When we entered the outer office, Miller jumped up from his chair to ask if everything was all right. Wuller waved him down again.

“Jolie’s power activated,” the headmaster explained. “Mr. Vasil wanted to make sure that there was another witness for the Torr. Now, would you please hold any calls and put off any visitors, Mr. Miller. We’re taking a short tea break.”

The top part of Miller’s body jerked with his nod.

We went inside Wuller’s office. He closed the door behind us and walked over to the sideboard beside his desk. On the far corner of the sideboard was an electric kettle. He poured some water from the nearby pitcher into it.

He said, “Seeing as how you’ve never had the chance to enjoy English tea before, I hope you’ll trust me to make it?”

I was still standing by the door. “You’re the man in tweeds, Mr. Wuller.”

The edges of his mustache bent up with his broad smile. “And that makes me an expert?”

“Absolutely.”

He chuckled and returned his attention to the kettle. A series of quiet beeps sounded as he pressed the buttons.

I was still spooked from seeing the disembodied soul. It was an unpleasant, jittery sensation, like having drunk too much coffee on test day. Holding still was hard. Too much quiet was hard. I wanted to distract myself with something blissfully dull.

I wandered toward the bookshelves across from me.

While I scanned the colorful array of book spines, I said, “Do you always make your own tea?”

“Most of the time,” Wuller said. “I find it a valuable ritual. Even on the days when you’re buried by the sheer insanity of your work, there is still tea, and if you’re wise enough to make it yourself, there are a few minutes before the tea when you can relax.”

There were a lot of books on psychics and psychic abilities. That I expected. But there were an equal number of books on education and philosophy. Tucked away in the lowest corner of the bookshelf, there were a few books on magic. Anyone else might have thought they were a joke (one or two of them could have fit in with the more dubious books on psychic abilities), but I had seen at least one of the titles in Iset’s collection—the one she kept on the shelf closest to her desk.

Wuller went on, “I’m afraid I don’t have a proper teapot. I hope a mug will do?”

“It’s the tea that counts,” I said.

“And that, my dear lady, is the proper sentiment.”

As I moved over to the second bookshelf, my eyes were drawn to a four-by-six, framed photo. It was a casual shot that showed a tall, slim woman in simple, stately clothing, leaning back on a rail. She was trying to brush the hair out of her face, but she was smiling because the wind seemed irrationally determined to thwart her. You could see it pulling the rest of her hair and the edge of her jacket sideways. Beside her was a boy in his midteens, laughing at his own windswept condition. His hair was long and scruffy, and his clothes were all grunge. As different as their styles were, the two of them somehow looked as if they belonged together.

There was something so painfully beautiful about the unscripted happiness in the picture, it made me want to touch it. If the photo was real, that meant the moment had to be real too.

But that was stupid. And I knew it was stupid. I tangled my fingers behind my back to keep my hands busy and gazed at the picture instead.

“My wife and son.”

I turned. Wuller was standing behind me. He must have walked over while I was staring. Even though I was looking right at him, I found it hard to believe such a subdued voice could belong to him.

“My…my ex-wife, I should say.” He returned to the kettle. When he spoke again, he was back to his bluff and boisterous self. “I’m afraid she left me. It’s hard to blame her. Beware obsession, Miss Cole! You’ll get what you’re obsessing over, but it costs you everything else.” He picked up the kettle and poured the steaming water into two mugs, then he picked up a small, brass hourglass and flipped it over. The pale sand dribbled from the top. “Black tea always tastes best with a bit of milk. Do you take sugar?”

“Probably.”

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I put it in everything else—why not tea?

He put a small sugar bowl in the empty area in the middle of his desk. I wandered over and sat down in the chair across from his.

“You’re a medium?” Wuller asked.

“An extra-small, usually, but it depends on the brand.”

The headmaster stopped and stared at me. He resembled a bug-eyed, bemused statue. Then, suddenly, he threw back his head and bellowed out a laugh. He was still laughing when he sat down in his chair. It creaked as he leaned into it.

“I meant,” he said, still grinning, “are you a spiritual medium?”

“Oh. Right.” I blushed so hard, if you took off my shoes, my toes would have been fuchsia. But at least I wasn’t skittish anymore! Apparently, a person can only handle one psyche-scarring emotional state at a time. “I…uh…” I cleared my throat.

“It’s all right, Miss Cole. Mr. Vasil has already sworn me to silence. I assure you, I will honor that, and I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “I don’t mind talking about it—not with you. I mean, you know. But it’s hard to know what to say.”

“Can you see spirits?”

Spirits. Magic. A whole bunch of weird things I wasn’t supposed to talk about casually. And then there were the dreams. By the way, Mr. Headmaster, are you by any chance keeping someone behind bars at this school? No? Do you mind if I take a look at your detention room?

Dropping all that on him seemed like a bad idea. I decided to keep it simple.

“Yes.”

“That’s a rare gift. May I ask how long you’ve had it?”

“It’s hard to say.”

That statement was mostly true. I would have found it hard to explain that the first time I’d ever seen an intact soul had been—let me check my phone—about ten minutes ago?

“Has it made your life difficult?”

Wuller was watching me, his eyes soft and his face concerned. My heart reached out with a hundred wide, begging arms, opening to the man who wanted to listen. The reaction was so intense, I had to take a breath before I could martial my throat into behaving like an ordinary part of a not-issue-ladened body.

“I, uh…” I tried to look at him and almost managed it. “It’s made my life more…interesting. Harder, yes. But it’s been useful. I found a place because of my powers, so it’s not like I’d want them to go away.”

Oof. That hurt. I had meant it to be cheerful—I hoped it sounded cheerful; I had slapped on a smile and everything—but it also made me feel as small as a mouse. The Noctis mansion was my home because of my powers. Otherwise…

I clamped down on that thought with a million-pound mental vise.

“What about your family?” Wuller asked.

I shook my head more violently than I intended. “My family isn’t really in the picture.”

“Miss Cole, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Oh, geez. I needed to raise the conversation out of Dismalville or I was going to burst into tears.

I managed another smile. It nearly made my cheeks crack. “No, it’s fine. I have a home. I have…colleagues.” That probably didn’t sound right. I motioned with my hand in some meaningless and (hopefully) distracting way. “They’re great people. They take good care of me. I really appreciate them, and I know it could be a lot worse.”

Wuller’s frown was as dramatic as his smile. “I suppose we could always go back to the witch hunts.”

I blinked and looked at the headmaster. “Witch hunts?”

“The Early Modern period. People who claimed to have psychic powers or who were accused of having psychic powers were labeled witches, imprisoned, and tortured. If you were found guilty, you could be burned at the stake. In England alone over a thousand people were tried in the witch hunts. Hundreds were put to death.”

Revulsion crawled through my skin like a swarm of bugs, raising goosebumps wherever they went. So much for a relaxing cup of tea.

Wuller went on, “The witch hunts, the heretical cleansings—it’s hard to know how many psychics have been murdered. And how many other innocent people died beside them.”

“But that was back in the dark ages.” My brow furrowed. “Wasn’t it?”

“That’s true. The Enlightenment brought in a welcome skepticism. Psychics were no longer tortured and killed. Instead, they were institutionalized until they could be ‘cured of their insanity.’”

“They put them in insane asylums?”

“It was considered common practice until as late as World War Two. Some psychics were lucky enough to leverage their talents and become spiritualists. They had some measure of protection. But those that couldn’t, and the ones that weren’t lucky enough to remain hidden, were removed from society.” The headmaster sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I should be lauding your positive outlook, but it worries me when I suspect people of downplaying suffering.”

“Even if it’s their own suffering?”

“It’s a cultural habit, Miss Cole, and, I believe, part of the reason history is so bleak. When you’re good at downplaying suffering, you don’t have to admit how bad your crimes were.” He grumbled, “I try to be generous to the past generations—I do. It’s so easy to fear and dismiss the things that you don’t understand. But every time I think of how psychics were treated, it makes my blood boil.”

He glanced at the sideboard, stood up, and walked over to the tea.

As he took out the tea bags and poured in the milk, he said, “I’ve studied the history of psychics. I’ve made myself something of an amateur scholar on it, which is why I care so much about this school.” His voice took on a lofty, distant quality. It sounded like he was standing in front of an imaginary room full of attentive people and I was in the back. “Today psychics no longer have to fear for their lives or their freedom, but they’re still bullied, belittled, mocked, and ignored. We hurt them without thinking of what it’s costing them and what it’s costing us. My goal is to take us one more step out of the darkness. No more fearmongering or denial.” He turned and handed me my mug. “It’s time that we acknowledged our psychics, respected them, and learned to cultivate their talents.”

I hoped the invisible part of his audience appreciated the determination in his eyes as much as I did.

I raised my mug. “I’ll drink to that.”

Wuller smiled when he saw the gesture. We gently clinked mugs and drank.

Oh, hey! That wasn’t bad. Dark. Earthy. Not bitter at all. It didn’t even need sugar to make it palatable.

I added some anyway. On principle.