Charles First-King. Edwin the Just.

No. Stars, no. She wasn’t supposed to know. It didn’t even occur to me that of course she’d read a newspaper and of course she’d react strongly to seeing her daughter’s name in the pages. What exactly did they say? How much did she know? The incident with Mildred came up, didn’t it? After all the effort I went to to keep that from her…

Stars. I can already feel my breathing quickening, that familiar sense of unreality descending. Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender. Eleanor the Bold.

I can’t do this. I can’t walk into the headmaster’s office and see her and know she knows everything. After the way we parted…

“Tallulah?”

Timothy the Peacemaker. It takes me a moment to recognise Elsie’s voice. I focus on the sound she makes, the way she says my name. I use that to anchor me to reality.

“Tallulah, are you okay?”

“I think she’s – we should call someone – “

“No!” I spit, more angrily than I meant to. “I am not having an active episode.” The act of speaking helps a little. Maria the Seafarer. Breathe. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I just…”

“Bad news?” Elizabeth asks.

It shouldn’t be bad news, but it is. “You… could say that. Yes. It was just… unexpected. That’s all. I’ll be okay.”

I’m lying. The thought of seeing her does not get any better now that I’m prepared for it; if anything, it gets worse.

How long can I afford to delay? I have to go – stars know what she’ll do if I don’t – but I have to stay away for the sake of avoiding an active episode. Maybe if I wait a little, until this passive one has passed, I’ll be protected from it when I go.

Five minutes, I tell myself, picking up my fork. Five more minutes.

It’s ten, in the end, before I finish eating and set off for the headmaster’s office. I’ve run through the entire list of kings in my head and am considering starting again from Charles First-King. I do feel calm, though: that emotional damping that always follows an episode has set in. I will need every bit of it for what’s to come.

For once I find myself wishing the Academy had more stairs, or that I hadn’t been to the office before so I could have the excuse of getting lost, or even that I’d been injured more severely in the riot so that I physically couldn’t walk to her. No, that would be worse; then she’d come to me, and I wouldn’t have this scrap of control over the meeting.

I barely even notice the pain of dragging myself through the ancient corridors, and it seems to take almost no time before I’m outside the headmaster’s door. I can’t hear her voice, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the wards around his office prevented sound from leaving it.

I count to ten. Then do it again. Shuffle another step closer to the door, lean awkwardly on one crutch to free my other hand to knock. Hesitate a second longer.

She’s my mother. No matter what, she’s my mother. She deserves to see me.

I can’t stop her from seeing me because I’m too afraid to face her.

I knock.

“Enter.”

Neither of them comes to help me open the door, so I have to struggle with it myself. That buys me a few more seconds before I’m inside and it shuts behind me.

The headmaster is sitting at his desk, his face carefully blank. “Thank you for coming, Tallulah,” he says blandly.

My mother is sitting in the chair opposite; she turns it to face me. I can’t read her expression; for some reason I’ve always struggled to guess her emotions. “Tallulah,” she says.

“…Hi, Mum.”

“Tallulah, what has happened to you?”

I doubt she means the obvious physical change, but that’s easier to explain than anything else. “Got caught up in a riot and trampled half to death,” I say. “But I’m okay now. It’ll only be another week or so before I don’t need these crutches.”

“You know what they’re saying about you?”

I nod.

“That you attacked Lady Cavendish in a mad rage. That you told the Black Raven to his face that he was wrong. That you’re friends with his son.”

“I didn’t attack Mildred,” I protest. It’s pedantry on my part, because the only reason for it was that Electra was there to stop me, but I can’t just let that go unprotested.

“That is not my daughter.”

Deceitful, ungrateful brat, and no daughter of mine. Stars. Words bubble up before I have a chance to think: “I guess you didn’t know me as well as you thought, then.”

She flinches, and I feel a strange blend of satisfaction and guilt at the sight. “Clearly,” she says. “Clearly I did not. I can’t understand it. You were… you were doing so well. Everything I wanted for you. And then you threw it all away, for…” she gestures incoherently.

“I didn’t choose this!” I snap. “That’s not how it works!”

“Then what in stars’ names happened? You hadn’t been through trauma. There was no reason – “

She’s right. She’s right, and yet she still doesn’t understand at all. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t understand it, either. But… whatever happened. Whatever I did. This was not my intention.” I pray she believes me.

Mother composes herself and then says: “Even that doesn’t explain everything you’ve been doing since! And you never told me any of it.”

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“I’m sorry,” is all I can find to say. I knew you wouldn’t like it. I didn’t want to have to deal with your reaction. I should have told her before; I was foolish to think she would never find out, and now all I’ve done is make it worse.

“You should be,” she snaps. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to find out all that from the starry newspapers?”

“No,” I say, “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you’re sorry, are you? That makes it so much better, does it?”

That hurts. My eyes are stinging. I’m not going to cry in front of her. “It’s true,” I say. “Even if it doesn’t help. Even if you don’t believe me. It’s true.”

She purses her lips and stares at me for a long moment. The pain is getting worse; I should sit down. Asking for a chair at this point in the conversation feels wrong, though. I can deal with it.

The silence drags on long enough to be awkward. What am I supposed to say? I just want to leave and collapse on my bed to cry, but…

“Well,” she says finally. “What are we going to do now?”

“I… I don’t know,” I say.

“How are your studies going?”

I shrug. “Well enough, I suppose. There aren’t really grades, it’s a pass-fail system. And there haven’t been tests yet, either.”

“No tests?” Mother says, turning to face the headmaster. I’d almost forgotten he was there; he’s been trying to fade into the background.

“Not yet,” he says smoothly. “There will be a full set of mock exams at the end of each term, but don’t forget your daughter and her classmates are new to the study of magic, and everyone learns it at a different rate. We’ve found it’s not productive to have students worrying about tests when they should be worrying about making sure they understand the basic principles. If you’re interested in monitoring your daughter’s progress, I can arrange for her teachers to write reports and send them to you.”

No, I want to tell him. Please don’t. I remember only too well every report and test at Genford, Mother never being satisfied by anything less than perfection. I’m a long way from perfection right now. Maybe I should ask Edward to help me consolidate the material we’re learning now rather than teach me new things? He won’t like that, though. I can already hear his voice: but nothing we’ve covered so far is even that interesting.

“I would like that very much,” Mother says, predictably. “Where is she compared to the others in her class?”

“I think what you need to take into account is that several of her classmates are Siaril, and so have known their whole lives they would be magicians, have spent years on preparatory study. Expecting your daughter to be on the same level as them is unrealistic – “

“So they have a head start,” Mother says sceptically. “That shouldn’t mean much. Tallulah is brilliant. She learns so quickly, and she has an excellent work ethic – “

I stare at her in silent disbelief. She’s never told me that. It’s always been “you should work harder” or “why are you still reading that book? That’s not related to the curriculum. You should be revising for your maths test.”

Does she really think – and if she does why did she never tell me that –

“Be that as it may,” the headmaster continues in a placid monotone, “I don’t think you understand quite who you’re expecting your daughter to compete with.”

“Edward Blackthorn, Mildred Cavendish, Robin Wilde,” I say. “I sit with Edward in most classes. I am never going to be able to compete with him.” Surely she can at least understand that?

“I want to meet him,” Mother says.

I can’t work out if I’m pleased or horrified by that idea. Pleased, because having him here with me would make this a thousand times easier. Horrified, because I don’t want either of them to meet and hate the other. “I don’t know where he is,” I say, focusing on the practical. “And if I did – “ I gesture at my crutches – “I’d really rather not have to fetch him.”

“Of course. I will send him a note at once.”

“If he agrees to come,” I add.

“The Academy’s rules state he must.”

He’s unlikely to enjoy being summoned, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it.

The headmaster reaches for a piece of notepaper, scribbles something and folds it neatly. I don’t see him casting anything, but the note takes flight as soon as his hands leave, pressing itself into the door. “Open the door for it, would you?”

Yes, make the girl on crutches do it. What an excellent idea. I keep my sarcasm to myself and obey orders.

“While we’re waiting for him, would you care for a drink of tea?” the headmaster asks.

“No sugar,” Mother replies.

I don’t know whether the offer is open to me, so I stay silent.

“Very good. I will make it at once.” He gets to his feet and strides past me and out of the office. The kitchen staff must be able to provide drinks and snacks for him and his guests; it’s no more than an excuse to escape this room.

I can’t blame him.

My eyes catch on his empty chair. How much trouble would I be in if I took it while he was gone? I consider it for a second and then decide it’s worth it to rest my pain-filled legs. I hobble around the table and sit down. The relief of it is wonderfully sweet.

I don’t meet Mother’s eyes. I can’t.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” she asks.

“I really am sorry. For not telling you about the… isolation… before. I thought – it would only worry you, and I thought it would work out in the end – and it did.”

“Did you tell your father?” she asks.

That is a dangerous question. “No,” I say, because it’s the truth: Electra told him.

“You’re too good for your family now, is that it? Now that you’re hanging around with Blackthorns and the like?”

“No. No!” I’m not good enough for you.

“Then why?”

“Like I said: I didn’t want to worry you.”

“And a fine job of that you’ve done, Tallulah. We’re your parents. It’s our job to worry about you, to support you when you need us.”

“Well, you haven’t done a very good one.”

I didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped out before I had the chance to think.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I should feel guilty. I should be saying I didn’t mean it, that it came out wrong, that it’s not what I really think. But instead I just feel… relieved. Free. Like I’ve been wanting to say that for a long time. Because I did mean it. Because it’s true.

“I knew it was happening,” I say, the words coming out in a rush. “Falling. Before it was too late. Do you remember the night before?”

She stares at me, unmoving. Finally, she’s listening to me.

“I got detention for forgetting my English essay. You were furious. I should have been better than that. I should have known not to make a mistake so careless. I needed to take that essay in and force him to grade it.”

“What… what does that have to do with anything?”

“I knew then. And I wanted to tell you. But how could I, after that?”

“Are you saying all this is my fault?” she asks, disbelief and anger filling her voice.

“I – “ I want to say no. It’s what I’ve always done: you shouldn’t blame others for your own weakness, for something you could have prevented. But this strange new part of me wants to say yes.

Before I can decide the door swings open: the headmaster has returned. “Here you are, Mrs Roberts,” he says, stepping in. “One tea – what are you doing in my chair?”

“I’m sorry. My ankle. It hurts when I stand for too long. Please let me stay here.” I hate how vulnerable I sound, but I’m not even sure I could stand up again, let alone remain standing for the rest of this confrontation.

“Of course,” he says. “I’m so sorry. You should have said something sooner.”

You should have offered.

His return has broken the tension between us, leaving only an awkward silence.

Mother picks up her teacup and blows across the surface of the tea to cool it. “I hope this Blackthorn boy doesn’t intend to keep me waiting too long.”

“He can be… rather stubborn when he wants to be, I’m afraid. Doesn’t have much respect for authority. Not a surprise, really.”

I dig my nails into my palms to stop myself speaking in Edward’s defence. I can hear his matter-of-fact voice in my mind: Respect has to be earned. And so far, you have not done so.

“Not at all the sort I’d expect Tallulah to become friends with.”

That one I’ve at least heard before. “As we’ve already established,” I say, because I can’t hold my silence any longer, “you don’t know me as well as you thought.”

It at least silences her, though I’m not sure the oppressiveness of this particular silence is much of an improvement. Much though I hate to admit it, I fail to see how adding Edward to this situation will make it any better. I’m a little scared of how far he might go in my defence.

The room is silent other than Mother sipping her tea, until after what’s probably only a minute or two there’s a short, sharp knock at the door.