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  “It’s fine. I just ran into Walter and dropped my basket,” I mumbled. The door to Mr. Jeffries' office was open, and I threw a nervous glance in its direction, wondering if I was going to earn a lecture for leaving dinner early.

  “Oh.” Trina turned and stared vaguely in the direction of where Walter was working. “Hi Walter,” she chirped. Trina was one of the only students who was always kind to our janitor.

  Walter let out his strange, throaty chuckle, the only way he could communicate with Trina, and I tried not to cringe. He’d collected all my books and my boots and was standing over me. I finished picking up my candy, got to my feet and took my gifts from him. “Thanks,” I muttered.

  Walter nodded and picked up his broom and then turned back to me and cocked his head. I didn’t miss the concern in his dark eyes, but any true gratitude I might have felt was overshadowed by a darker emotion as I looked at the rest of his face. Walter couldn’t have been much older than Mr. Jeffries; his hair was still dark, save for a few glints of grey in his beard, but his face was prematurely lined from years of hardship, his cheeks oddly sunken, his shoulders bent.

  Removal of the right hand and tongue and a lifetime of hard labour was the sentence given to offending magic users, Mr. Jeffries had reminded us in his speech. The amputations kept them from casting, though I only partially understood how this worked. The second part of their sentence, hard labour, was a source of confusion for me. Rumour had it that most krossemages were sold to the wealthy as slaves, but I’d never heard any talk from my rich classmates about their families owning one. Walter, for whatever reason, had been bought by the school and had been a fixture here for as long as I could remember. Krossemage, I’d learned in history class, meant shattered mage in Cherinese. It was a fitting description.

  Now looking up at him, my stomach knotted, and I tried not to shudder. “I’m fine,” I told him, annoyance creeping into my voice. “Thanks for helping me, I should go.” Then I turned and fled the entryway, trying not to think about Walter’s sad eyes or the things that had happened to make him who he was.

  * *

  My stomach was still in knots two hours later. After we’d reached our room, Trina spent the rest of the evening amusing herself with her pipe, and I’d crawled into bed and tried, and failed, to read my new book. My mind roiled with questions, the same questions that I’d had since I learned six years ago that my parents weren’t likely actually dead. True orphans were rare at our school, Carrie had told me; most of us were actually unwanted children whose parents had had the decency and wealth to leave us somewhere we’d be well cared for, instead of abandoning us to the streets or to one of the city's overcrowded orphanages. Most of the other kids knew this too, she explained, and this was why they were so cruel to us.

  Trina’s breathing had begun to even out, and I stared at the flickering candles, then at my hands, remembering how hard I’d had to fight the burning on my palms earlier. I need to get this under control. And the only way to do that, I figured, was through practice.

  My gaze returned to the candles. “Flamina finita,” I whispered the familiar string of syllables as I willed the candles in the room to go out. All obeyed without hesitation. I glanced over to make sure Trina was definitely asleep and then spoke another phrase. “Nalalae rainarae flamina.” I watched as a small, fist-sized ball of flame appeared in front of me. I turned it over and over in the air, caused it to grow and shrink a few times, then extinguished it with the first set of words I’d used.

  This, of course, was the other reason I hated Banishing Day.

  I lay back down, my thoughts returning to my parents once again. Maybe they abandoned me because they knew. My talents hadn’t shown up until I was eleven, but I had to wonder if perhaps they had looked down at their infant daughter and somehow seen what she would become, a freak who could control flame.

  Maybe I was dangerous, and that was the real reason I was an orphan.

  Chapter Two

  THE NEXT DAY was exceptionally warm for late spring. I spent most of the morning absorbed in my book, and after lunch and chores, Trina and I decided to visit our hideout—the flat, terraced rooftop of a tower in a rarely used wing of the school. We settled against the stone walls, enjoying the sun on our faces and the absence of other students. After a few minutes, a robin landed between us and began to wander towards Trina. It tottered onto the hem of her dress, and she reached down and stroked its feathers. I grinned as I watched; I’d never quite understood why animals liked Trina so much. The robin flew away after a minute or two, and she let out a sigh and lay back on the stonework, her hands behind her head. “I’m glad we found this place. It’s so quiet.”

  I chuckled. “Me too. I like having a place where none of them can find us.” I stood up and looked over the low stone walls that surrounded us; this place had a wonderful view of Sylvenburgh. Ours was the second largest city in the small island kingdom of Breoch, and it stretched out on all sides of the school, mostly little stone houses and shops, and, out past the city walls, farmers’ fields. An occasional spire or tall building stood out among the houses—the mayor’s house, another school, a stately row of mansions. The city centre, which sat a little north of us, was the only exception; its few blocks were crammed with apartment homes stacked above busy shops and bustling taverns. Far beyond the city to the south, barely visible from this vantage point, was the ocean; to the north sat the impossibly tall trees of the Shrouded Woods. Life at Sylvenburgh Academy rarely allowed for its students to venture outside its walls, save for small trips to the bakery down the road to buy warm bread and cookies and a yearly organized trip to the fair, when it came to town. In all my years here, I’d only been through downtown three times and had never been outside the city walls or to the ocean. Sylvenburgh Academy aimed to protect its students from the hardships of city life, but most days this place felt like a prison, not a sanctuary. One day, I promised myself, I would break free.

  I gazed at the cluster of mansions and the familiar ache returned, the thought that was always just under the surface of my conscious mind working its way to the forefront. “I wonder if my parents live there,” I mused. “I mean, they’d have to be rich to send me here, right?”

  “Maybe you could go look for them, once you’ve finished school,” Trina suggested.

  I snorted. “How, exactly? Am I supposed to wander the streets, asking if there’s someone out there with the last name McAllister who gave up a child?”

  Trina shrugged. “There can’t be many McAllisters in those mansions you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe not. But even so…” I sighed and trailed off.

  “What, you don’t want to find them?” She looked directly at me with her wide brown eyes as she spoke, an ability of hers that sometimes caught me off guard. “I’d give the world to see my mother again.”

  “Yes, but you actually remember her,” I countered. “And you’ve told me that she sent you here for a good reason. I don’t know why I’m here. I mean, if my parents didn’t care enough to keep me, why would I go looking for them?” I grimaced, trying to ignore the hollow ache in my chest.

  The screech of a bird distracted me from my woes, and I glanced up to see a large white-tailed hawk fly over us, unusually low. “That’s a massive hawk,” I observed, staring at it.

  “I heard it, it sounds close,” Trina said.

  I watched as the hawk alighted in a tree near the edge of the school property. A large cloud of smoke in the same area caught my eye. “Looks like they’re having a bonfire today,” I informed Trina.

  “Figures,” she replied, sitting up. Bonfires were common on holiday weekends; they were always lively events, with teachers and occasionally older students telling stories and sharing songs and performances. “I love bonfires,” Trina went on. “Can we go?”

  I watched the slow trickle of students making their way toward the fire pit. In honesty, I was perfectly happy up here in the tower, with the sunshine and my book for company. But I knew Trina wouldn’t be able to make it to the bonfire unaccompanied. “Give me half an hour,” I said. “I just want to read a chapter or two. Then we can go.”

  “All right,” she replied, lying back down. I smiled, sat down with my back against the tower wall, and cracked open my book.

  The bonfire was already in full swing when we arrived. Mr. Shaar, a tall, bespectacled teacher with perpetually rosy cheeks, was standing in front of the assembled students, talking. No doubt about his time in the Shrouded Woods. Mr. Shaar had been chased into the woods by bullies as a youth and had spent nearly three days lost in their depths. He was known among the student body for his Shrouded Woods tales.

  “I was exhausted from my earlier encounter with the bear,” Mr. Shaar was saying as Trina and I sat down. “But I forced myself to keep going, until I found shelter in a little cave near a stream. I settled down in there, and I was nearly asleep when I heard footsteps.

  “I got up and peered out of my cave to see five men dressed in strange clothes. I called to them for help, and they turned to me, and that’s when I realized that they might not be friendly. They were all armed, and their faces were hard.

  “I was terrified, but I managed to tell them that I was lost and was trying to find my way out of the woods. One of them stepped forward and looked down at me with cold blue eyes. ‘A city boy,’ he snickered as he pulled out a knife.” Mr. Shaar paused and looked over the assembled students. “And I think that’s enough for today.”

  The group let out a collective breath, and a few students groaned and begged him to continue. He smiled and gave us a small bow, then took a seat as another pair of performers stood. I made a face. It’s Lizzie. The young man with her, a newer student whose name I didn’t
know, was holding a drum and was presumably going to be providing music for her.

  I watched as they made their way to the centre of the circle. The young man seated himself on a log and put the drum between his knees and began to pound out a steady rhythm. Lizzie started to dance slowly, swaying her hips in a manner that had all the older boys gawking and some of the girls glaring. She lifted an arm above her head, twirled slowly, and returned to the hip maneuvers. I giggled and described the scene to Trina. What a show-off. I rolled my eyes as I watched Lizzie move back and forth, close to the fire, then away from it, then back again.

  Up in the trees, the hawk let out a shriek, causing me, and all the other students, including Lizzie, to look up.

  And that’s when her skirt caught fire.

  How exactly it happened—whether the hawk was responsible for it or not—I wasn’t quite certain. All I knew was that suddenly her skirt was ablaze, and she was screaming. A few of the teachers ran towards her. “Drop to the ground!” someone yelled from behind me.

  “What’s happening?” Trina asked.

  “Lizzie’s skirt is on fire!” I jumped to my feet and stared, frozen, as the orange and yellow flames moved closer and closer to her body.

  Then, without my consent, my right arm lifted and words formed in the back of my throat. “Flamina finita,” I found myself whispering.

  The fire went out.

  Lizzie collapsed, sobbing, the burnt shards of her skirt falling apart and revealing bare, reddened legs. A ripple of relief spread through the crowd, followed almost immediately by a wave of confusion. I sank back to my seat as people began to glance around uncertainly, attempting to figure out what had just happened.

  “It’s witchery!” someone in the crowd exclaimed, causing people to look around even more fervently. I joined in the looking, turning my head from side to side as if trying to find the culprit.

  “It might have been.” Mr. Shaar was making his way to the center of the circle now. He glanced at Lizzie’s crumpled, sobbing form, then looked up at the students. “And if it was, we will deal with that later. What matters now, though, is that Lizzie is safe.” Becky jumped from her seat and offered Lizzie her long coat for cover, and Mr. Shaar instructed her to take Lizzie to the infirmary. I watched as Lizzie got to her feet, shakily wrapped the jacket around herself, and slowly walked out onto the field, escorted by Becky. They disappeared around a corner, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The fire was out, no one was hurt, and no one had realized that I was the one who had been using magic.

  At least that’s what I hoped.

  The following day was a school day, so Trina and I rose early. I picked my crumpled navy blue school uniform off the floor and dressed myself, then pulled Trina’s uniform—hung up neatly in the closet, of course—and passed it to her. Trina was quieter than normal this morning, talking only when she was spoken to directly. When I finally asked her if she was all right, she frowned, and I saw fear in her eyes. “I’m worried.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I’m scared you’re going to get caught.”

  “Get caught for?…” I suddenly understood, and my body went cold.

  “I heard you,” she confessed. “I hear better than most people, remember? It was you who put out the fire yesterday.”

  I couldn’t reply for a moment; my heart was caught in my throat. “You…won’t tell anyone?” My words came out as a squeak.

  “Of course not.” There was a hint of exasperation in Trina’s voice. “If I was going to, I wouldn’t be talking to you about it, silly. But everyone knows that someone used magic yesterday, and I’m scared they'll figure out it was you.”

  I exhaled slowly, my heart still pounding despite her reassurances. “So you don’t think I’m a monster for being able to use magic?”

  “Nah.” Trina shook her head. “I don’t actually think magic is evil. I’ve heard stories about people using magic to heal people and do other good things. So it can’t be all bad.”

  I stared at her. “I didn’t know you thought that.”

  “Why would I tell anyone? They might think I’m a magic user.” She grinned.

  We talked about my abilities as we finished getting ready, Trina peppering me with questions about how my magic worked. By the time we headed off to breakfast, I was significantly less anxious than I’d been earlier. My best friend had just learned my darkest secret, and she clearly wasn’t about to abandon me or turn me over to the authorities.

  Now I just had to hope that anyone else who had figured out what happened yesterday would react in the same way.

  Classes after a holiday weekend were always full of restless students, and today was no exception. During math, my first class, a group of boys decided to use their slingshots—newly acquired Banishing Day gifts from obviously ignorant parents—to throw spitballs at the teacher, and the entire group got sent to Miss Cackle's office together. With those boys gone, things were definitely a bit calmer in English, my next class. Mr. Shaar seemed distracted today, though; he kept confusing words, going off on tangents while he taught, and throwing strange, anxious glances at the class. History, my favourite subject, followed English. Today Mr. Jeffries was teaching us about the wars that Breoch had gone through to gain its independence from the large, wealthy Cherinese Empire and the installment of our first king, Patrick, a decade or so before the Banishing. Mr. Jeffries seemed to be lacking in patience today; by the end of the class, he’d given detention to two students and threatened the entire class with extra homework. So, when he asked me to stay back when class was dismissed, a knot formed in my stomach. What is it this time? I got good grades, but it seemed like he was always scolding me for something. In this last month alone I’d been reprimanded for undone homework, illegible handwriting, and whispering in class. At least he doesn’t lecture me for slouching, like Miss Cockle likes to.

  I sat at my desk, feigning nonchalance, as all the other students filed out. When it was just me and Mr. Jeffries in the room, I approached his desk nervously. “What is it, Mr. Jeffries? Am I in trouble again?”

  He looked up at me, and I saw something I didn’t quite understand in his deep brown eyes. “No,” he replied. “Well, actually, yes. More precisely, you’re in danger.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Danger?”

  He nodded. “Yesterday, when Lizzie’s skirt caught fire, Mr. Shaar saw you jump to your feet and raise your hand. The fire went out seconds after.” He eyed me. “He doesn’t think it was a coincidence.”

  I stiffened at his words. Tears began to well in my eyes.

  “Oh, don’t start crying now,” Mr. Jeffries muttered. “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t hate magic users.”

  “But you told us the story of the Banishing…” I protested, my voice squeaking.

  “Because it’s part of my job. Now we need to figure out what to do with you. Mr. Shaar reported you to Miss Cockle, and a few of us were dragged into a meeting this morning. She’s alerted the authorities, and the Breoch Guard will be coming by tomorrow morning to collect you.”

  “Breoch Guard,” I echoed. All my childhood I’d heard stories about the mysterious, uniformed men who showed up at people’s homes to collect magic users. I felt the blood drain from my face. “I don’t want them to turn me into a krossemage! I need to get out of here, I…” My voice had risen several octaves, and I looked around frantically.

  “Oh, calm down.” Mr. Jeffries huffed. “I’m not telling you this just to scare you, Saray. I’m telling you because I intend to help you.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to get you out of here, that’s how.” He stood up. “Meet me in my office at five tomorrow morning. Dress warmly and bring a few changes of clothes and anything you’ll need for the road. You may have a long journey ahead of you.”

  “Where are you sending me?”

  “Probably to the Isle of Dundere, for now at least.” He gestured to the map on the wall, pointing at the small island that sat several miles northeast of Breoch. “You'll be safe there. Now go, before the next class shows up.”