The days rolled on toward midsummer and then past it, mild breezes sweet with heather and pine growing heavier with the warmth of high summer and then settling into a weighty stillness as weed-month approached. Helga, who had never been further north than Yorvic, was amazed to see the sun remaining so long in the sky and setting so near to midnight, creating seemingly endless summer days full to bursting with pleasant golden sunshine that reflected off the loch, and hillsides that rippled with the pink, white, and orange of wildflowers dancing in the mischievous highland breeze. The long hours of sunlight were a blessing put to good use by Williame, Rhonwen’s wizard builder, who arrived with his assistant Heranal about a week after their owl had been dispatched. He and Rhonwen spent his first day there seated at the kitchen table – which had been moved out of doors to take advantage of the fair weather – poring over their drawings and plans, with Williame making adjustments here and there where he saw a need for a more stable construction. Meanwhile, Heranal led Helga, Salazar, and Goderic on a trek over the neighboring hillsides until they found what his wand had been leading them to – an outcropping of fine, strong granite that stretched the whole length of the hill and looked as if it had been lightly quarried once before, likely by the Roman soldiers who had built Salazar’s little castellum in the first place. With Heranal teaching them the proper spells and guiding their work, the four of them quarried large piles of the stone and floated it all back to the edge of the loch to be shaped into blocks for building. Bihotza the house-elf discovered she had quite a knack for the masonry spell, forming a perfectly smooth rectangular block with every snap of her fingers, and so she was placed in charge of the task of block-making while the others quarried more stone as needed or worked with Williame to begin putting the blocks to use.

A few days after they began to build, Goderic’s man Hankertonne arrived, flying in on a massive Aethonan horse and bearing another man riding behind him. Hankertonne was stout, strong-jawed and a little stooped, and would have seemed fierce had it not been for the permanent look of exasperation that left no room for any other sentiments on his face. There was much hand-clasping and name-exchanging, and Hankertonne introduced them to his passenger, an elderly man named Alric Wintermilk of Wixamtree who had come to answer their request for a keeper of grounds and animals. The two men had met in the village of Glasghu, where a few wizarding families kept some farms around the church of St. Mungo; upon discovering they were travelling to the same place, they had pooled their resources and bought the winged horse for the rest of their journey. Alric hoped the fine Aethonan, a fit young mare, could be the start of a small stud of horses he could keep at the school for teaching purposes. Wintermilk was a small and fragile-looking man whose whole body seemed as wispy as his white hair, and the consternation must have shown on their faces, for he assured them that he was more hale and fit than he looked. “And besides, one does not have to be battle-ready and strong to care for beasts,” he told them smilingly. “I have always found that a gentle hand and quiet mien do more to help in husbandry than muscles and swift feet.” Helga liked the old man instantly.

With the addition of two more wands to their number, the building began to make real progress. By Midsummer Day, the basic structure had been completed, and what had once been Salazar’s simple hermitage was now a broad and square building with an upper and lower floor, a gabled roof, and towers at each corner that soared up even higher to culminate in lofty third floor rooms. Heranal, Rhonwen, and Salazar now set to work on the inside of the school – putting in doors and windows, expanding the cellars, and building hearth boxes – while Williame led Helga, Goderic, and Hankertonne in the building of the defensive wall that would enclose the school courtyard. Left to his own devices, Alric Wintermilk set about developing the grounds inside and outside the walls; he cleared a path a short way into the forest which stopped at a pleasant clearing, dug a well for drinking water, and began to create enclosures that would soon house the magical creatures he hoped to introduce to the students. With the help of Bihotza, he also plowed and seeded a winter garden with leafy greens and root vegetables hardy enough to go into the ground in a month when most other crops were near to coming out of it. He and the house-elf walked the rows together after planting, casting growth charms on the little lumps of soil, ensuring that each would produce a plant of exceptional quality and size for a full harvest.

At the beginning of the weed-month Goderic apparated back to Lundenburh, armed with a parchment listing the number of expected students and the estimated sums needed to keep them. He was absent for nearly four days, which was just long enough for Helga to begin to worry; but at midmorning on the fourth day he reappeared in the now-finished courtyard alongside five heavily-laden pack horses bearing the first loads of supplies he had purchased from Lundenwic markets. It appeared that King Æthelræd had been generous with his endowment. Goderic and Rhonwen made a number of journeys over the next fortnight to markets in various parts of the island, purchasing kitchen supplies and seed for the garden, wool and linen for bedding and cloaks for the children, parchment and quills and ink, and potion ingredients that could not be found in the highlands. Goderic even purchased a cow on one journey – much to Salazar’s dismay – because he insisted that children must be fed milk or they would wither and die. Salazar spent that whole day sulking indoors, watching Alric Wintermilk coo and fuss over the animal from an upper window, and refusing to come outdoors again until the cow was hidden away from him in a makeshift shed.

On Goderic’s final journey to Lundenburh, about a fortnight before the students were due to arrive, he brought back with him not pack animals but two handsome speckled jennet horses, which were being ridden by an equally handsome witch and wizard. The man, who wore an odd little pointed hat instead of a cloak’s hood, was just beginning to sprout grey hairs in a dark beard that was also small and pointed. Helga could see all sorts of unfamiliar wizarding contraptions poking out of the bags tied to his saddle. The woman riding beside him was a statuesque beauty, with only the faintest hint of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes betraying her age – the edges of the hair that peeped out from under her exotic silk scarf were still jet black. When she swung herself down from the jennet, the fluttering edges of her cloak revealed a lining covered in tiny embroidered stars. Both newcomers spoke with the same oddly lisping accent as Bihotza – although it was much more melodious in their mouths than in the reedy voice of an elf. Salazar came out to greet them with slightly more enthusiasm than his customary sulk usually allowed, clasping the man’s hand warmly and giving the woman an elegant bow, and introduced them to the rest as Hoshea and Ya’el, the new keepers of the Hogwarts kitchens. Helga found them both endlessly fascinating, and she spent the rest of the day with them in the underground kitchen, helping them organize the foodstuffs and plying them with questions about their home in Vasconia. Salazar also spent the day hovering about the kitchen door – to be sure his parents’ old friends told her no embarrassing stories of his childhood.

The final fortnight of preparation was spent largely in Salazar’s former kitchen, which was now arranged as the meeting room for the school staff. Rhonwen took them through a list of lists, crossing off every last detail they could think of. They recited their rosters of classes and students until they were memorized, and agreed who would take which of the four large classrooms at which time. Alric Wintermilk gave an inventory of which magical creatures he planned to teach the students about, and Rhonwen laid out a schedule for when students would go out of doors to hear his lessons. They agreed upon fixed times for each meal with Hoshea and Ya’el, and made plans for a large feast on the night of the students’ arrival.

Hunlaf arrived with both his and Goderic’s wards on the evening before the other students were due to appear. Sœtr the crup sprang out of his shoulder bag before he had even let go of the children’s hands and promptly went careening out the door and into the forest, barking uproariously at all the unfamiliar scents; he returned a few minutes later with a dead adder dangling from his mouth, his forked tail vibrating with self-satisfaction. Saeric and Hnossa stood in the cavernous entryway and gaped up at the staircase that led to the dormitories, dumbfounded at being inside such a large building that was not a church, while Walrand, Rodolphus, and Aluric had to be wrestled down by Hunlaf to stop them claiming beds before they knew which dormitory was theirs. Eaderic stood by his brother, fussily adjusting his cloak and trying to pretend that he had not been about to dash up the stairs with them. Hnossa’s baby brother Harald sat contentedly in the floor at Helga’s feet, his mouth sealed shut by a sticky bun Ya’el had given him.

Rhonwen’s musician Aneirin arrived with Helena a few hours later, just in time for the evening meal. Their appearance was followed almost immediately by a loud clatter of armor and hooves as a tiny Cymraeg pony apparated into the middle of the entrance hall, with none other than a battle-ready Cadwgan on its back.

“My lady cousin!” he was shouting before the air had even settled around his pony’s mane and tail. “That reprehensible and traitorous harp-man has absconded with thy daughter, my lady! Direct me to him and I will cut him down where he stands! I will—”

“Uncle Dwg!!” Helena shouted at him over the clanging of his helmet flaps. “Uncle Dwg, stoppit! He brought me so I could go to school with the other children, Mother told him to bring me!” She stood with her little hands on her hips and glared at him until he registered what she had said. When his sword lowered a fraction, Rhonwen stepped forward and gave him a long-suffering smile.

“Thank you, cousin Cadwgan, for being so concerned. I assure you, no children here have been kidnapped, least of all my own. But – I do have a quest for you, should you choose to accept it.”

“A quest, lady cousin?!” Cadwgan said perkily, jerking the pony’s reins tight enough to make the poor creature’s eyes bulge.

“Yes, Cousin. We need a worthy champion to patrol the environs of this school and see to it that the children are kept safe here – that non-magical folk do not enter, nor any magical ones who might bring harm. Would you be our stalwart guardian, cousin Cadwgan?”

Cadwgan’s watery little eyes became even wetter, and he snapped his sword in a motion of salute. “I shall stand a bulwark between thee and the ravaging hordes, though they come by land or by sea, and hold fast ‘gainst every foe whether he be one man or a hundred, yea, even the whole host of Hell, and I shall fight until every one be slain, or til I perish myself in the effort and return unto the hands of the Almighty.” And with that, he lifted his sword above his head and charged his exhausted pony out into the courtyard. Rhonwen twitched her wand at the front doors, and they slammed shut behind him.

“Good. That should keep him busy for a while.”

*   *   *

 The morning of the last day of weed-month dawned with a pale golden sunrise in a sky streaked with powder-blue clouds. Goderic and Salazar had arisen before the first tendrils of light had cleared the hills on the horizon and had set to work in the courtyard, aided by Hankertonne and Wintermilk, building the large fire that would enable any child who wished to arrive by hearth. They built it broad and low, so that it was wide enough to accommodate two children standing abreast and so the flames would not go above the children’s heads. In the cellars below the school, Hoshea and Ya’el had also been awake since before dawn, firing the newly-built ovens and loading them with numerous loaves of bread and other dishes – small loaves for children who arrived early in the day, as well as hearty foods for the great feast they would have that night. As the first rays of sunrise began to filter in through the tall slit windows of the dining hall, Bihotza found Helga wandering among the five large tables, straightening benches for the fifth time since she’d risen that morning.

“Mistress Helga should come outside now,” the elf whispered. “Childrens will be arriving soon.”

“I feel as if I’ve been preparing all of this for so long,” Helga mused, wiping at a spot of dust on one of the tables, “that I can hardly sit down and comprehend that it’s ready.”

“Mistress Helga has done a fine job,” Bihotza crackled. “Nothing else to do in here, Mistress. Come with Bihotza.” The house-elf held up her spindly hand, and Helga took it with a smile and a deep breath.

“Alright, Bihotza. Let’s go and wait for the children to arrive.”

When they came out into the courtyard they found Goderic and Salazar tending the merry hearth-fire and Rhonwen standing sentinel with her roster of students and her quill, ready to cross out names as each child appeared. Bihotza snapped her fingers and summoned three stools from somewhere inside, inviting Rhonwen to sit alongside her and Helga in the dewy grass at the edge of the fire’s heat. Helga noticed that Hoshea and Ya’el had set up a table near the entrance that would soon hold warm bread for any early morning arrivals. Bihotza snapped her fingers again, and this time a basket appeared in her hands; it held several fresh loaves hot from the oven for them to break their own fasts while they waited.

About an hour after sunrise, when they had all begun to get warm and sleepy after the fresh bread and the fire, the orange flames dancing in the large hearth began to spit and crackle, and a moment later they turned an alarming shade of green. Helga popped up off her stool in anticipation, clenching her fingers against the folds of her dress. The fire gave a few more pops and spat some sparks, and then a figure appeared in a whoosh of flames. A young boy stepped out of the hearth and stumbled into the wet grass, looking around him hesitantly and coughing out a bit of smoke. Helga thought he might be about ten or eleven years old, although perhaps a bit small for his age. He had messy black hair which was now covered in a sprinkling of cinders, and large eyes that were the precise shade of green of a pond full of plants and fish. He brushed soot from his clothes and looked at each of the adults in turn.

“Am I early?” he said cautiously. “The letter didn’t say what time of day.”

“You’re not early,” Goderic reassured, “but you are the first.”

“What’s your name?” Rhonwen asked, unrolling her list. The boy gave up brushing at soot and stood straighter.

“Linnræd, of Wessex,” he replied. Rhonwen scanned her list and made a mark.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “You come to us not quite as an orphan, I believe?” She was scanning her notes in the margins of the list. The boy nodded.

“My father died fighting Danes for the king. My mother does her best, but she’s ill and can’t really look after me or teach me magic.”

“Well, perhaps at Christmastide we might send you home to visit her,” Rhonwen smiled sympathetically. “In the meantime, we have some bread and cheese for you to break your fast. You can get some from that table over there, and then after you eat, you can go inside and introduce yourself to our children. Tonight when everyone has arrived there will be a feast, and you will be assigned a bed and learn which of us will be your guardian while you’re here. Go on now and get some bread.” She patted the boy’s shoulder and nudged him in the direction of Ya’el’s table. He grinned at the thought of food and started across the courtyard, stopping only as Helga caught hold of his hand.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she beamed, and the boy beamed back at her before galloping away to get his breakfast.

*   *   *

About half an hour after Linnræd had wolfed down his breakfast and gone inside, the next two children arrived, a brother and sister who stepped out of the fire clasping hands. Their arrival seemed to open the floodgates; they had no sooner gotten their bread and cheese from the table when another boy appeared – not through the hearth, but walking through the gates – and then another, this one on a flying horse. His mount was a beautiful Aethonan stallion, and groundskeeper Wintermilk was overjoyed when the boy said he could keep the horse to sire his school herd. By midday four more students had arrived through the hearth, including another brother and sister pair, prompting Bihotza to summon a couple of long tables and benches out onto the grass so the children could be served a midday meal. There were nearly a score of them now, including the children who had come with Helga and her companions, and the newly built courtyard echoed with squeals, running footsteps, and raucous laughter.

A little before the None hour, Helga noticed three dark specks against the clear brightness of the sky which seemed to grow larger, or nearer, she supposed, as she watched them.

“What is that?” Salazar mused, coming to stand beside her and shading his eyes. Helga shook her head; they weren’t birds – or, at least, they showed no signs of flapping wings – and they weren’t in the shape of any sort of flying creature Helga recognized. Rhonwen and Goderic came to see what they were staring at, and for a few moments all four of them were silent as they watched the dark objects grow larger and more defined. Suddenly, Goderic gave a sharp intake of breath.

“What is it?” Helga asked, wondering if they should worry. But Goderic’s face had begun to split into an enormous grin.

“BROOMS,” he beamed, looking for a moment like a small boy holding his first sword. “They’re riding brooms!” Helga had a faint recollection of Goderic telling her that wizards in Saxony had begun bewitching brooms for riding, but before she could nod or reply, he was gone – Goderic had galloped over to the nearest table and climbed up onto it, much to the amusement of the children sitting below him, and he began waving his arms ecstatically at the three fliers now rapidly approaching the courtyard walls. “Clear a space for them to land, everyone!” he barked, and his companions backed up against the tables quickly. All the children had now taken notice and were watching the newcomers as well, the wild swells of noise simmering down into ripples of excited whispers. A minute or so later, they all craned their necks to watch as three children glided over the walls and landed with soft thumps on the grass. They were two girls and a boy, all three looking a little wind-whipped and frizzy-haired from their flight. The boy and the older girl were clearly twins, both with the same jet black hair and sallow, delicate complexions; the younger girl was their antipode, all wild golden curls and ruddy, bright face. Helga noticed that all three wore cloaks made of very fine, expensive cloth.

Rhonwen approached the trio with her scroll and quill, but before she could ask them their names, Goderic had leapt down from the table and cut her off, heading straight for the boy and his broom.

“Are those the bewitched brooms from Saxony I’ve heard tell of?” he grinned, crouching to the boy’s height. “Jesu, I’ve wanted to get my hands on one. Can I see that?” He held out his hands, and the boy immediately flinched away from him, drawing the broom to his chest. Helga thought that if he’d been a cat, he would have hissed. The girl who was clearly his sister smacked his shoulder lightly with the back of her hand.

“He won’t steal it, Brictric,” she murmured. “He’s one of our teachers.” When her brother still made no move, she sighed and held out her own broom. “Here.” Goderic took the broom from her hands and stood up, turning it over and back again, brushing the twigs at the bottom against his palm, and holding the handle-end up close to his eyes like a child playing with a looking-glass. He was grinning wide enough that Helga thought his jaw might fall off. After a lengthy inspection, Goderic lowered the broom to knee-level and swung his leg across it, quivering with anticipation. “Can I ride it?”

“It’s too small for you,” the younger girl said, although her eyes were daring him to try it anyway.

“Nonsense,” Goderic laughed. “How does it work?”

“They answer your voice and your hands, like a horse,” the older girl explained. “Once you’re up, you can tell it to take you somewhere, or you can steer it. To begin you just get on and tell it to go.”

Goderic bent his knees a little and pulled the small broom in against his body. “So I just do this, and tell it to go uP—AAAAAGGGHHHHH!!” The broom shot up into the air like an arrow from a bow, taking Goderic with it. The courtyard full of children cheered and waved, getting up from their seats or climbing onto the benches to point and follow him as he zipped in wild circles around the school towers, apparently completely out of control.

“Also like a horse,” the dark-haired girl muttered, “they know when a rider is inexperienced.” Only those standing close by could hear her, and the little golden-haired girl laughed merrily into cupped hands. Helga looked around; across the courtyard, she saw Cadwgan spurring his little pony to its top speed, trying to keep pace with Goderic and stay beneath him to break his fall. Rhonwen put her hand over her face and went to try and help get him down. Salazar was doubled over on the grass, wheezing with laughter, his face merrier than Helga had yet seen it since they had met.

“Shouldn’t we do something, Salazar?” she pressed, fighting back a grin of her own. Salazar coughed and spat a tendril of his hair out of his mouth.

“I am doing something,” he sputtered. “I’m laughing, which is much more taxing than I remembered.”

“It’s all right,” the broom’s owner said calmly. “It’ll bring him back down on its own, eventually.”

“Eventually?” Helga smiled, and the little girl showed the ghost of a grin in return.

“Yes, eventually. When it gets bored.”

*   *   *

Goderic finally came back to earth nearly half an hour later, after the broom began taking low circling passes around the tables before finally stopping abruptly and dumping him in a heap near the open front doors. Far from learning his lesson, he got up as soon as his dizziness subsided and went straight to his bedchamber for quill and parchment, intent on immediately writing to a friend in Saxony about acquiring a correctly-sized broom for himself. While he had been airborne, another child had arrived, a youth who looked to be already in his teen years although scrawny and underfed. He had apparently walked most of the way, had been walking nearly since he’d received his letter, and Helga made him sit on the grass in the shade of the school with a jug of water. Rhonwen crossed him off her list as Bihotza and Hoshea began floating the tables back inside, replacing them in the dining hall in preparation for the evening’s feast.

“Is that all of them?” Salazar drawled, as though he rather hoped it was all of them; he had pulled up his hood against the afternoon sun and was stood in the shade of the walls like a grim statue. Rhonwen tapped the end of her quill against the parchment as she counted.

“All but one,” she answered after a moment. “We’re still waiting for the little girl from Kent. She had the furthest to come, so I thought she might be the last. And her family were not magic, so she might be afraid of using the fire.”

“Are you sure she’s coming?” Goderic said absently, watching the owl he had just sent disappearing into the afternoon clouds.

“She sent the owl back with the seal, like we requested,” Rhonwen shrugged. “I hope nothing has happened to delay her.”

“Or worse,” Salazar muttered from deep in his hood. He glared at the sun as though willing it to move further toward the horizon. For quite some time, the four of them stood and watched the courtyard gate, listening for a knock, Goderic occasionally walking over to stoke the lowering hearth fire just in case she was coming that route after all. Around them in the courtyard, the children were quieting down to a low simmer of conversation, sitting on the grass in little groups of two and three as the hour drew closer to Vespers. Hoshea and Ya’el had retreated to the kitchens to begin putting the feast onto platters, and Helga watched as sparks of light began to glitter on the surface of the loch, thrown there by the torches Bihotza had gone into the dining hall to light. Salazar had finally taken down his hood as the heat from the afternoon sun began to mellow. He leaned his head back against the stone of the outer wall, enjoying the shade provided by the lintels of the gate.

“Hello, excuse me, but is this the school, or whatever you call it?”

Salazar shot halfway across the courtyard, letting out a stream of words that Helga could only assume were curses in the Vasconian language. A transparent head was floating just a few inches from where Salazar had been standing, protruding through the closed gate the way a solid person would lean through a window. It was the head of a man of about thirty years, with sharp eyes and no beard, and a great deal of messy hair that Helga thought might have been copper-colored, had the man not been so very obviously a ghost whose whole visage was a wispy, translucent blue. Of course, Helga had dealt with ghosts before, and she assumed Salazar had as well; but it did tend to be quite startling when one of them appeared unannounced in places they were not expected. The ghost head swiveled, looking around at the courtyard, the children, and the four adults in front of him.

“Awfully sorry,” he said, nodding at a still-breathless Salazar. “But as I said, is this that school thing? Hogs-wart, or whatever the name is? It’s just that I’ve got a girl out here – a live one,” he added, as though they might need that specified, “who’s got a letter from some people running a school, and I don’t plan to plop her down anywhere until I know I’ve got the right place.”

“Ah,” Rhonwen sighed, relieved, and pulled out her parchment. Salazar was still standing with his hand on his chest, no doubt counting heartbeats to be sure he wasn’t missing any; Helga patted him on the shoulder before approaching the ghost in the gate.

“It is that place, sir,” she smiled, dipping her head a little in greeting. “We’ve been expecting one more little girl, and so you are very welcome. I am Helga Hunlafsdottir.”

“Alfgeat,” the ghost replied, giving a low bow that looked rather disconcerting, considering they couldn’t see any of him below the collarbone. “Any chance of getting this gate open? Little one’s a bit too alive to come in my way.”

“Oh! Right,” Helga chuckled. She and Goderic each tapped one side of the gate with their wands, and the wooden doors creaked open to reveal Alfgeat the ghost floating a few inches off the path; beside him stood a very small, very tired-looking girl of about eight years – but with eyes that looked much, much older. She carried a doll under one arm that had seen better days, and in her other hand she clutched the scrap of glass she had used to find her way. Rhonwen stepped forward to greet her.

“Mildryth?” she asked gently. When the little girl nodded, Rhonwen smiled at her and held out her hand. “Come along. My daughter has been very interested to meet you – and in just a little while, we’re going to have a feast!” Mildryth took Rhonwen’s hand and followed her across the courtyard to where the other children sat in the grass; Alfgeat hovered uncertainly on the path at the threshold, watching her go.

“Ehm…,” he began, looking a little lost. When he saw that Goderic was about to shut the gates, he floated quickly inside, scratching an imaginary itch on the back of his transparent neck. “I don’t suppose I could haunt your feast, could I? Sort of… float through the food, maybe catch a little taste? Eh?”

Helga smiled at him knowingly. “Alfgeat, if you wish to stay and keep watch over the girl, you’re very welcome. I think you must have guarded her a very long way.”

“Oh, no, no…,” Alfgeat scoffed. “Just… just from Hertfordscire, that’s… that’s not so far, is it?”

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Alfgeat,” Helga smiled. “Come on, you can be our very own school ghost.”

“Providing you promise not to insert yourself through any more walls where I am standing,” Salazar muttered grumpily. Goderic pounded him on the back and laughed, and the four of them followed Rhonwen and Mildryth across the courtyard to where Bihotza had just thrown open the doors for the feast.

*   *   *

The sun hovered just above the surface of the loch as Helga and her companions took their seats, painting the rippling water outside the dining hall windows with bands of red, orange, and gold. Goderic, Rhonwen, Helga, and Salazar sat at the center of the long table that had been laid perpendicular to the other four at the far end of the hall. Hankertonne and Wintermilk sat with them on Goderic’s end of the table alongside Helga’s father, who had agreed to stay for the feast, and Hoshea and Ya’el took places at Salazar’s end, where they could easily slip back to the kitchens if another dish of something needed prepared. Cadwgan had refused to eat at table, preferring to take his meal outdoors “where he could remain always vigilant ‘gainst whatever evils might lurk beyond the walls.” Aneirin the harpist had bewitched his lyre to play a soft tune from a windowsill, and now he stood by the hall doors awaiting orders, with Bihotza at his side. Helga saw that Bihotza had done something to the torches, some charm that made them sparkle as though they were full of fairy light, and the effect was truly lovely. The children had been gathered in the entrance room to await the start of the feast; now, at a signal from Rhonwen, Aneirin opened the hall doors and ushered them in. There was an immediate rush of slapping feet and children’s voices – punctuated by excited howls from Sœtr the crup – that filled the hall and made Helga’s heart swell. When all the children had found a seat and some measure of order had been regained, Goderic leaned over Rhonwen’s plate and prodded Helga with his wand handle.

“Are you going to make a speech?”

“What, now?” she whispered. “Absolutely not, they’re starving and so am I. But I suppose I can at least open the feast properly.” She stood up, eliciting a wave of loud whispers from the children. Helga tapped her wand against her drinking goblet, and a single bell-like note rang throughout the room, silencing the murmuring. “Hello, students!” she began, hardly able to contain her excitement long enough to get her words out. “Later this evening we will do the business we came here for – we’ll introduce ourselves, we’ll all get to know each other formally, and we’ll decide which of you will be responsible to which teacher. All of that will come. But right now, we are a room full of people with hungry bellies, and that is no state in which to make decisions. So first we will eat. Take whatever you like, because there is plenty, and no one will leave the table hungry. Welcome to Hogwarts!” There was a great deal of hand-clapping and table-thumping from the students as Helga sat down, and she blushed in spite of herself. Salazar nodded to Bihotza, who stood in front of the teachers’ table. The elf lifted one hand high where all the students could see, and snapped her long fingers.

Across the room, all five tables suddenly filled with platters of food. In the center of each table, there appeared a large cauldron of stew flanked by baskets of bread on each side. There was a roast of venison, a roast of mutton, platters of fowl and fish – there was even a peafowl served with its tail feathers displayed, courtesy of Goderic’s flock back in King’s Worthy. Scattered amongst the stews and roasts and breads were numerous small bowls and platters of dishes Helga could not identify – exotic foods from Salazar’s homeland, prepared by his old friends’ expert hands. Helga plied him with questions about each one as they ate, and he answered her grudgingly between mouthfuls. The children’s tables were displays of pure chaotic joy, and Helga’s cheeks began to hurt from smiling as she watched them while she ate. Several children were eating so fast she was worried they would be sick – in particular, the tall dark boy from the far north islands seemed unable to eat fast enough. He would barely chew anything, shoving food into his mouth like someone who feared they might never see food again. Helga could see how thin he was, how sunken his dark eyes had become, and she wondered when he had last had a full meal. Hnossa and Harald had eaten like that for a few days when they’d first come to her, and remembering that made her heart feel like bursting.

Thinking of Hnossa now, Helga looked for the girl’s face among the crowd. She found her near the end of one of the tables, sitting between Saeric and a quiet, swarthy boy with dark brown curls. The quiet boy was stoically eating his way through a whole loaf of bread while Hnossa chattered endlessly, having found a perfect audience in a boy whose mouth was always too full to answer her back. At another table, Goderic’s brother Eaderic had taken up with the older boy who’d arrived late that afternoon, and they seemed to be talking very seriously about things they clearly thought the younger children wouldn’t understand. Walrand stood on a bench near the middle of the room, the consummate entertainer, and all the children in his immediate vicinity were roaring with laughter. And tucked into a corner at the end of a bench, Helena and Mildryth had their heads together in some private conversation. Helga looked down the high table at her father, who was pouring Hankertonne another cup of ale, and caught his eye. Hunlaf’s gaze flickered out over the tables full of children and then back to his daughter, and he gave her a slow smile as he reached up to touch the rune amulet hidden in his thick copper chest hair. You did this, daughter, his eyes said, you did what you set out to do, and your mother is as proud tonight as I am. Putting down the jug, he raised his cup in her direction, and Helga returned the gesture with her own goblet, wiping her cheek dry with the other hand as she took a sip.

When the feasting had gone on long enough that even the wildest children were beginning to grow drowsy with food and exhaustion, Rhonwen reached over and touched Helga’s hand. “I think it’s time we begin the assigning of students, don’t you? Before they’re all so full and sleepy that they can’t remember which of us they belong to?”

“Mm, you’re right,” Helga said around the last mouthful of her wine. She reached over and tapped Salazar’s hand. “Salazar, you said you wanted first pick.”

“Yes, well, someone has to get their attention first, and it isn’t going to be me,” he grumbled, pouring himself another goblet of wine and burying his face in it. Rhonwen squeezed Helga’s wrist encouragingly.

“I think it’s time for that speech now.”

“I’m not giving a speech!” Helga protested. “You’re the one with the plans, Rhonwen, and the lists. It should be you making all the pronouncements!”

“It’s your school,” Rhonwen said quietly. Helga sputtered.

“It’s our school, you know I—”

“But it was your idea,” Goderic countered from Rhonwen’s other side. “This whole mad adventure was of your imagining. I think it’s only fitting that you be the voice explaining it to the children.”

“Go on, Helga Hoggle-Poggle,” Salazar smirked into his goblet. “Your audience is waiting for you.”

“Ha ha,” Helga retorted at Salazar, because it was all she could think of; but she stood up from her seat and tapped her goblet with her wand, making the bell-like note sound throughout the room again. The children fell silent, and many of them turned to sit sideways on the benches to get a better view. Helga came out from behind the teachers’ table and stood in front of it, clearing her throat.

“Hello again!” she began, smiling at the children warmly. “I think you have all feasted well and eaten your fill, and so now I would like to formally welcome you all to the Hogwarts School of Magic. You are here, first and foremost, because you are all young witches and wizards who must be taught magic; and secondly, because for a variety of reasons you have no one at home to teach you. Most of you are orphans; a few of you were abandoned, or have parents who are ill, or who are not magical, or who are far away from you and out of your reach. These reasons are unimportant now, because as students here you are all equals. Your birth and your circumstances are irrelevant, and you will be evaluated in one thing only – your commitment to learning magic.” She paused for a moment, letting her words sink in. When she felt she had been understood, she went on.

“In a few moments, my fellow teachers will join me in introducing themselves to you, and then we would like you each to introduce yourselves to us. You will then each be assigned to one of us as your head teacher. Let me explain what that means: you will all attend lessons together, in groups based on your level of ability, and you will all share sleeping quarters based upon your sex; you will take lessons from all four of us at various times and regard each of us as an authority; but your head teacher will be directly responsible for you and a handful of your classmates. They will be a sort of mentor for you as you learn and grow. If you need extra help or guidance, you should ask your head teacher first. If two of you have a disagreement, you should ask your head teacher to mediate. If you behave badly and must be punished, your head teacher will decide your appropriate punishment. If you are ill, you should let your head teacher know. And if the school is ever in danger, although that is unlikely, it is your head teacher who will be responsible for making sure you are safe and accounted for. Does everyone understand?” There was mostly silence from the children, with a few nodding heads and murmurs of yes here and there. Since nobody appeared dreadfully confused, Helga took that as an affirmative.

“Now,” she pressed on, motioning for the others to join her. “We have each agreed that we should take on the students who we think would be best suited to our particular ways of teaching. My companions are now going to introduce themselves, and tell you a little about what they will expect as your teachers. Salazar, why don’t you begin?” She said this last quietly as Salazar came round the table, and he swallowed the drink he was in the middle of taking before beginning a grudging speech of his own.

“I am Salazar Slidrian,” he began, and Helga was surprised at the amount of volume he could command with his normally soft and delicate voice. “My parents came to this land from Vasconia across the sea. I am very good at potion making, at illusions and transfiguring, and I know a great deal about exotic kinds of magic not often used here in the land of the English. You will receive your lessons in these topics from me. I value ambition and desire in students, and will not be a pleasant teacher for you if you do not have a hunger to succeed. If I choose to be your head teacher, it will be because you seemed ready to make bold choices, willing to make careful plans, and hungry to make a name for yourself in whatever branch of magic you choose to call your own.”

There was a silence following Salazar’s words, and Helga thought she saw the older boy who had been talking to Eaderic sit up a little straighter. Then Rhonwen stepped forward and held up a hand to the children. “I am Rhonwen ferch Eryr, now the Lady Hræfnsclawu. My father’s family are an old wizarding clan of Gwynedd in Cymru, and my husband’s family sit on the gemót for Northumbria. My areas of specialty are in divination, runes, arithmancy, and complicated charm work, as well as languages and history. You will learn these types of magic from me – and if you come to us unable to read or write, as many of you do, you will learn letters from me as well. Above all else, I value your mind. I want students who desire to learn everything they can learn, who love things that are detailed and complex, and who would rather sharpen their wit than their blades. I will choose students who I believe would fight with their intellect before they took out their wand.” As Rhonwen stepped back, Helga smothered a grin as Helena crossed her little arms on the table – clearly, she’d heard that speech before, and clearly, she herself would much rather be using a wand.

“I am Goderic de Grifondour, the Thegn of Salisberie,” Goderic said confidently, resting a hand on his sword hilt. “There will be occasions when I must leave the school for short times, because I am the wizard who stays close to the mundani king and keeps watch over our interests in his government. But don’t worry, I won’t let this take away from your lessons. I am skilled in the magic of combat and defense – and in non-magical forms of combat as well, so if you require lessons in swordplay, riding, or archery, those will come from me. My family motto is my motto for my students: audacia, fortitudo, dignitas. That means courage, steadfastness, and honor. I want students who are strong of will, who choose to ignore fear and reach for adventure, and who can plant their feet firmly in a belief and hold that position until the bitter end. If I select you as one of my students, it will be because I see in you the heart of a warrior – even if it is not reflected in your body.”

There were murmurs from some students at this, and some nudging of elbows. He knows how to make a speech, Helga thought wryly; then she stepped back into her former position at the front of the group. “And I am Helga Hunlafsdottir,” she smiled, “of Little Witchingham in the Danelaw. I am best at healing magic, and the magic in the world around us, creatures and plants. You will learn those things from me – and if you come to us with no magical learning yet at all, then you will begin with me, learning simple and ordinary magic – which, of course, is sometimes the most important kind. That is true of people as well. I think ordinary and simple people are the most important in the world, and that is all I need know about you. If the things the others have said do not sound like you at all, then you will find a place with me. All I ask of any student I take is that he or she works very hard, cares for others, and does not stop when the first effort fails.” She smiled over the group once more, knowing that her speech hadn’t been quite as stirring as Goderic’s; but at the far table, a chubby boy who was still picking at the leftover venison looked up at her brightly, and she felt a little more at ease. She nodded, to herself as much as to the children, and clapped her hands together.

“Well, then,” she announced. “Let’s begin sorting you out. Would all of you please get up from your seats and form a straight line, shoulder to shoulder, here in front of the teachers’ table?” There was a clatter of scraping benches and shuffling slippers as the score of children pulled themselves away from the remnants of the feast and muddled about at the front of the room, pushing and shoving, some trying hard to stand next to each other, some just trying not to touch anyone else. Behind them, Bihotza surreptitiously walked amongst the tables, snapping her fingers and vanishing scraps and dishes away to the kitchens. In the end the children’s line was not quite straight, but they were at least spread out enough to be seen. There were twenty-one of them, and so the four teachers had agreed to be responsible for five each, with one person taking a sixth child – which one would depend upon the personality of the last to be selected and who thought they were a better fit. When the children were still, Helga turned to Salazar.

“First pick, as promised,” she smiled. Salazar finished his wine and put the cup down indifferently behind him (much to Bihotza’s displeasure). Then he walked to the center of the line and crossed his arms, staring at the children silently just long enough for them to get nervous. He inhaled deeply; but when he exhaled, his mouth did not quite open.

“hLlllā!”

Everyone in the room froze. Even Helga, having heard Hnossa use the Serpent Speech not so long ago, shivered a little at the sound. Salazar was a grown man who had been speaking the strange tongue since he was a boy, and hearing it on his lips was not just unnerving, as it had been that day with Hnossa in the field – it was almost frightening. Two people in the room, however, were not frightened or wary. As soon as the sibilant echoes of the command died away, Hnossa detached herself from the line and came to stand at Salazar’s side. And from the other end of the line, the sallow boy who had refused to give Goderic his broom walked slowly over to join her. Salazar put one hand on each child’s shoulder and turned to Helga.

“I told them to come, and they came. These two are Parsel-mouths. I think they should be my first two students. That is, if you can bear to lose your ward.”

Helga bent and kissed Hnossa on the forehead. “She needs to learn her gift, and I think you’ll be a fine mentor for her.” She grinned as Hnossa ducked playfully away from her kiss, and then gestured to the boy. “Now who is this?”

“Tell us who you are, yes,” Salazar said, turning his attention to the boy in front of him. He was perhaps twelve, perhaps a bit older, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes that sparkled blackly like coal. He held himself upright, like a child of status, but his skin and hair were lackluster, as though he had long been ill or kept always indoors. “Your name?” Salazar asked again, but the boy only glared at him, as though evaluating whether the question was worth answering. “Hhhí fú?!” Salazar hissed sharply, and the boy flinched; but this time he answered.

“Brictric Blæc. Of Hexworthy.”

“Hexworthy?” Goderic interrupted. “Did your family have charge of the king’s coin mint there? Are you the son of Ecgberht the Blæc?” He waited for an answer, but the boy only glared at him, clearly only interested in speaking with Salazar. His sister waiting in line answered for him.

“That is our father, sir,” she offered, and Goderic grinned.

“You lent me your broom,” he remembered, and the girl smiled faintly.

“You nearly died.” When Goderic laughed heartily at this, she went on. “I am Ysolt Blæc. Our father was slain defending the mint from Danish raiders. Mother….” She paused, choosing her words. “Mother found remarriage difficult with us as her heirs, so—”

“Mother didn’t want us,” Brictric spat, looking at the floor instead of his sister. Salazar dropped to one knee and took the boy by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Well, I want you,” he said forcefully. There was no tenderness in it, but incredible sincerity, and after a moment or two of silence, Brictric gave him a slow nod. Salazar nodded in return and stood up. “I want the two of you to go and sit at the table at the far right. That will be our table.” He gave Hnossa and Brictric a gentle shove in that direction, and when they had taken seats, he began to walk up and down the line, scanning the other students’ faces. He stopped in front of the older boy who stood beside Eaderic and crossed his arms. “What is your name, young man?”

“Eduardus Croc,” the boy replied timidly. Salazar looked him over.

“And how did you come by that name, Eduardus Croc?”

“The brothers at the abbey found my mother sleeping beneath a standing cross along the road,” the boy explained, “with me in her arms. She was a slave to some Danes and her master had got a child on her, so she ran away. She lived with the sisters in the nunnery, and the brothers raised me. I had to be careful to hide my magic from them.”

“And what do you want in life, Eduardus?” Salazar questioned. Eduardus stood up straight at this query, suddenly confident.

“Authority. To be a man who makes decisions, and to never be imposed upon the way my mother was imposed upon. To have no man remember that I was once a halfling Ishmael with every man’s hand against me.”

“Is there anything that would deter you from that goal, Eduardus?”

“No, sir,” Eduardus pronounced. The corner of Salazar’s mouth twitched with a nascent grin.

“Then I think you are the sort of student I want to teach. Go and have a seat with Hnossa and Brictric.”

“Thank you, Master Salazar,” Eduardus said, inclining his head a little before backing out of the line. Eaderic gave him a playful shove on the shoulder as he went, and he returned the gesture. Salazar watched Eaderic thoughtfully.

“I suppose you would prefer to remain under your brother’s tutelage?” he mused aloud. Eaderic looked up at him, eyebrows lifted, as though the question had not occurred to him.

“I hadn’t expected to have a choice,” he said matter-of-factly, glancing at Goderic for direction. Goderic fiddled with the pommel of his sword.

“You want to steal my brother from me, Salazar?”

“Steal has such unpleasant connotations,” Salazar grinned, tilting his head. “I simply see something in him that I believe suits my philosophies. Eaderic, where do you see yourself as a man? Your brother has the title of Salisberie; since it will go to his children and not to you, what place do you see for yourself?”

“A title of my own,” Eaderic answered quickly. “Land from the king, title of thegn in my own right, and a seat on the gemót beside my brother.”

“Yes, and I think you would like to be head of the gemót one day, if you can manage it. And how do you plan to lay hold of that seat and title?” Salazar prodded. Eaderic shrugged.

“In whatever way I can, Master Salazar.”

“Whatever way?”

“The firstborn can afford to have noble scruples,” Eaderic replied. “I cannot.”

“Excellent answer,” Salazar grinned. He turned to Goderic. “Oh, let me have him, Goderic, and I’ll owe you something later, I promise.”

Goderic’s thumb strayed to the gold ring that was attached to his sword hilt, turning it restlessly as he looked at his little brother. “Eaderic, is this what you want? To answer to Salazar instead of me?” The brothers regarded each other for a long moment, and Eaderic’s face softened into a little half smile.

“I think I’d like you to be my brother again, and not my father,” he said gently. “All the years you should have been bullying me and sparring with me and getting me into mischief as brothers do, you’ve instead had to worry about teaching me. Let someone else do that work now, Brother.”

Goderic took a moment to puzzle over this, still turning the sword ring restlessly between his fingers. Finally, he smiled wryly. “I think you’ve chosen a hard taskmaster, little brother, but as you wish.” He came forward and squeezed Eaderic’s shoulder, and Eaderic reached up to grip his brother’s wrist.

“Yes, well, when you’ve both finished having this emotional outburst, I still have one more student to pick,” Salazar smirked, insinuating himself between them and nudging Eaderic in the direction of the far right table. Goderic chuckled and stepped back with the others, leaving Salazar free to examine the remaining students. He paced up and down the row, stopping in front of a few students to look at them more closely but not seeming to reach a decision. Rhonwen cleared her throat.

“Any day now, Salazar….”

“Contain yourself, Rhonwen,” Salazar murmured. “You commandeered my house, this is my payment.” He looked up and down the row again; Helga was about to suggest that he consider the Blæc boy’s twin sister, as he seemed so uncommunicative without her, when Salazar stopped in front of Aluric and crouched down.

“Aluric of Flictewicce,” the boy supplied before Salazar could ask. Salazar nodded appreciatively.

“I hear you are the son of an eorl, Aluric. Why aren’t you back home taking up his mantle?”

“That fell to my elder brother, Master Salazar.” There was a hint of irritation in the way he said it, and Salazar did not overlook it.

“You don’t care for your brother?”

“I don’t care to be told what to do, not unless I’m being told by someone who’s earned the right to do so.”

“Would you care to be told what to do by me, Aluric?” Aluric looked Salazar up and down, sizing him up the way Salazar had been evaluating the students, as if this was a hard question to answer. This made Salazar’s lips twitch with another suppressed grin, and Helga could tell he had already made his decision. Finally, Aluric tilted his head back and mimicked Salazar’s expression.

“On a trial basis,” he grinned. “My father told me never to make promises I couldn’t see the end of.”

“I like the sound of your father,” Salazar replied, and held out his hand to the boy. When Aluric clasped it with his own, Salazar stood up and turned to Helga. “Alright, Helga Honeypotter, I’ve chosen my five. Go on, then.” He sent Aluric off to sit with the others, where he was warmly greeted by Hnossa, as Helga glared at him for not using her correct name in front of the students.

“Salazar,” she hissed.

“Helgaaa…,” he hissed back, but he had a smirk on his face she knew she wouldn’t be able to wipe off. He laughed into his wine goblet as Helga turned back to the other two.

“Which of us next?” Goderic asked, and Helga waved her hands at them both dismissively.

“Oh, you two sort out which ones best suit you. I’ll take whichever children are left. I think they’re all brilliant.” Ignoring Salazar’s quiet scoff into his goblet, Goderic stepped forward.

“Well, since Salazar has stolen my brother from me, I would at least like to keep Walrand and Rodolphus. I’ve grown rather fond of them both.” He walked over and put a hand on each of their shoulders. Walrand grinned widely up at him, and Rodolphus dropped his head to hide his face behind his hair – but Helga could see a faint smile there as well.

“In that case,” Rhonwen interjected, “I’m laying claim to my daughter.” She walked over and laid a hand on Helena’s soft hair, and when she smiled down at her, Helena returned it – but for just a moment, Helga had thought she’d seen a flicker of disappointment cross the little girl’s face. “Helena, go and sit at the first table over there, that will be ours.” Rhonwen gave her daughter a little push, and Helena walked over to sit at the table on the far left side of the room, her face in her hands. Goderic seated his two boys at the second table, and then he and Rhonwen moved to stand together at the center of the line of children.

“Now what?” Goderic said, and in response, Rhonwen pulled out her list of students and began scanning the names.

“I want to be your student, my lord Grifondour.”

Everyone turned to look at the end of the line, where a boy of about ten had stepped out and was marching toward the assembled teachers. His face was covered in a spray of freckles that went right up his forehead into his dark red-brown hair, and the set of his mouth promised infinite mischief – although there was something hollow and hard about his eyes. He planted himself directly in front of Goderic and looked up at him, undaunted by the difference in height. “You said you wanted warriors, and I am a warrior, sir. I want to learn magic to make heathen armies quiver in terror.”

Goderic knelt to be level with the boy, whose eyes looked ready to spit fire. “What business would you have with heathen armies, lad?” he asked softly, in a voice Helga hadn’t known he possessed. The boy jutted his chin forward.

“The business of bringing my mother home.”

“Ælfwine,” a girl’s voice whispered from the line behind him, “please don’t. Not again.” The girl looked very like the boy, and Helga saw they must be brother and sister. Goderic acknowledged the girl with a tilt of his head, but turned back to her brother.

“Ælfwine, is it?”

“Ælfwine Caccepol.”

“What has happened to your mother, Ælfwine?” Goderic murmured. The boy kept his chin jutted out, and Helga saw that he was doing so to keep from crying.

“Raiders from Duiblinn took her to the slave market. She is not dead,” he spat the two words in his sister’s direction, “and when I am a man, I will find her and bring her back.”

“Alone?” Goderic questioned, and the boy’s lips tightened.

“If I have to.”

“I believe you,” mused Goderic. He stood back up and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Go and sit at my table, Ælfwine, and God help Duiblinn when we finish teaching you here.” The boy shot another look at his sister and then half-ran to the second table, where he received a hearty slap on the back from Walrand and a timid smile from Rodolphus. Goderic moved to stand beside Rhonwen again, but before he got there, the boy’s sister had left the line and planted herself in front of Goderic’s table.

“Eadgyth Caccepol. Permission to accompany my brother?” she chirped. Her face was very like her brother’s, but her eyes were bright and warm where his had been hard. She was perhaps a year or two older than him, and Helga noticed with some surprise that her hair had been chopped off just below her ears, giving her an ethereal, elvish look. Goderic crossed his arms.

“Would you accompany him on his quest to Duiblinn?” he asked, and the girl smiled wryly.

“Obviously.”

“Even though you clearly think it’s a fool’s quest?”

“Even a fool’s quest can be a grand adventure, can’t it?”

Goderic laughed warmly at that. “Well said, Eadgyth. Yes, join your brother. I like adventurers as well as warriors.” He gave her a little bow as she danced off to his table, where her brother and Walrand greeted her by pounding their fists against the benches excitedly. When the noise had abated, Rhonwen stepped up and consulted her annotated list.

“Is there a boy here called Myrddin?” she inquired, her eyes flicking back and forth between the parchment and the line of students. A boy who had been standing aloof at one end of the line walked gracefully up to meet her and stood, awaiting her questions. He looked to be perhaps twelve or thirteen, and Helga thought he was the most exceptionally beautiful child she had ever seen; he had large, almond-shaped eyes the color of the sea set in a delicate, almost angelic face, and his hair was the same dark shade as Rhonwen’s, with the same red twinkles in the firelight. Rhonwen locked eyes with him for a moment. “Your whole name?”

“Myrddin a’Pruwet,” he replied, and his voice was as lovely as his face. Rhonwen was nodding as though that meant something.

“And your namesake is not a coincidence?”

“Father told me our line was sired by the great wizard Myrddin,” he said matter-of-factly, “although I suppose that is difficult to prove.”

“You can prove it to me with your skills, then,” Rhonwen smiled shrewdly. “If your father was right, they should be prodigious. Go and sit with my daughter, please, Myrddin.” The boy nodded to her elegantly and went to take his seat. Helena took her head out of her arms to stare at him as her mother turned back to her list. “Starculf of Notton?” she read before looking up to see if she was answered. The swarthy, quiet boy who had been sat beside Hnossa at dinner stepped out of the line. Through his veil of dark curls, Helga thought she could see a face that still held traces of the ancient presence of the Romans on their island, with dreamy, far-away eyes. Rhonwen smiled as she stepped over to him. “Starculf?”

“Aye?” the boy murmured, as though he was not much used to talking.

“When my cauldron showed you to me, you were lying in a field gazing at the stars,” Rhonwen began. “Do you love them because of your name?”

“I wonder what’s up there,” the boy replied, speaking in the accent of the people north of the five boroughs. “Want to know about them, and whatever else I can’t see.”

Rhonwen smiled. “I like people who wonder about things. Wondering is how all knowledge is born. I’ll take you as my student as well. Go and sit at my table.” She gave the boy a gentle squeeze on the shoulder as he made his way to sit beside Myrddin; then she underlined something else on the list in her hand. “Linnræd?” she called.

The boy with the messy hair who had been the first to arrive that morning took a step forward, attempting to smooth down his cowlick now that everyone was looking at him. “My lady,” he greeted Rhonwen nervously. Rhonwen tapped her parchment.

“You have an interesting name, Linnræd. Is it a family name, or does it have personal relevance?”

“Oh, yes. That,” the boy shrugged. “Mother said I would move in her womb every time she walked near the village pond. And right after I was born, my crying brought grindylows to the surface. I talked to fish when I was little. I thought lots of people could do it – didn’t know it was unusual til I was older.”

“Yes, it’s an uncommon talent,” nodded Rhonwen. “One that I would like to see you develop, if you’ve a mind to apply yourself to your studies. Would that suit you?”

“Yes, my lady,” Linnræd said politely, holding back a grin. Rhonwen gestured to her table, and the boy patted down his cowlick one more time before running over to join the others. As Rhonwen looked back at her list, Goderic moved to stand beside her.

“Well, we each need one more,” he mused. “Shall I make another selection?” When Rhonwen waved her hand at him dismissively, Goderic took a step forward and motioned to the children. “Alright, close ranks, you lot. Let me get a look at who’s left.” The children dutifully moved in to form a smaller line. Eight students remained to be chosen, four boys and four girls. Goderic eyed each of them carefully, stroking his beard. “Let me ask,” he began after a long moment. “Do any of you have a particular desire to be my student?” The children glanced at each other, waiting for someone to speak. Finally, a boy with bright red hair and a spray of pale freckles across his nose stepped forward and bowed to Goderic with great formality.

“Take me, my lord de Grifondour.”

Goderic returned the boy’s bow with a dip of his head and regarded him carefully. “What’s your name, lad, and why would you prefer to be my student?”

“Arthur of Weslege, my lord,” the boy replied. “You said you wanted students who would become warriors. In truth, my lord, I don’t know if I am a warrior or not. But my father named me for our ancestor who was once king in this land, and a warrior is what he would want me to be.”

“You come from the line of Arthur? As in The Arthur?” Goderic breathed. The boy shrugged.

“So said our father. Not from the royal bed, but from one of his bastard sons. My sister could tell you the whole lineage from rote, but I’m not the best at lists. Anyway, I think our father would want me under the tutelage of the king’s thegn. I think he would find it fitting, and I want to honor him.”

“Do you value honor, Arthur of Weslege?” Goderic asked, and the boy stood a little straighter.

“Above most other things, my lord.”

“Then take your rightful place at my table,” Goderic said solemnly. As the boy began to bow again, Rhonwen stepped forward and placed a light hand on his shoulder.

“You said your sister could recite your ancestry from memory?” she asked excitedly. Arthur smiled at her.

“Yes, my lady. And I think you would do well to have her as a student, if I might be bold and suggest it. She does nothing but read and invent stories.” He turned back to the line and gave his sister a playful shove forward before taking his seat at the second table. Rhonwen reached out and took the girl’s hand.

“Morgen of Weslege,” the girl supplied, and Rhonwen consulted her notes.

“Yes, I see that my cauldron showed you surrounded by parchments and books,” Rhonwen nodded. “Tell me, Morgen, what do you love most in the world?”

“Cats,” the girl said immediately, and then hiccupped as though worried that was a wrong answer. “I mean… that is to say, if you mean what do I love to do most in the world, then I suppose it’s studying and writing. But cats are very helpful in that regard.” This made Rhonwen chuckle.

“Yes, I’ve also found them good companions for scholarship. Take a seat at my table, Morgen.” The girl made a little curtsey and took her seat next to Helena, giving the younger girl a friendly smile that was reciprocated gratefully. Having now put five children at her table, Rhonwen laid her parchment aside on the teachers’ table and turned to Helga. “Well, Helga, the three of us all have five students each,” she said. “Will you take the remaining six, or shall one of us take the sixth?”

“Not me,” Salazar said immediately, backing up and going to stand at the head of his table. Helga shrugged.

“I don’t mind, if—”

“Ahem…”

All four of them jumped at the interruption; they turned to see Alfgeat the ghost hovering behind the teachers’ table, looking to catch their eyes. When he saw that he was acknowledged, he floated through the table to hover close to Goderic’s ear.

“What is it?” Goderic asked, and Alfgeat cleared his transparent throat before leaning in to speak.

“My lord, I hoped you’d consider the little girl, Mildryth, as one of your students.”

“The girl you came here with?” Helga said, and the ghost nodded.

“Any particular reason?” Goderic inquired, and Alfgeat moved closer and dropped his voice low enough that Helga and Rhonwen could hear but the children could not.

“Because you want students who are brave,” the ghost whispered, taking a moment to collect his next words. “When I met this girl, she was sleeping in the ruins of my old village along the Wæcelinga road. She had walked all the way from Kent up past Lundenburh on her own, after watching her parents burn to death in their own house and being outed as a witch when she tried to use what little magic she had to put out the fire. She had to run from the villagers, live at the edge of settlements like an outlaw at eight years old, and after all that she’s more afraid of her own magic than she was of meeting a ghost for the first time. She’s terrified of being a witch – but she chose to walk all the way here anyway. Does that fit your definition of bravery, my lord? Because it does mine.”

Goderic stared at Alfgeat for a moment, taking in what he had said. Helga saw that the ghost’s eyes burned with a fierce, almost parental love for the girl. She watched as Goderic stroked his beard contemplatively; then he stepped back toward the children and beckoned the tiny girl to step forward. In the sparkling torchlight of the dining hall, Helga saw what she had missed in the late afternoon dimness outside; the girl’s face and hands had been washed clean, but her dress was old, tattered, and – to Helga’s dismay – stained with black soot. The hair of her doll had been singed and blackened as well, as though she had slapped the doll against some flames to put them out. Goderic knelt down in front of the tiny girl and took one of her hands as though he were speaking to a princess.

“Mildryth,” he said softly, “your friend Alfgeat thinks you should be my student. He says you have the heart of a warrior. Would you like to be a warrior, Mildryth?”

The little girl fidgeted for a moment before answering. “Father said we should all be warriors for God,” she murmured, looking more at her doll than at Goderic. He nodded gently.

“And if God called you into battle – would you be afraid?”

“I might be, sir,” Mildryth sniffled, picking at her doll’s singed hair. “But I hope I would be brave like Saint Lucia and Saint Felicitas.” There was a moment of silence, and then the girl lifted large blue eyes up to Goderic’s face. “Do you think God would answer my prayer for courage, if I am a witch?” Helga saw Goderic’s shoulders lift in a deep breath before he answered.

“I think that prayers for courage are the kind of prayers God answers most often,” he said gently, patting the little girl softly on her wispy brown hair. “And those are the kind of prayers I like to hear as well. Go and sit at my table.” He guided her toward the second table, where Eadgyth enveloped the little girl in a hug as she took a seat. Goderic remained standing near the head of his now full table and nodded in Helga’s direction. “These five are yours, then,” he said.

“Wonderful!” Helga smiled, stepping up to look at the five remaining students. Særic stood at one end of the line, looking a little downcast at not being chosen by the first three teachers, so Helga leaned down and kissed the top of his head firmly. “I was hoping they’d leave you for me anyway,” she whispered, and he gave her a wry smile as he pushed his hair back into place. Helga took a step back and looked the children over. “Well, now,” she began, “Særic I already know, since I was the one who brought him here. Why don’t the rest of you tell me about yourselves?”

“Why?” asked Ysolt Blæc flatly. “You don’t have any selecting to do. You don’t have to interview us.”

“No, but I want to be an excellent teacher for you all,” Helga replied. “I want to know you like you’re my own children. Ysolt, you spoke a little of your background when your brother was introduced. Why don’t you tell me what sorts of things you’re good at, and what you’d like to do when you are grown and have finished your education?”

The girl blinked at the question, as though nobody had ever asked her what she was good at or what she wanted before. After a moment’s thought, she said, “Mother didn’t teach us a lot. But there is one thing I can do well.” She turned to look at the golden-haired girl she had arrived with, staring at her without blinking until the other girl began to laugh nervously. Then several students gasped at once; Ysolt’s jet black hair had begun to turn the exact shade of gold of the other girl’s ringlets. The gold spread until it reached the tips of her hair, which was now twisting up into big, round curls. Her sallow, pale skin turned ruddy and vibrant, with flushes in her cheeks. She grew shorter by about two inches, and her nose shortened and widened. The last to change were her eyes, shifting from their natural deep brown into a bright hazel. Helga’s jaw dropped. If she had not seen it happen, if the girls had not been wearing differently colored dresses, she would have sworn there were two of the same golden-haired Cymraeg girl standing in front of her. Goderic left his students and came closer, his eyebrows lifted.

“A metamorphmagus,” he breathed. Helga managed to shut her mouth and grinned.

“The gift of Loki, my people call it,” she added. Salazar was craning his neck jealously, and Helga thought now he must regret not taking both twins. “That is excellent, Ysolt,” she encouraged.

The girl shifted slowly back into her own form and managed a hesitant smile. “It came from my father’s family. My mother hated it.”

“Well, I think it’s brilliant,” Helga smiled. “Now what do you aspire to do in life, Ysolt?”

“Truly?” Ysolt asked, and when Helga nodded, she shrugged a little. “I want to find myself a husband who likes to hoard books instead of money, and grow old reading with him, and have children who can trust me and who will never know how it feels to be put aside.”

Helga felt her chest tighten, the way it had when Hnossa had begged not to be thrown in the river. She leaned down and took Ysolt’s hand, because she felt a full hug would not be received as well, and squeezed her fingers gently. “That is grander than any magic I could teach you, and I hope you get every bit of it,” she whispered. Ysolt didn’t answer, but she squeezed Helga’s hand in return.

When the moment had passed, Helga stood back up and moved over to the golden-haired girl Ysolt had transformed into. She had a mischievous glint in her eyes that appeared to be a permanent part of her face, and she looked as though she found everything terribly funny. “Your turn,” Helga prompted, and the girl blew a ringlet of hair out of her eyes before speaking.

“Arddun ferch Cuhelyn, and I think she’s mad,” she giggled, tilting her head toward Ysolt. “In the best possible way, of course.”

“The best possible way?” Ysolt murmured, and Arddun giggled again.

“Anyone,” she said to Helga, “who wants a husband must be a little mad. From what I’ve seen, the most common cause of death for girls is babies, and the most common cause of babies is husbands.” There was a ripple of laughter through the room, and Helga thought she saw Rhonwen nod her head subtly out of the corner of her eye. She smiled wryly.

“Well, I suppose you are somewhat correct, at least in a mathematical sense,” she conceded. “If you wouldn’t like to marry, how would you prefer to spend your time?”

“Being out of doors, mostly,” Arddun replied, “flying my broom and chasing after flying creatures. Birds, winged horses, dragons, pixies – I’d live in the air with them if I could. I want to stay alive as long as possible and keep flying until I’m too old to stay on my broom. I suppose I might find a boy I’d like to keep about,” she added as an afterthought, “although it is unlikely, but he’d have to be able to keep up. That was why I ran away from home in the first place – they were going to betroth me to some great lump who was at least twenty-five and looked like he could make stones cry from boredom. I don’t think he could run even if the room was on fire.” She stopped to take a breath after that long pronouncement, and Helga took the opportunity and laid a hand on her golden head before she started speaking again.

“Well, I can promise you that we won’t be doing any betrothing here, Arddun. And all I ask of you is that you promise not to fly your broom indoors. Is that a deal?” She waited for the girl’s nod, and then gave her shoulder a little squeeze before moving on to the boy beside her. This was the chubby boy Helga had noticed looking particularly enthused at her earlier speech, and sure enough, the grin he was giving her said that he was perfectly content to have been passed over by the other teachers. Helga smiled back at him. “And what about you, young man?”

“I’m Tancred,” he said brightly, “of Alesworth. And I’m glad I’ve got you, because I want to learn all about healing with magic.”

“Do you?” Helga grinned. “Well, you and Særic should be fast friends, then.” She nodded to Særic at the other end of the line, and the boys shared a genial wave. “Have you already learned some healing spells?”

“A little,” Tancred said. “Father had taught me some magic, but he died last year when a spell went wrong. Healing was what I was best at, though, of what he was able to teach me.”

“And is that what you would like to do when you are a man? Set up shop, or travel, as a healer?”

“Not exactly,” the boy demurred. “I want to join the Church.”

There was a murmur of surprise throughout the room at those words, and Helga glanced at her fellow teachers; Goderic shrugged, Rhonwen tilted her head as if her curiosity was roused, and Salazar was rolling his eyes as if that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. Helga watched the boy’s face, but he didn’t seem at all discouraged by everyone’s reaction. She chose her words carefully before responding.

“Tancred, forgive me for questioning you, because I am not a Christian Dane, and so I don’t always understand all the parts of your religion; but I have been under the impression that your holy book forbids magic, and that your church puts witches to death. Have I got it wrong?” She didn’t think she had, based on everyone else’s reaction, but it didn’t hurt to ask. The boy’s smile hadn’t wavered, and he shrugged.

“Not so wrong, I suppose. But I reckon the priests are just people, same as us, and we can all get things wrong now and then. And I reckon those sorcerers the Scripture talks about are folk who curse people, or folk who got their magic from the Devil. Now me, and you – folk like us, we were born with our magic. And the Scripture says that it’s God who shapes us in our mothers’ wombs, and so then it’s God who put that magic in me. And if God has given me a gift to heal people, then I’d better use it. If I’m a churchman, I can go tend the sick wherever they are, even the non-magic folk. Think of all the sicknesses I could heal that the Church doesn’t have medicine for!”

There was a rapturous brightness in the boy’s eyes, and Helga smiled in spite of herself. After a long moment, she asked, “But don’t you think they’ll notice? After a while, I mean?”

“They might do,” he shrugged. “But if they ask, I’ll just say God has blessed me with the gift of healing, and that’ll be the truth.”

“And if they catch you with your wand out?” Helga pressed.

“Then I suppose I’ll go to meet my God a little sooner than I might do otherwise,” Tancred said seriously, but his cheeks were still stretched in a smile. “But I’ll have done a powerful lot of good on my way there.”

For a while, Helga just looked at the boy in silence, a little overwhelmed. She wondered if he knew precisely what he was signing up for, and then she remembered that this was the boy who Rhonwen’s cauldron had shown living in a cave, hiding from the villagers who had driven out his parents, and she supposed he must know, maybe more than most. She took his head in her hands and gave him a kiss on his mop of yellow hair.

“Then if that’s what you want, I’ll do everything I can to help get you there.”

“I’m grateful, Mistress Helga,” he said softly; then he stepped back into the line so Helga could address the last of her students.

The boy at the end of the line was older than the others, perhaps fourteen, and it was he Helga had watched with such concern during the feast, eating as though he’d been starving. He was dark of hair and eyes, delicate of face, and Helga thought he would be a very handsome man when he was grown, although he did look very thin and pale and in need of a few more meals like tonight. Most curiously, he was holding a rolled-up piece of parchment with the end touching his ear, and he made no move to lower it as Helga approached.

“Hello,” she began. “And what’s your name?”

The boy didn’t answer immediately; instead, his eyes flickered over to the parchment held up to his ear, and he seemed to be listening for something. In the moment of dead quiet, Helga began to hear something like whispering, although she couldn’t quite decipher it. When it stopped, the boy spoke.

“Silvanus mac IainUidhir,” he said, and his voice was thick with the accent of the Pictish peoples of the far north. When he didn’t volunteer any other information, Helga prompted.

“Can you tell me something about yourself, Silvanus?”

Again, the boy didn’t answer straightaway, inclining his head to the parchment instead, and this time Helga realized that the whispering sound was coming from inside the parchment’s folds. Realization hit her, and Helga put out a hand and touched the boy’s wrist.

“Silvanus, can you understand me?” She waited, and the boy again listened to the parchment’s whispers. He then nodded his head equivocally, and held out the parchment as though letting her inspect it. Helga didn’t understand, and Silvanus must have seen this on her face, for he took the parchment back, unrolled it, and spoke to it in a stream of words that were completely foreign to Helga’s ears. As soon as he finished, the parchment began to speak aloud.

“I can understand you with this parchment,” the voice said, “the one you sent me. I saw that you bewitched it to speak, so I asked it if it could translate things and it said yes. So when you spoke earlier I asked it to translate and held it to my ear and it changed your words into my language.”

When Helga looked up from the singing parchment, she saw the boy grinning from ear to ear, obviously pleased with himself. Over his shoulder, she could see Aneirin the harpist positively dancing in place, ecstatic to see his invention being used in such a way. Rhonwen quick-marched over to join them, clearly intrigued.

“A bheil Gàidhlig agad?” Rhonwen asked the boy after glancing over the parchment.

“Tha,” the boy replied, and Rhonwen nodded.

“The language of the Gaels is his native tongue,” she explained to Helga before turning back to Silvanus. “A bheil thu a ’bruidhinn Sasunnach?” The boy shook his head at this, and Rhonwen nodded knowingly again. “He doesn’t speak any Saxon. He’s been using the parchment to translate everything tonight, it’s absolutely brilliant.”

“He doesn’t let himself be thwarted,” Helga grinned. “I’m already proud of him. Talar þú Norrœna?” She asked this last in hopes that he might have picked up some Norse from the vikingrs who were a constant presence in his far northern homeland. Silvanus scrunched his eyebrows in concentration, and then waggled his hand ambivalently.

“Fár orð,” he said uncertainly, and Helga sighed. He had a few words, but not much.

“Well, then we’ll have to keep using the singing parchment until you learn Saxon, won’t we?” she said, leaning over the scroll. The parchment spoke back to Silvanus in his own language, and he nodded before replying.

“I can go on using this,” the parchment said for him, “but can I have some more pieces please? I think the spell might wear off some time.”

“Absolutely!” Rhonwen beamed, and she glanced to the back of the room. Aneirin was already gleefully rummaging in his sack, holding his wand in his teeth as he pulled out pieces of parchment in both hands. “We’ll have a stack of them ready for you in the morning before lessons begin.” Silvanus listened to the parchment’s translation and then nodded at her happily.

“Speaking of lessons in the morning,” Salazar prompted from his table, “I’ve been told that children apparently need indecent amounts of sleep, so shouldn’t we begin that process?” Helga jumped at his voice, and realized that she could now see the moon glittering on the surface of the loch outside the windows.

“Oh, of course, thank you, Salazar,” she agreed. “Yes, I suppose it is time for the children to be getting to bed. Bihotza, are the sleeping chambers prepared?”

“Aye, Mistress,” the elf nodded, coming up the aisle between the middle tables and vanishing scraps of food from the floor as she went. “All the beds is made and ready for children to sleep in them. Shall Bihotza go ahead and light the torches upstairs, Mistress?”

“Yes, please,” Helga said, “thank you, Bihotza.” The elf vanished one more scrap of bread before holding up her long fingers and giving them a snap; she disappeared with a loud pop! that left the children from non-magic families whispering incredulously. When she had gone, Helga motioned for all the children to stand up from their seats. There was a great noise of bench scraping and quiet conversation as they all got to their feet, and then Helga nodded to Rhonwen.

“The girls will sleep in the upper chamber to the right of the stairs,” Rhonwen announced, coming to stand in the center of the room, “and the boys will be in the left-hand chamber. Goderic and I will show you all to your beds, and we ask that you all stay there and do not wander about the school after dark. Should you need anything during the night, call out for Bihotza, and she will go and fetch your head teacher. In the morning, water will be provided for washing, and you will each have a clean new dress or tunic to wear. You will come here to your teacher’s table to break your fast, and once we have all eaten, lessons will begin. Girls?” Rhonwen motioned with one hand, and the girls left their tables and came to stand around her.

“To me, then, boys,” Goderic called, gathering the other students. Helga smiled at them all once more.

“Sleep well, children – and welcome again to Hogwarts.” There was a ripple of contented clapping from the students, and then they began to file out of the dining hall in two haphazard lines as Goderic and Rhonwen led them toward the stairs.

*   *   *

It took the better part of half an hour to get all of the children settled in their beds – there was much disgruntled bargaining among students who preferred beds nearer the door, or nearer a window, or nearer one another, and Rodolphus earned himself some odd looks as he floated his bed into a tight corner perpendicular to everyone else’s. But once the hubbub of children preparing for bed had simmered down, Rhonwen and Goderic left Bihotza to put out the lights and said goodnight themselves before heading off to their tower rooms. Hankertonne and the cooks had finished cleaning the kitchen in the interim and had retreated to their sleeping chambers off the teacher’s hearth room, and Wintermilk the groundskeeper checked on the animals once more before wandering off to his own little cottage. Helga stood at the school’s front door and watched him go; she was about to close and bar the door for the night when she heard loud snoring and muttering coming from the courtyard.

“Stand and fight…. Bloody coward….” The words were mumbled and blurred with sleep, and Helga followed the snuffling until she found Cadwgan, sprawled out by the now-dead fire in the courtyard and using his pony for a pillow. His sword lay at an angle in his clenched fist, the tip dug into the earth. The pony half opened its eyes at Helga’s approach and snuffled at her sleepily, clearly begging her not to wake its aggressive little master. Helga patted the pony’s head gently and waved her wand in the air, conjuring a blanket which she lowered slowly over the sleeping warrior. “…Shall wear…cloak… with honor, sire,” Cadwgan snuffled through his thick mustache before drifting deeper into sleep. Helga smothered a giggle and tiptoed back to the school, careful to close the doors quietly behind her.

The only torches still lit inside were in the little hearth room that had once been Salazar’s kitchen. Helga entered and found her father seated at the little square table, munching a leftover cheese and cradling the sleeping baby Harald, and Salazar pouring himself a last drink before bed. Sœtr the crup was curled up in front of the firebox, his forked tail twitching occasionally in his sleep. Salazar eyed Helga for a moment before offering her the cup he had just poured for himself. She took it with a wry smile, noticing he was not calling her any names with her father at the table.

“So, you’ve done it, daughter,” Hunlaf grunted as Helga sat down with a tired sigh. “It would be a fool who doubted you, once you’ve set your mind to do something, but even so I’m a little in awe of you tonight.”

“I’m only doing as you’ve taught me,” she smiled at him, patting his big hand across the tabletop. “Will you go home tonight, or will you sleep here and leave in the morning?”

“Oh, this little fellow is much too comfortable for any apparating,” Hunlaf said quietly, patting the sleeping toddler gently. “We’ll stay til after breakfast, and then I’ll take him home and get on with the business of ordinary life. And the business of making wands, of course.”

Helga nodded. “Oh, yes, I had nearly forgotten. Some of the children don’t have wands – do you have enough supplies on hand to make them?”

“It might take a trip to Norwic,” Hunlaf conceded. “Perhaps before you start lessons in the morning, you can give me a list with the names of those who need one, and some details about each child. I can work double time and try to have them done within a week or so.”

“And what will you do with the little one in the meantime?” Salazar asked, coming over to the table but not sitting down. “He’s not a wizard, is he?”

“No,” Hunlaf shrugged his free shoulder. “But with his sister a witch, he’s not going to just forget about all this, so I’ll have to keep him to raise myself, I suppose. I’ll teach him some carpentry so he’ll have a trade, and I’ll make sure he understands that he’s got to keep his sister and this place a secret as he gets older.”

“Assuming he ever speaks at all,” Helga mused, finishing her drink. “The two of you must come visit often. And we’ll come and stay with you during the summer months, Hnossa and I.”

“I expect nothing else,” Hunlaf grinned. “We’ll be here for Jól, at the very least. Perhaps by then, I’ll have a little apprentice wandmaker.” He stroked Harald’s wispy hair gently, and Helga realized for the first time that her father was perhaps thinking about the frail little boy her mother had died trying to give him so many years before, the boy who had withered away in his father’s hands mere hours after his mother had breathed her last. Now he had another little boy in his arms, and she saw that Hunlaf meant to have this boy as his son whether he had magic or not. Helga smiled at her father softly, knowingly, and he gave her a little grin in response.

“Is that wise?” Salazar said cautiously, still not sitting but coming to stand at the back of Helga’s chair. “Teaching the boy about our world when he’s not one of us?”

“Oh, but he is one of us,” Helga countered, craning her neck up at him. “He’s Hnossa’s brother, he’s family.”

“Family,” Salazar repeated, staring into his wine cup. “Yes, he is. Like the count in Vasconia who drowned his sister because she was a witch? They were family, too.” Helga stared at Salazar blankly; he always seemed to be thinking of things that would never even occur to her. Hunlaf adjusted his hold on the sleeping Harald and laid the rind of his cheese on the cutting board in front of him.

“You don’t trust anyone who isn’t magical, do you, young man?” he asked, although Helga could tell he wasn’t asking because he didn’t know the answer. Behind her, Salazar sighed.

“I don’t trust anyone with less to lose than me,” he said after some thought, and she heard her father grunt softly.

“Well, that’s the beauty of it,” Hunlaf said as he stood up, careful not to wake Harald. “This boy might not be magic himself, but he will have just as much to lose as you or I. He will know these other children, grow up visiting them, becoming their friend. He will know our world. And we will be his only family. I think he would be loth to give any of that away, if it is all he knows. Hmm?” He laid Harald gently into the little pile of rushes and blankets Bihotza had piled into a corner for his bed and fixed Salazar with a hard look. After a moment, Salazar simply shrugged.

“If you insist,” was all he said in reply before downing the rest of his drink and heading toward the cellar stairs. Helga helped her father unroll a blanket onto his cot by the hearth; then after saying her goodnights and kissing Hunlaf on the cheek, she followed Salazar through the little door and down into the cellars. Salazar had stopped at the bottom, waiting for her at the little juncture that led either left, into his own part of the cellars, or right toward the kitchens and Helga’s room. His eyes were still dark, but the mischievous glint was back. Helga sensed what was coming, and she pursed her lips at him.

“I’m sorry, have you forgotten the way to your chambers, Master Slidrian?” she said in a voice that was purposefully tart. A ghost of a grin flickered around the corner of his mouth.

“My old offer still stands,” he smirked, gesturing toward the door to his chambers. “If you ever tire of sleeping next to the kitchen like a servant….” He trailed off, narrowing his eyes at her in what he must have thought was a seductive gaze. Helga snorted at him down in her throat.

“I would rather sleep out of doors like a sheep,” she said simply, tossing her braid over her shoulder and intentionally hitting him with it as she walked off toward the right-hand door. She could hear him chuckling softly to himself behind her as she went.

“Suit yourself, Helga Hugglepuggle,” he quipped just before she closed the kitchen door in his face.