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N ikita Pendergast, now Elmwood. My childhood arch enemy was a doyenne teaching at Neverthorn. What were the odds?

“Pretty fricking good, the way the past twenty-four hours have been going,” I muttered to myself as I started down the long corridor.

Maybe I was actually dead, and I was suffering for all my sins.

It made a sort of twisted sense, except my version of hell definitely would’ve featured sharks.

Okay, so not hell. Just my life.

That tracked, too.

I trudged down the hall toward the library for my immediate detention, absently taking stock of the changes that had been made to the school.

I had to admit, things had improved. The décor was still stuffy, with a nod to tradition that would’ve pleased the Senate when they did their inspections, but now there were also television screens peppered throughout the common areas.

Mind you, the screens were only showing proper rune casting, how to tie your tie, and correct usage of pea shoots in a potions class. Still, it was tech that hadn’t been here last time.

As I approached the open doors of the library, I peered inside, noting the amount of space allotted for books and computers was about fifty/fifty.

They must’ve known that even the lure of magic couldn’t get kids to step away from their laptops and iPhones.

According to signs plastered next to them, the electronics only worked within the magical space, but at least it was something.

That was one of the bugaboos of technology here.

Phones and such worked, but only within the magical Dwimmer world.

You couldn’t make a call to anyone in the Unlit world, or vice versa.

Each network operated within its own realm.

I should’ve headed through the doors right then and checked in with the librarian like Nikita had told me to. Instead, I kept walking. I hadn’t slept and was in the grips of a brutal caffeine deprivation headache, to boot. Once I got some food and coffee in me, I’d go face the music.

The smell of bacon and yeasty bread lingered in the halls like an invitation, and I followed my nose. By the time I stepped into the main kitchen, I was literally drooling, and my belly was rumbling.

A bald guy with a short-cropped beard stood at a butcher’s block in the corner of the massive room, eyes locked on the knife chopping onions on its own in front of him. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, his knife pausing in the air, floating in mid-chop.

Ma’am? He was like five years younger than me, tops.

“Um, I’m a new ... ish student and just got in this morning, so I missed breakfast. Can I just grab a scone and a plate of bacon, maybe?”

I sent him my best, most charming smile, but it was wasted as he’d already gone back to slicing and dicing with only one finger using a repeating spell on the blade.

“Talk to Cook. We’re not allowed to give the students food without her say-so.”

I swallowed a sigh, already sorely missing my lack of freedom.

“Can you point me her way ... ?”

He jerked his head in the general direction of the rest of the warehouse-sized kitchen but didn’t look up again.

“Perfect. Very helpful,” I muttered under my breath as I continued. Typhon had said that Mrs. Wickersham was the head chef nowadays, so I kept my eyes peeled for her auburn hair and stout form as I scanned the white-aproned staff.

I didn’t know what was on the menu for lunch but judging by the smell of sizzling butter and herbs, it was going to be delicious. My stomach rumbled again, so loudly one of the cooks turned to face me as I passed, a concerned frown knitting her brow.

“Did you just growl at me?”

“No, erm, sorry, just hungry is all.”

Her forehead smoothed, and she pointed her whisk dripping with sauce straight ahead. “Cook will get you straightened out; she’s down that way.”

I followed her directions and, a few moments later, found myself face to face with the woman herself.

“Mrs. Wickersham! Do you remember me?”

The older woman looked up, the wooden spoon she’d been using magic to operate stopping mid-motion.

“Harlow “Shortbread” Daygon!” She stepped back and threw both her hands in the air, letting out a delighted laugh.

“How could I forget you?” She studied me up and down and shook her head.

“I remember telling you all that food would catch up with you one day, but apparently, I was wrong. Some of us are built sturdier than others, ain’t it true?

My stars, you could put away the shortbread before it was even on the cooling racks! ”

“Guilty as charged,” I agreed, surprised by the sudden rush of warmth I felt toward the woman. Mrs. Wickersham had always been kind. And back then, when it felt like everyone either hated me or disregarded me entirely, that had mattered.

A lot.

“I’d heard Tarquinius was bringing some students back into the fold. I’ll admit, I hadn’t guessed that you’d be one of them.”

“You think you’re surprised? Imagine how I feel. I was just minding my own business,” – trying to rob an old lady – “and Doyen Moreno and some goon came and grabbed me off the street. But what Tarquinius wants, Tarquinius gets.”

The Sage was pompous, but he was also known to be a great wizard who ruled with a firm yet fair hand.

He also possessed the strongest defensive Quirk the world knew of – he could shield like a mofo.

And he could expand that shield as wide as the school.

Which was what made Neverthorn so safe. He was revered by most, worshiped by some, feared by a few . ..

For whatever reason, he’d never given me the warm and fuzzies. To be fair, I’d spent zero amount of time with him my first go-round at the school.

Mrs. Wickersham grinned, apparently taking my words as a joke, which was probably for the best. “Yeah, well, I’m glad to have you back, Shortbread.

You’re the type that made me fall in love with cooking in the first place.

You’re a pleasure to feed.” She raised her brows and grinned.

“Am I safe in assuming that’s why you’re here? ”

“Well, now that you mention it ...”

She swiped her hands on her berry-stained apron and bustled away, only to return a minute later with a pillowy croissant slathered in orange marmalade, two fat, glistening sausages on a plate, and a little packet tied off with white baker’s string.

“For now, and for later, a bit of shortbread,” she said with a wink as she handed them over.

“Bless you, Mrs. Wickersham,” I whispered. “You are a saint. Now, if I could just beg a cup of coffee, I can get through whatever else these sadistic bass carps have in store for me.”

I winced and she squinted.

“Bass carps, huh?”

“Doyen Moreno’s work. Apparently, he felt I had a potty mouth.”

“That man. Tough on the outside, but soft and gooey in the middle.” She grinned and shook her head as I stared at her like she’d grown a second one.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that we’ve got a fancy new coffee machine against the wall on your way out.

Just pick your poison and press a button. ”

Maybe I was going to like it here, after all.

I let Mrs. Wickersham get back to work and headed for the coffee station. Once I’d made myself a mocha latte, I settled myself in a little alcove under the stairs. The second I sat on the stone floor; memories flooded my brain.

How many times had I hidden in this very spot, sobbing my face off over a plate of food, wishing I could go home? Praying for some miracle that would get me out of this place ... only to find that, when my miracle came, it would be in the form of my worst nightmare.

Tarquinius’s long, wizened face loomed over me as he spoke ...

“Ms. Daygon, I regret to inform you that your mother is dead.”

The rest had come in shattered phrases that I could barely comprehend through the haze of shock.

Blah blah blah, short sabbatical from school, blah blah blah, return to your studies after her funeral, blah blah blah, thoughts and prayers.

I forced myself back to the present and swiped at my face, surprised to feel dampness on my cheek. When was the last time I’d shed a tear for my mother or anyone else?

The day I buried her, that was when.

My short sabbatical turned into me never going back to Neverthorn and making sure they couldn’t find me if they tried .

.. which they hadn’t. I’d made a life for myself.

It wasn’t great, but it was still better than this place.

What I’d learned was that not crying was a lot more fun than crying.

I’d be damned if I was about to start with the waterworks again now.

I lifted the croissant to my mouth and chomped down, groaning as the crisp pastry gave way to bittersweet marmalade.

I folded my legs criss-cross under me and tucked into the rest of the food.

When I’d eaten both sausages, downed half my coffee, and licked the last crumb of bread from my fingers, I let out a sigh of contentment.

And I still had a packet of food to put away for later. Shortbread no less.

I held my fingers an inch apart and pinched them together, shrinking the parcel to the size of a matchbook, and tucked it into my fanny pack. Then I stood and headed back down the hallway.

By the time I got to the library, I was feeling significantly better than the first time I’d approached those doors half an hour before. Still, I paused at the threshold – my mistake.

“Enter! And make haste about it,” a nasal voice bleated from somewhere to the left of me.

I stepped into the room and turned toward a hulking mahogany desk piled so high with books from end to end that it was impossible to see over them.

“Don’t just stand there, come on, then, you’re letting all the heat out!” the voice demanded.

I squinted, wondering if it was the books talking, or –

“My word, child, can you hear me or not?”