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M argot Stern didn’t know what to pack for a trip to an island that hadn’t existed for a century, so she brought a little bit of everything.

At thirty years old, Margot was what her parents bleakly called a ‘professional assistant.’ After graduating with honors from Hexenhall, one of the best magical universities in St Izabeta, she’d found her calling in field research.

Bouncing from one expedition to another, mooching off of grants for other people’s work, she supplemented her magical education during long nights in exotic locales, despite the efforts of her field leaders to exhaust her on their experiments during the day.

Margot was born sixth of an impressive twelve children, and so she was well-accustomed to living her life in the margins of someone else’s. Her mind was both ravenous and fastidious, content to wait for a magical mystery worth sinking its intellectual teeth into.

Harlan Langford and Elixane Isle were that mystery.

Langford had been the Archmage of St Izabeta – a title basically equivalent to a court magician, and thus the second most powerful man in the kingdom after the king himself – for a memorable week over six centuries ago.

He had resigned from his post by creating an island off the coast of the country which existed in its own magical subdimension, after which he and the island disappeared.

One hundred years later, when almost everyone he knew was dead, Elixane Isle had reemerged, and Langford had made his first of six open calls for assistants – to be returned, of course, intact and to the time of their choosing – to help with his private research.

None of those chosen had breathed a word of what they’d done or how long they’d been gone. The last had died decades ago without giving a single interview.

Margot intended to be the next to go.

Her suitcase contained outfits for each of the four seasons, six books (three textbooks and three romance novels), a reasonable collection of shoes, toiletries, an umbrella, a wrapped bundle of letters, her second-best teddy bear, her third-best winter coat, a notebook and pen, and her resumé.

She’d also managed to wedge her tea box inside with a bit of creative spell-work.

By the time she’d said goodbye to her plants and left her seaside cottage, Margot was thoroughly prepared for anything.

Anything except Jesy Bellchant.

***

Seeing Jesy on the docks was something akin to finding dog shit on the bottom of her shoe after she’d already tracked it through the house.

Jesy was surrounded by a small crowd, which made Margot scowl.

There had once been a time when she would have stood there, too.

She and Jesy had graduated from Hexenhall together and gone on to become assistants on many varied expeditions, but Jesy was always doing better than Margot.

She would only rank first if Jesy wasn’t in the running.

She got her pick of the research trips that Jesy hadn’t already selected.

There were even rumors that Jesy had secured her first credit on a paper, due to be published in the fall.

They were from the same town, a decimal point in the valley of two mountain ranges in north St Izabeta, and that had seemed, to Margot, more than enough reason to send that first letter.

To Miss Bellchant,

As a fellow Sunderlandian, I attended your recent panel on the restrictive elitism of hermetic magic, and I found your points on literacy and library access to be particularly sound…

Her first message had been four pages long.

Jesy’s had been five, beginning with ‘Have you been home recently? They’ve got a petting zoo!

’ and ending with ‘Call me Jesy.’ Sixty-three letters exchanged over five years, interrupted by deadlines, expeditions, study and – in one memorable case – a wayward spell that had disintegrated all paper within a four-mile radius of the encampment.

They’d traded hopes and goals. They had dissected each other’s research and proposed new inquiries to explore.

They’d confessed their insecurities and dark histories: Jesy orphaned and Margot overlooked.

She’d sent Jesy pictures of her siblings, and Jesy had mailed her the homemade granola clusters she feasted on during late-night casting sessions.

And then they’d actually met, and it had been disastrous.

Now Margot inched around Jesy’s admirers, her gaze on the weather-beaten wooden planks of the dock.

Elixane was due to appear within sailing distance at some point today, and Jesy Bellchant and her cult were far from the only ones who had come to see it.

Tripods were mounted with accordion-like cameras, flanked by reporters who were smoking while their unattended pens scribbled across the pages of their notepads.

Merchants wove through children and families packed on the beach, offering ice-cream cones, soft pretzels, or fruit-infused water.

The sapphire sky was blocked by airships, eager to catch the first glimpse of the island.

It was so chaotic that it was embarrassing Margot could tell a Jesy Bellchant crowd from a regular one.

But as Margot passed, the throng parted and there she was, wrapped in a fitted black suit with a shimmering silver waistcoat.

Her voluminous curls had been artfully pinned to cascade down the right side of her head and kiss her collarbone, and her large brown eyes were alight with mischief when they locked on Margot.

Her amber skin was clear and dewy. Her smile could have lit the sun.

Before Margot could hide, perhaps in the water, Jesy was right there, towering over her by four inches, smelling of mint and fresh parchment paper.

If Jesy Bellchant was a tornado, then Margot was a wooden shack on the plains. There was no escaping the devastating force of her.

“Stern,” said Jesy. “Are you going to Elixane, too?”

Margot’s panicked thoughts screeched to a halt. “‘Too’?”

“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so I knew you’d come along.”

Margot blinked owlishly. If Jesy wasn’t just here to watch Elixane appear, if she was actually eager to become an assistant, then what chance did Margot have of impressing the Archmage?

No one living in St Izabeta would hire Margot Stern when they could have Jesy Bellchant.

Why would Harlan Langford be different just because he’d turned his back on the country to live in magical solitude?

Jesy would charm him easily. Margot would fade into the background, a misspelled name on a half-hearted letter of recommendation.

Her hands tightened around the strap of her bag. She felt like a little kid who had woken up on Yuletide to an empty stocking. Her eyes burned with the need to cry.

Jesy’s smile widened obliviously. “I’m sure we’ll work well together, at least. We were always best at that part.”

Margot should have said something cutting, maybe something about how Jesy had been the one to ruin the other parts, how small and stupid Jesy had made her feel the last time they’d seen each other, but she never got the chance.

Mist gathered on the horizon, blurring the blue of the ocean with what looked like moving clouds.

A hush fell over the crowd as the fog crept closer and closer, swallowing the rippling ocean waves.

Camera flashes erupted in the corner of her eye.

Tomorrow, the newspapers she hopefully wouldn’t be around to read would be covering nothing but this: the moment Elixane emerged from the haze, all emerald foliage and golden sand, slate-gray mountains and rich brown soil.

And standing on the shoreline in a navy-blue overcoat was Harlan Langford.

Margot had read as much literature as she could about Archmage Langford.

He’d been born in Cardinal, the capital city, to two professors who had fostered his love of learning and magic.

He’d had a falling out with his older brother which resulted in Langford becoming Archmage just to spite him, a falling out from which they never reconciled.

He had a fondness for dark chocolate and black teas, which he’d claimed in a rare interview helped him to think.

Since the last photo of him was a century old, she cast a quick magnification spell and cataloged the differences between then and now.

His salt-and-pepper beard had turned fully silver.

There were crow’s feet by his hazel eyes and frown lines by his full lips.

He was an inch shorter than Jesy, from what Margot could tell, and he was solidly built, his overcoat fluttering open to reveal a simple white t-shirt and black stretch pants.

One of the greatest magicians in history stared out at the onlookers and scowled like he’d just found a bunch of children on his lawn.

“Which one of you is my apprentice?” he said, his voice carrying across the water as easily as if he were standing right in front of them.

Margot dropped the spell and hurried forward. “Right here, Archmage.”

“And here,” said Jesy, stepping up beside her with more grace than Margot had ever known how to emulate.

Langford sighed. “I only need one of you this time.”

Margot looked at Jesy. Jesy looked at Margot. Panic sliced through her – only one? – but neither of them withdrew their bid.

“Come,” Langford said, turning his back and disappearing up the beach.

Two boats shimmered into existence at the end of the dock.

Margot ignored Jesy to claim the first one, gasping in fascination when it began to race toward Elixane the moment she sat down.

She could hear Jesy’s boat sloshing along behind her, but she forced herself to ignore it.

She’d shown initiative, which was sure to have made a good first impression.

If she could keep it up, maybe the Archmage wouldn’t send her back in the same ship before the day was over.