” I reply. “It’s not your fault.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not. But if I had been there when you needed me… couldn’t we have worked something out together? Couldn’t we have prevented this?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think it works like that. Once you’re having the initial…” I struggle to find the right word, “episodes, it’s got its claws into you. You’re going to Fall, sooner or later.”

I don’t know how it really works, but I’m fairly sure what I just said is a blatant lie.

My dad isn’t the only one who can tell someone what they want to hear, instead of what’s true.

“Regardless,” he says. “I’m sorry. I hope I can make it up to you somehow.”

“I hope so too.” But it’s not his words that I hear, it’s what he doesn’t say. I hope I can be a better father. I hope I can look after you.

“There’s a woman,” he says, “who wants to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“Says she’s from a magic school, and she knows some things about Malaina. Wouldn’t tell me anything else, wants to talk to you directly first. If you’re up to it?”

I’m not sure I am – I’m not sure I ever will be – but talking to someone who might actually be able to answer my questions sounds an awful lot better than being left alone with them eating away at my mind. “Yes,” I say, “I think so.”

“I’ll fetch her, then.” He stands smoothly. “Just – she’s a bit – “ He pauses, searching for words, long enough that I ask “A bit what?”

“Eccentric? I’m not sure that fits. You’ll see.”