At dawn the next morning, Helga awoke to the sound of the Prime bell, and for a moment she could not quite remember where she was. The tone was very much that of the distant Little Witchingham church bell, but of course there were no bells or churches in the barren highlands, and in her warm sleepiness, Helga thought perhaps she had dreamt the whole mad adventure of the school for witchcraft, and that she was back in her little cottage by the barley field. Then the door of her chamber creaked open a fraction, letting in soft light and the smell of new bread and fresh hot milk being churned, and she came fully awake as Bihotza the house elf slipped inside and lit the torch on the wall.

“Mistress Helga should be waking up now,” the little elf creaked. “We is almost ready to send the food up to the childrens in the hall.”

“Oh, thank you, Bihotza,” Helga yawned, stretching her legs under the thick blanket. “Have we a bell somewhere in the school? I don’t remember hanging one.” Bihotza smiled cheekily at her, then she lifted her long fingers and snapped them toward the ceiling. The bell rang out once more and then faded to echoes, then to silence.

“Bihotza is doing that herself, Mistress,” she grinned. “Easier than going round and shaking all the childrens awake.”

“What a good idea, Bihotza!” Helga beamed, and the elf inclined her head politely. “I’ll just get dressed, and then I’ll come and help you all in the kitchen.” She swung her feet out of the bed and into her slippers. Bihotza shook her head softly.

“Don’t need help, Mistress,” the elf smiled. “We is almost finished, just the butter to shape up. Mistress should go and sit at the big table with the other teachers and greet the childrens.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Helga conceded. “I’ll be up in just a few moments, thank you.” Bihotza nodded at her and slipped back out into the kitchen, closing the door softly behind her. Helga dressed quickly, the excitement of the first day of lessons beginning to creep over her and sharpening all her movements. She plaited her hair with her wand instead of taking the time to use her hands, wanting to get upstairs as soon as she could. When she came out into the kitchen, the large tables were already laid with baskets of warm bread, bowls of honey, and jugs of milk and water. Hoshea and Ya’el were using their wands to draw the last of the milk from a lump of butter floating in the air between them; the milk splashed back down into their churn, and Ya’el waved her wand and sent the creamy lump through the air to an empty platter on the table. By the time it landed, it had smoothed itself into a lovely rounded knob, already firm and ready for cutting up and putting on bread.

“Good morning, Morah Helga,” Ya’el smiled, twitching her wand at the churn; a swatch of thin linen lifted itself off the rim and dipped down into the warm milk, coming back up slowly as it filtered out any lingering butter. Helga smiled back at her.

“It is quite a nice morning, isn’t it?” she beamed. The kitchen was mostly underground, but there were small slit windows at the top of the wall, open now to let out the haze of cooking, and through the rough grass at ground level Helga could see the first bright gold and pale blue of sunrise across the loch. “You’ve all done a wonderful job with the breakfast,” she said, turning back to them. “Thank you for all the hard work.”

“Trifles,” Hoshea dismissed with a wave of his hand. “We have cooked for more than this. Now you go and make wise children, Morah. Be a little fish in fresh water!”

“I will certainly try,” Helga grinned, a little bemused by the expression. She nodded another greeting to Bihotza, who was arranging the last few small dishes on the table, and then she crossed the kitchen and pushed through the heavy wooden door into the dark and cool of the cellar hallway.

“I told her no bells.”

Helga jumped and let out a little squeak of fright, which immediately faded into an exasperated sigh. Salazar was stood in the open doorway that led to his half of the cellar rooms, and he looked precisely as though he had been hit over the face with a roof beam. His hair was scattered around his face in chaotic black tendrils that almost certainly had not even been brushed with fingers, let alone a comb, and although Helga was pleased to see that he had at least managed to put his clothes on, his tunic had not been laced at the top and was hanging lopsided over one shoulder, revealing a wide swath of pale skin. She noticed that he had a lovely collarbone, and that there was a single freckle at the place where it dipped down to the hollow of his throat – and then she jerked her eyes upward in a hurry. It was best not to give him any ideas by looking too long.

“What?” she asked him, because she had been so startled, and because he looked so disheveled that she had forgotten what he had said to startle her in the first place. His dark slashed eyebrows were drawn together in a disgruntled V, and he leaned on the doorpost for support.

“Damn that elf, I told her no bells,” he muttered by way of reply, smothering a yawn. From the kitchen behind her, Helga heard the reedy voice of Bihotza piping up over the sounds of clattering dishes.

“Bihotza is a free elf, Master Salazar!” she called, as if he had spoken loudly and not in a sulky murmur. “Bihotza can play bells if she wishes, and Master Salazar can’t tell her no!” They both heard the sound of a dish being set down sharply as if to punctuate the statement. Salazar stifled another yawn and stared at Helga blandly.

“I’m never doing anything charitable ever again,” he spat. “It causes me nothing but misery.”

“Oh, you poor, pitiful thing,” Helga said in mock sympathy. “How unbearably cruel we’ve been, to make you rise before midday.” She reached out and patted his cheek playfully as she moved toward the cellar stairs, feeling him stiffen under her touch and grunt at the unexpected contact. He seemed to recover himself after a moment, however, and began following her up the stairs, lacing the threads at the neck of his tunic as he went.

“New school rule. Nobody touches me until after sunset.”

“You mean we’re allowed to touch you at all?” Helga smiled over her shoulder. Salazar grinned up at her wickedly.

“You are,” he smirked. “But only after sunset. And only if you promise to slap me a little harder next time.” Helga stopped just below the top step and turned fully around, intending to give him a verbal lashing; but his eyes were sparkling with mischief like an incorrigible child, and instead she found herself sighing for the second time that morning.

“Oh, hush, you,” she grumbled, and she placed her palm flat against his forehead and shoved. Salazar stumbled backward down two or three steps, and Helga lingered only long enough to be sure he wasn’t going to tumble all the way down before ducking through the door at the top of the stairs. As she crossed the teachers’ hearth room and made for the entrance hall, she could hear him laughing behind her.

 *   *   *

The sun had begun to break into full golden splendor over the loch as the teachers took their seats at the high table in the dining hall, joined by Hunlaf and the rest of the school staff. They had no sooner sat down than the doors of the hall burst open and the children came running in like a small herd of sheep leaving a pen. They were all clad in the new clothes Bihotza had laid out for them the night before – black woolen trousers and stockings beneath linen tunics and gowns dyed a pale purple with lichen. They each also had a new pair of leather slippers on their feet and a slim belt into which a wand could be tucked, and Helga was pleased to see that they had all given their faces and hands a good scrub. There was a bit of giggling and shuffling about, but after a few minutes they sorted themselves out among the four tables; when they had settled, Bihotza snapped her fingers and called up the food from the kitchens.

The children set upon the breakfast eagerly, and Helga had to remind herself to eat her own food instead of watching them eat theirs. She dipped her warm bread in a cup of buttermilk and waved down the table at little Harald, who was sat on Hunlaf’s lap and was watching him very seriously as he broke a large piece of bread into smaller pieces. Beyond them, Goderic was wolfing down loaf after loaf, stopping occasionally to vanish dribbles of honey out of his beard with his wand. Rhonwen spent the breakfast eating steadily with one hand and waving her wand with the other, using a replicating spell to make copies of the lesson schedule on pieces of singing parchment. Salazar ate stoically beside Helga, making no mention of their conversation on the stairs, although he did offer her a taste of the cider he was drinking. It was a beautiful golden color, but she could smell how strong it was even over the scent of her milk, and she told him that it might be more appropriate for an evening by the hearth and not the first drink of the day. Salazar replied that she could suit herself and called her yet another incorrect name, grinning at her from behind the rim of his goblet.

When the children had nearly finished their food, Helga stood and tapped her wand against her cup, producing the ringing sound as she had the night before. The children gradually fell silent, and Helga gave them a warm smile.

“Good morning, students,” she greeted, and several of them murmured in response. “In a few moments, your first day of lessons will begin. We will start every morning this way – breaking our fast at sunrise, and then assembling into groups for our lessons. When you hear Bihotza’s bells that mark the end of our morning meal, you should all follow us out into the entrance hall. This morning we will begin by determining which of you already have wands and which of you will need one made for you; we will also begin to learn our schedule of lessons. As you pass out of this room into the entrance hall, Aneirin will give you a piece of speaking parchment with all of your lessons written on it.” She indicated the harpist, who was making his way to stand at the door with Rhonwen’s stack of pages. He smiled at the children, and one or two of them gave him a little wave. “This way,” Helga went on, “if you cannot read them yet, you will still know which lesson to go to at each hour because they will tell you. Now, I would ask that when you have been given your parchment, please separate yourselves into two groups in the next room. Those of you who already have a wand, please go and stand on the far side of the hall beside the lesson room doors; and those of you who do not, please remain against this wall, beside the dining hall door. Does everyone understand?” Helga waited until she had seen every head nod, even Silvanus mac IainUidhir, who was listening intently to the rolled-up letter at his ear. Then she clapped her hands together as Bihotza’s disembodied bells began to sound in the air above her. “Well, then – let’s all begin!”

Leading the way down from the high table, Helga made her way toward the doors and the other teachers followed her, joined soon after by the students in a great clattering of benches. Aneirin found himself hard-pressed to put a parchment into each grasping hand without having the whole stack toppled out of his arms. There was much chattering and laughter as the assembly poured out into the entrance hall, and Helga saw Salazar wincing at the noise; but after a few minutes of chaos, she noted that the children had indeed begun to separate themselves to each side of the room. Happily, it appeared that most of them already had wands. Only four children remained by the door of the dining hall: Silvanus, little Mildryth, the taciturn Starculf, and Eaderic’s friend Eduardus. The latter three she knew had no magical parents, and though Silvanus had a wizard father, Helga realized that he must have died when the boy was very young, too young to have had a wand made for him. One student, however, was standing uncertainly in the center of the room, having joined neither group. Eadgyth Caccepol caught Goderic’s eye as he closed the dining hall door and held out her wand to him.

“Master Grifondour,” she questioned, “which side should I join? I have a wand, but it cracked open when—” She noticed then that her brother was listening, and she lowered her voice. “It cracked open when we tried to fend off the raiders who took Mother. Must I have a new one?”

“Well,” said Goderic, taking the wand from her and holding it up into the light from the window, “I suppose that depends on whether it can be repaired or not. Master Woodcutter, what do you think? You’re the wand expert.” He held out the cracked wand to Hunlaf, who put little Harald down to play on the floor and came over to join them. Hunlaf took the wand and turned it over in his hands, moving it this way and that, and holding it up to his nose to look down its length. The crack was deep, and something that was not wood could be seen through the gap. Hunlaf made a sound against his teeth.

“Oh, I don’t know about this one,” he murmured, poking a fingernail into the gap and making a face when it touched the soft center. “Core is exposed. And I think it’s been exposed long enough that it might cause some problems doing more than the simplest spells. Young lady, are you quite enamored of this wand?”

“It belonged to my grandmother Mabyn,” Eadgyth replied, and Hunlaf grimaced.

“Well, then put it away carefully in a box and treasure it always, but you’ll have to have a new one if you plan on doing much magic.”

“I thought as much,” Eadgyth sighed, and she tucked the broken wand back into her belt before going to join the other four wandless students.

Helga brought her father a blank parchment and a quill and patted him on the shoulder. “There you are, Father,” she smiled. “I suppose you’ll want to write some notes about them so you know what materials to use?”

“Aye,” Hunlaf nodded. “Five of them’s not so bad. At least it’s not the whole lot. But I’ll have to go to Norwic to get more cores – and it’ll take me at least a week. Two weeks, if the villagers break a few tools in the harvest and I have to stop and repair them. Well, now. Let’s see who we’ve got here.” And starting with Mildryth, he began asking the wandless children a series of questions to get an understanding of what kind of wand they might need, scribbling their answers on the parchment in untidy, slanted runes. Helga wandered over to stand beside Rhonwen, who was watching Helena fidget and giving her a stern look.

“Do you think we ought to start lessons with the others while father speaks with these five?” she asked. Rhonwen assessed the other children, who were beginning to look a bit restless.

“Perhaps,” she nodded. “Your father could take those five back into the dini—”

RAP RAP RAP RAP.

The sound of the sharp reports echoed through the entrance hall, and even the children fell silent as everyone looked about for what had made the noise. Then it came again – four loud, sharp raps – and all heads turned to look at the front door.

“Have you invited more people?” Salazar muttered, sounding as though he might simply die if one more person showed up on his formerly secluded land. Helga shook her head, and the other teachers gave him equally innocent looks. Suddenly, they all heard a great clattering of hooves and armor from outside in the courtyard, followed by a howling battle cry.

“YEEEAAAAAOOOOGGGGHHH!! Present thy arms and fight, thou damnable cur!”

“Cadwgan,” Rhonwen hissed under her breath, and she began marching toward the front door. There was more clattering of hooves, as though the poor pony was being led in a wide circle, and Cadwgan’s voice rang out again.

“I command you, fiend, either to gird thyself for battle or to flee in thy cowardice—OOOFH!” Cadwgan’s words were cut off abruptly, as though a thick blanket had been thrown over his face, and Rhonwen shot Helga a tense glance before throwing open the front doors to see what the racket was about. What they saw was not what any of them had expected.

A tall, thin, and rather elegant looking man stood at the threshold, a wand held calmly in clasped hands in front of him. He was of perhaps middle age, with some grey streaks in his dark hair, which he wore long and tied at the back of his neck with a cord. His clothes were fashionable, and what looked like an old Roman style brooch held his cloak at the throat. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. They were large, misty, and pale almost to the point of being unnerving. Helga thought there might be the faintest hint of lavender under the wispy grey of the irises. The man was leaning nonchalantly against a two-wheeled cart full to the top with slender wooden boxes. Behind the cart, looking sheepishly at the crowd in the doorway, stood three children – a girl in her early teens with deep red hair, a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen with the same silvery eyes as the man, and a scrawny, fair boy of perhaps ten.

In the courtyard behind them all lay Cadwgan, sprawling and writhing under what was indeed a very large, heavy blanket that had pinned him to the ground. His pony nibbled grass disinterestedly beside him, making not a single move to help his master out of his predicament. The man at the door looked over his shoulder at the trapped Cadwgan and then turned back to Rhonwen, shrugging ruefully but making a show of putting his wand away.

“My apologies if I have caused a disturbance,” he said softly. His voice was gentle, but there was something a little uncanny about it. “The knight drew a sword,” he explained. “I thought it safest to smother his attack… quite literally, if you’ll excuse me.” Cadwgan was screaming threats at him from beneath the conjured blanket, and Helga thought that he had probably reacted very wisely.

“Do you have business with us, sir?” Goderic asked, pushing a few of his students back from the door to get through.

“Yes… yes, I believe so,” the man said. “I was told by Gwydion Pyk that you had begun a school for magic. I assume this is that place?”

“It might be,” Rhonwen answered cautiously. “Who are you?”

“Vindalicus Olivantius,” the man replied, dipping his head a bit but not lowering his unnerving silver eyes. “Maker of fine wands. I have a market stall in Lundenburh, although I have been known to travel with my wares.” He indicated the cart behind him with long, limber fingers, and Helga now recognized the boxes as the right size and shape to hold wands.

“Did you say Olivantius?” came Hunlaf’s voice from behind the crowd of students. They parted to let him through, and he came to the door and gave the newcomer an appraising look. “I sell wands in Norwic myself from time to time. I’ve heard your name there, have I not?”

Vindalicus Olivantius inclined his head in a slow nod. “I think it is likely, sir, if you are in the wand trade. Our family have been making wands since before there were emperors in Rome. My ancestor Servius Ventidius Olivae, called Britannicus, came to this island with Caesar’s troops, and we have been in the business of providing fine quality wands to wizards and witches here ever since.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Hunlaf mused. “I remember now. My friend Crickomer said yours were the only wands to be had down Lunden-way, if a man could afford the price of them.” Olivantius spread his long arms equivocally, bowing a little.

“Price reflects value, my friend,” he said glibly. “Our materials are high quality, and our craftsmanship is meticulous. A wand from Olivantius may last you a lifetime, unless you live a particularly dangerous sort of life.”

“And I suppose you are here to sell us some wands, is that it?” Salazar murmured, making Helga jump; she hadn’t noticed him drawing so close to her shoulder. Olivantius pressed his hands together and smiled innocently.

 “A school full of little witches and wizards, orphaned or mundani born, sir? I simply thought that perhaps many of them might be in need of a wand, and I keep quite a variety of them ready-made so that customers may purchase one without having to wait. Have you any wandless children, Masters?”

“A few,” Goderic admitted, “although I don’t know if our coffers are deep enough to buy any of your wares.”

“My father had planned to make wands for those children who are without them,” Helga explained. “Although… I’m sure your wands are also excellent, sir, if your family has long been in the trade.”

“Ah, but how long does it take to carve a wand?” Olivantius said smoothly, nodding deferentially to Hunlaf. “A day? Two, if you have other work to do besides? And if you must make several….” He shrugged, blinking his large silvery eyes rapidly. “It could take you weeks, my good man. But with wands from my cart, you could have the children working spells this very morning – not having to sit by and watch their fellows practice charms with nothing to do themselves.”

“He makes a good point, daughter,” Hunlaf said to Helga, one eyebrow raised. “If you bought wands from him, you’d have them today and not have to wait for me to go and get more materials from Norwic and carve them while helping with the harvest.”

“Oh, but Father!” Helga gasped, putting a hand on his arm. “You make such good wands, and I would hate to push you aside after you’ve already invested so much in this.”

“Nobody is pushing me aside, daughter!” Hunlaf chuckled. “I grant that both this man and I must make good wands. He simply has the advantage of having many wands already finished. I would hate for those five children to be delayed in their lessons while waiting on me.”

“Well, I suppose… as long as you’re not offended,” Helga acquiesced. Rhonwen, however, still looked unconvinced.

“There’s still the matter of paying for them,” she said coolly, meeting the wandmaker’s pale stare. “I’ve heard of you as well. My husband and his brother both carry one of your wands. I know how much they cost. To pay for five of them seems an undue expense for a venture like ours.”

“Ah!” Olivantius countered, holding up one long finger. “Then let me tempt you with an offer, my good lady. How would it be if I provided five wands as a trade?”

“A trade?” Goderic asked. “What have we to barter with that you would want?”

“Oh, not physical goods, my lord,” Olivantius replied, “but a service rendered.”

“What sort of service?” Salazar pried, sounding suspicious. Olivantius held up two fingers.

“Two simple things, my lord. Firstly, I would ask that this school and I have… an arrangement. I assume you intend to take in more students in the future, and I assume that some of them will require wands as well. I would hope… that in years to come… I could continue to provide wands to this fair institution. And I would also hope that should those students need another wand many years from now, or need to purchase a wand for their own future offspring, that they would remember their old friend Olivantius.”

“You want an association with this school that will help you sell wands,” Rhonwen summarized, and Olivantius nodded with mock-sheepishness.

“It would be my great delight to hang a placard on my market stall proclaiming that my wares supply the wonderful school of Hogwarts,” he smiled, “especially once the reputation of this place begins to grow, as no doubt it will.”

“And yours with it,” Salazar muttered, and Olivantius didn’t disagree. Rhonwen crossed her arms.

“What is the second request?” she prodded. Olivantius extended an arm behind him, toward the three children who had been silently watching the exchange.

“Only that my own children be admitted to this fine establishment as students, my lady. The wands I provide today would be a kind of payment for their upkeep.”

“You don’t want to teach them at home?” Helga asked, and Olivantius put a hand over his heart.

“It is not a question of wanting, my lady. To be a merchant is a busy thing, and since my wife passed there is nobody to attend my children while I sell in the market. And I can teach them only about wandmaking, because it is all I know. Here they may learn other types of magic, disciplines that may serve them well when they are grown. I cannot expect all three of them to become wandmakers, after all!” Behind him, Helga saw the girl rolling her eyes in a way that said she most certainly had no plans to make wands. She looked back and forth at her colleagues, gauging their reactions.

“What do you all think?”

“You’ve seen his wands, Rhonwen,” Salazar said quietly. “Are they worth the upkeep of three more children?”

“My husband’s family swears by them,” she shrugged. “Master Woodcutter, would you be offended?”

“Not at all,” Hunlaf scoffed. “My suppliers have all said good things about him. And this way, those five children don’t have to wait. And I can go home and have a good long rest before harvest.”

“Surely we can take three more children,” Helga said, already starting to smile at the thought. “Goderic has one extra right now – if each of the rest of us take one of these, we’ll all have an even number of students.” Everyone nodded at this except Salazar, who muttered something that sounded like bollocks under his breath. Helga gave him a wry smile. “You can have first pick of these, too, Salazar,” she offered. Salazar glared at her for a moment from under his dark slashed brows, and then he sighed.

“If it means all of my students will have a wand for their first lessons, then I suppose I can tolerate one more.” Helga gave a little squeak of excitement and had to restrain herself from reaching out and squeezing his hand, for which he looked very grateful. Goderic patted both of their shoulders with heavy hands and then stepped out of the doorway to offer his hand to Olivantius.

“I believe we have a deal, my good man,” he grinned, and the wandmaker slipped his long, bony hand into Goderic’s and smiled back with a grin that did not quite meet his misty grey eyes.

 *   *   *

While Rhonwen went outside to rescue her cousin from the blanket in which he had become entangled, Olivantius the wandmaker rolled his cart into the entrance hall of the school, the children parting in front of him without having to be told, all staring at the long wooden boxes that rattled against each other as the cart moved forward. His daughter and his youngest son went to sit beside the window, obviously uninterested in a process they had watched almost daily at home, although the middle child stayed right at his father’s elbow with eyes alight with excitement. Helga had a good look at the boxes on the cart herself, and she noticed that each box seemed to be marked on the small end with a little spot of paint or ink like a thumbprint. There were many marked with red and gold, and a fair few marked with white; only a handful were marked with green, or blue, or any other colors, but they all seemed to be stacked together by color. Helga thought perhaps it was the wandmaker’s system for differentiating between different types of wands, or different sizes, without opening the boxes. Olivantius parked his cart in the center of the hall, chocking its wheels into place with little wedges of wood, and waited as all the children made a circle around him.

Once Rhonwen had returned from helping Cadwgan, Olivantius asked that the wandless children come forward one at a time. “It is quite important that they come one at a time,” he explained as Eadgyth stepped out from the group, “because otherwise the wands might become confused as to who they are looking at.”

“The wands will be confused?” Eadgyth asked, a little bemused herself. Olivantius nodded.

“Yes, well – when you get a wand ready-made and you aren’t having the materials selected especially for you, I find that letting the wands do the deciding gets the best results. Now….” He put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and led her over to his cart. “First, let us see if any of them take an immediate liking to you. Hold your hand out over the wand boxes… yes, just like that, there’s a good girl… and walk about the cart. And if any of them starts to shake or rattle when your hand passes over it, why, that’s probably the wand for you.” Eadgyth eyed him like she thought he was a little unhinged, but she did as she was told. Everyone fell silent. Nothing happened with the first few stacks of boxes; but as Eadgyth neared the stack marked with little yellow spots, an odd whistling sound began to fill the room. It started at such a pitch that Helga thought her ears were ringing, until she noticed that everyone else could hear it too. Eadgyth leaned over the cart, reaching her hand toward a box that seemed to be vibrating itself off its stack. The closer her hand came, the louder the whistling grew, and as she reached out a finger to touch it, the box began emitting little puffs of bright green smoke. “Aha!” cried Olivantius, and he leaned over and snatched up the box before Eadgyth reached it.

“Is that what it’s supposed to do?” Eadgyth said, both amused and concerned. Olivantius was muttering to himself as he flicked the box open.

“Quite alarming, yes— ah! I should have known. Dogwood.” He held open the box so Eadgyth and those nearest could see the wand inside, which was a deep red that seemed to shift in hue as Olivantius moved. “Quite noisy wands, these are. But they know what they’re about. Well, there you are, girl, take it and test it.” He waggled the box at Eadgyth, who lifted the polished red wood out of its box gently and rolled it about her hand to feel the weight of it. When she held it above her head, it began to emit large shooting stars like bolts from a longbow; they lit up the whole room with golden sparks and screamed out high-pitched whistles before crashing into the ceiling and raining embers down onto the crowd. Goderic clapped his hands and grinned, Walrand gave a whoop of excitement, and several other children gasped or giggled. Eadgyth shook embers out of her cropped hair and smiled.

“I suppose it likes me?” she laughed. Olivantius was clapping his hands rapidly and daintily around the empty box.

“Oh, yes, excellent. Quite a good show. Dogwood wands always put on a good performance. And that one,” he said more seriously, putting the empty box back into the cart, “contains the heartstring of a green Cymraeg dragon. So don’t be fooled into thinking it’s a noisy blowhard. There’ll be some power in that wand, oh, yes.” And having said this, he shooed Eadgyth back into the line and waggled his hand for the next student to come forward.

There was nothing quite so dramatic as the whistling sparks to mark the next wands to be chosen. In fact, when Silvanus waved his hand over the cart, there was no sound at all. Upon seeing this, Olivantius gave the boy a good long stare, and then asked him a series of questions. Silvanus listened intently to his parchment, prompting Olivantius to inquire as to his native tongue. When he was informed that the boy spoke the language of the Pictish peoples, Olivantius stroked his chin thoughtfully and then leaned into his cart, moving stacks of wand boxes out of the way until he found what he was looking for. He pulled one box out from the bottom of the cart triumphantly, and Helga saw that it had something written on it instead of a splotch of color.

“Very rare,” Olivantius was muttering, “not something I usually work with, but it just might….” He opened the box and offered Silvanus a wand that was a bright, creamy white. “Pine,” he explained, “with a core of Selkie hair. Bit closer to home, I think.” When Silvanus waved the wand, a blast of wind surged through the entrance hall, whipping everyone’s hair and clothes around and smelling strongly of salt water. Silvanus gave a smile that needed no translating.

It took at least five different wands being tried and rejected before the right match was found for Eduardus. Olivantius sorted through his inventory and muttered something about the boy being “a wobbler,” whatever that was supposed to mean, and finally came up with a wand not in a box but wrapped in leather. “Experimental, this one,” he mumbled as he untied the cord. “Hawthorn and jarvey hair. Gave me some trouble making it, and I won’t make one again in a hurry, but there you are. Give it a test, boy.” Eduardus gave the wand a little flick through the air, and a shimmery stream like quicksilver flowed from the tip and swam about his head in a little rivulet. A few children ooooed and aahhed, and even the wandmaker’s disinterested daughter stuck out her chin appreciatively before staring out the window once more.

When Starculf approached the cart, he didn’t walk around it or wave his hand over any of the stacks; he simply put out his hand immediately and touched a box at the very bottom of a stack in the corner. It was a very old and battered-looking box, its corners blunted and its markings faded with age, and Olivantius lifted a thick and tufty eyebrow.

“Are you quite sure of that one, boy?” he asked. “Don’t want to look about at any of the others first?” Starculf shook his head no, and Olivantius tugged the box out from beneath the stack obligingly. “Yes, you would be sure of it, wouldn’t you?” the wandmaker muttered as he opened the box, revealing an exquisitely carved wand of a pale, almost grainless wood that had begun to turn a creamy yellow after years of seasoning. “Limewood,” Olivantius grunted, waggling the box until Starculf took out the wand. “Wood of seers and legilimens. Core of occamy feather from the far East. Last of the old stock of materials my ancestors brought from Rome. That wand has been waiting a great many years for the right hand, boy, so don’t disappoint it.” Starculf said nothing, which was no great surprise; but as he turned the wand in a slow circle in his hand, all of the light in the room turned a brilliant silver and began to twinkle like starlight. As Olivantius clapped his dainty little clap, Helga looked over at Rhonwen and saw her beaming with proprietary excitement at the thought of one of her students having the makings of a seer.

The last to approach the stacks of wands was little Mildryth, who hesitated before putting her hand over them as though they might leap up and bite. She was very small and had to lean her whole body into the cart to come near the stacks in the center, but as she stretched her hand toward the boxes marked with white spots, one of them began to glow at its seams, as if a candle were lit inside it. Olivantius reached in and pulled it out for her, and when he opened the box a warm yellow light flashed brightly at him before winking out. The wandmaker looked sternly at the wand inside for a moment, and then Helga saw his entire mien shift. With all the other children – and, indeed, with the adults as well – Olivantius had worn an air of dismissive superiority. But now, contemplating the wand that had selected Mildryth, some of his pomposity subsided, and he surprised all of them by lowering himself onto his knee to match Mildryth’s height. He held out the box to her, and the wand she took from it was a warm gold like honey and marked with a dark, distinctive grain. She held it timidly at first, but when she put both hands on it, the room filled almost at once with a deep and sonorous ringing like a church bell. Mildryth nearly dropped the wand in surprise. When the ringing had died away, Olivantius looked the girl in the eye with a softness that Helga had not expected from him. “Cypress and unicorn tail hair,” he said gently. “And I am most honored to put it into your hands, young lady. A cypress wand does great things whenever it goes out into the world, and I shall keep watchful to see what becomes of this one. And of you.”

A strange silence hung in the air as Olivantius finished speaking, and lingered as he put the empty box slowly back into the cart. When the children began speaking again, it was in whispers, and the mood was only broken when Rhonwen went to her bag to get her lists and quill so the wandmaker’s children could be enrolled. Helga leaned over to her father and spoke softly into his ear.

“What was that all about, father? He spoke so differently to Mildryth than all the others.” Hunlaf shrugged faintly, watching the other wandmaker with curiosity.

“Probably doesn’t amount to much,” he dismissed, “but I think it’s those old wandmakers’ superstitions. You remember the sayings my amma was so fond of, that Mother would repeat sometimes when she was muttering over wands?”

“You mean, like… Ef stafr es af alri, þat skal æxli aldri?” Helga mused. “No good comes of elder wood, stubborn ash-wielders, that sort of thing?” Hunlaf nodded, giving a dismissive shrug as he picked Harald up off the floor.

“Tales and nonsense, much of it, although there was truth to a few of them. Ash does prefer a steadfast wizard, for instance,” he grinned, indicating his own staff with an inclined head. “Well, there’s a tale among wandmakers from the old Roman homelands that cypress wands are carried by martyrs. People destined to die a noble and tragic death.”

“Oh, you don’t believe that!” Helga said immediately, distressed in spite of herself at the absurd image of little Mildryth in a Roman amphitheater. Her father chuckled.

“No, I don’t,” he reassured. “But it seems Olivantius there does. It’s not entirely foolishness, of course; I’ve never worked with cypress, but I’ve heard tell from those who have that it likes a witch or wizard with great capacity for overcoming fear. One would assume someone must have that trait within them, to die for a cause. But a wand doesn’t predict anything about anybody, daughter. Be at ease.” He patted her shoulder with a big, calloused hand and passed Harald to her so he could go and speak with Olivantius on his way out; and after playing with the toddler for a few minutes, Helga forgot her trepidations and was content.

*   *   *

Once Olivantius had shuffled his cart out the door and bid his offspring farewell, the three children in question were made to line up in front of the teachers so Rhonwen could assign each of them to a list. Each teacher introduced themselves to the new arrivals as they had the night before. Then as Helga had promised, Salazar was given first choice again, and he made a beeline for the girl. She appeared to be the oldest of the three, which Helga thought must appeal to Salazar’s preference for more mature and sedate students – and since she had been determinedly feigning disinterest the entire time she had been there, Helga saw clearly that she would be Salazar’s kindred spirit.

“Vendicina Olivantius,” the girl answered when asked for her name, and Salazar regarded her with hands tucked behind his back.

“And what are your talents, Vendicina?” he asked in his soft but commanding way. Vendicina did not have to ponder this question.

“I am excellent at sums and figuring,” she replied, “and my father will be sorry when he realizes I am not there to keep track of his money for him.” Beside her, her brothers giggled quietly, and Salazar gave her a wry smile.

“You are more proud of this than of your magical abilities?” he asked, and the girl crossed her arms behind her back, mimicking his stance.

“Magic is just doing sums with words,” she said simply. “If you put the right words together with the right movement, you will get the same effect every time. Just like if you do a sum with three and seven, you will always have ten. Most of life is just figuring and sums, Master Slidrian. And I find it very useful to be good at them.” She was quiet for a moment, and then as an afterthought, she added, “But in the interest of your question, I think I have some aptitude for potion-making, since it is mostly measuring and figuring. And I can speak the Parsel-tongue.”

A ripple of whispers spread around the assembled children, as much at the casualness of Vendicina’s pronouncement as at the words themselves, and Salazar lifted an eyebrow at her. “Efe issska?” he hissed, slipping into the serpent-speech instinctively.

“Sssā, sskæ,” she answered him, a little hesitantly. “My grandmother had it, and I have used it very seldom since she died.”

“Well, you shall have practice of it again now that you are here,” Salazar smiled, and Helga thought he actually looked honestly pleased at something for once. It had a softening effect on the sharp lines of his face that made Helga uncomfortably aware of the shape of his lips, and suddenly the image of the little freckle at the end of his collarbone swam unbidden to the surface of her mind. Absolutely not, she scolded herself, and she stepped in to question Vendicina’s brothers before her mind could go any further in that direction.

The middle child, whose eyes had so resembled his father’s and who had seemed genuinely invested in the selection of wands, was named Cunomorinus. His dark hair, shot through with bits of copper here and there, hung in a fringe that obscured his eyes if he dipped his head in a certain way. This, coupled with his very thick eyelashes, helped to soften the uncanny effect his silvery gaze could have had. Helga wondered if perhaps he wore his hair down in his eyes for this very purpose.

“And what is your magical affinity, young man?” Goderic questioned him, and the boy flicked hair out of his eyes before answering.

“I know more about wands than anything else,” he grinned. “Somebody has to carry on making wands in our family, and I’d like it to be me. Of course, Vendi will have to help me with doing the sums and such because I’m hopeless at it. I can count if I have to, naturally, but I’ve got too many ideas for wands floating about in my head and I lose track of the numbers!”

“And do you like having so many ideas floating about in your head?” Rhonwen inquired, and Cunomorinus nodded vigorously.

“I’ve been told it’s not like that for other people, and I can’t imagine how they get on – all that emptiness in their head, nothing to chew on or ponder or invent while they’re doing boring ordinary things? Maddening, I would think.”

Rhonwen smiled at this and immediately assigned the boy to her own list of students.

“Well, I suppose that puts you and I together, then,” Helga said to the youngest boy, crouching a little to be on his level. He had hair the color of old straw, large, bright eyes, and a spray of freckles on a face that looked as though it smiled rather frequently. “What’s your name?”

“Lugotrix,” he said meekly. Then he pulled something out of a little purse sewn onto his belt and held it out for Helga to see. “And this is Carantus. He lives in my pocket.” Helga started a little as the thing in the boy’s hands moved and squeaked; then she relaxed. It was a very fat harvest mouse, with its tail curved in a grip around the boy’s little finger. Helga grinned.

“Oh, hello, Carantus!” she said, holding out a finger for the tiny mouse to inspect. “And does Carantus do any magic?”

Lugotrix tilted his head and considered. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “I’ve never asked him….” The mouse Carantus, having ascertained that Helga’s finger was not made of food, nor did it conceal any food beneath it, scuttled nonchalantly across his master’s hand and disappeared inside the boy’s sleeve. Lugotrix shuddered away a giggle as his mouse’s feet tickled all the way up his arm, and Helga laughed.

“Well, you and Carantus are both very welcome, Lugotrix. And if you are fond of animals, then you should be happy to know that we will teach you to care for magical ones as well as ordinary ones here.”

“Speaking of teaching,” Rhonwen interjected softly from behind Helga’s shoulder, “shouldn’t we be doing that soon?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” Helga smiled. “Well, now that all the business is taken care of, first thing’s first; let’s all get into our groups.”

*   *   *

The first lesson of the day would be the most different for each group of students, owing to the fact that they all had to be brought up to the same level before they began to learn any complex magic together. Most vital was the group of five students – Linnræd, Silvanus, Hnossa, and the Caccepol siblings – who couldn’t read. It was Rhonwen’s desire that they should be at least basically literate by the end of the Criste-masse feast, and so it had been decided that these five would spend the two hours after their morning meal learning their letters with her. Meanwhile, those students with some letters but very little magical learning – Mildryth, Tancred, Eduardus, and Starculf – would spend that time with Helga learning basic spellwork. Vendicina and Brictric would pass their two morning hours with Salazar, practicing their serpent-speech; Hnossa would work alone with him in the evenings, at least until her reading was competent enough that Rhonwen could release her from morning lessons to join the other two. The remaining students would be under Goderic’s supervision, learning what they were all ostensibly using the king’s money to learn in the first place – the noble arts. They would practice swordplay and horsemanship, learn some music from Aneirin, take some basic instruction in Latin, and Bihotza would teach the girls to weave and embroider. Rhonwen thought this a very great waste of time, but as Goderic pointed out, if the king’s messenger ever came to inspect what sort of education they were giving their wards, he’d want to see evidence of something a bit less heretical than magic spells. Rhonwen had eventually agreed with him, but she did so grudgingly.

At the end of these early morning lessons, when Bihotza rang the Terce bells, the students would go out of doors into the school courtyard. There half of them would learn about magical creatures from Alric Wintermilk while the other half practiced travelling by magic – using hearth travel, apparating, and, when Goderic’s latest purchases eventually arrived, riding enchanted brooms. After an hour of this the two groups would switch places, and then they would all go back inside an hour before Sext to eat their midday meal. On this first day, Wintermilk took advantage of the presence of Sœtr the crup, showing him off to each group before Hunlaf and Harald returned with him to Little Witchingham.

“A crup is an excellent creature,” Wintermilk told the assembled students, stretching out Sœtr’s forked tail for them to examine, “especially if one intends to capture jarveys, because the crup can smell their magic, and is a very fine digger.” Sœtr barked sharply to show that he agreed with this assessment, and that his excellence should be obvious. “But beware if you have non-magical family,” the groundskeeper went on. “The crup can be quite aggressive toward folk who don’t smell of magic.” At this, Sœtr gave an offended ruff and hopped, shaking his striped head, and Wintermilk patted him gently. “Of course, every crup is unique,” he amended, and Sœtr sat down on his haunches to show that he had been mollified.

After the students ate their midday meal they were re-divided, this time into four groups of roughly similar ages. The next four hours would be spent by Helga, Rhonwen, Salazar, and Goderic delivering lessons in their strongest branches of magic, with groups rotating to a new teacher each hour. Rhonwen instructed each group in the history and culture of magical people, beginning with likenesses and differences between magical and non-magical people, and the rules the children must follow to protect themselves from discovery. Helga took each of her classes on a romp through the fringes of the forest, looking for bowtruckles and teaching them to identify ordinary plants which had magical properties if used correctly. Salazar familiarized his students with potion-making equipment – how the metal of which a cauldron was made could affect the outcome of a potion, how to use a spell to control the temperature and size of a small fire below their pots, and how they must always be precise in their measurements, or they might end up with an explosion instead of a sleeping draught. And Goderic taught each group the most important means of self-defense they would ever have cause to use: how to disarm anyone who might attack them. When the final lesson bell rang an hour after None, the children were released to amuse themselves in the courtyard until the evening meal was served. They all ran out into the golden afternoon light, excited and jabbering about their first lessons, as though they had not just spent the better part of a whole day hard at learning. Goderic leaned against the stone wall of the entrance, grinning bemusedly.

“I think they could go for three days before they needed to stop,” he chuckled. “And meanwhile, I haven’t been this exhausted since my first battle when I was fourteen.”

“The last time my back felt like this,” Rhonwen concurred, “I had just given birth.” She rubbed at her left shoulder ruefully, pulling the arm this way and that to resolve a tense muscle. Helga nodded.

“Oh, yes, it was wonderful, but it was awfully tiring, wasn’t it? I think I shall need better shoes if I’m going to take them out into the forest again. My feet will need a soak tonight.”

“God, listen to you ancient ones,” Salazar muttered, stifling a yawn. “Shall I pour all of you grandsires some warm milk, or shall I just go ahead and fetch a priest for your deathbed prayers?”

“Are you saying you didn’t find the children exhausting, Salazar?” Goderic smirked, laying a hand heavily on Salazar’s shoulder. Salazar reached up and removed his colleague’s hand gingerly with two fingers.

“Excruciatingly,” he agreed. “But instead of lingering in the doorway and bemoaning my decrepit body, I plan to do something about it.”

“And what would that be?” Helga prodded, although she felt she already knew the answer. Salazar grinned at her.

“I’m going to open some more cider and drink it until I can’t feel any of the parts of me that are tired. Care to join me?” His raised eyebrow said it was a layered question, and Helga pursed her lips.

“I wouldn’t mind a single cup, as it did look quite lovely this morning when you drank it with breakfast, but that will have to be my limit. I don’t know about you, but I hope to be awake for classes in the morning. And besides – I have lessons of my own to attend after we eat.”

“You have lessons?” Goderic asked as they all wandered into the teachers’ hearth room to wait for the food to be ready. Rhonwen nodded.

“Yes, with me. Helga is going to learn Latin, as I promised her.”

“And I’m very excited to begin. I want us all to be able to teach spells in the same language, so all the students learn the same consistent spellwork. So we’ll be having a private lesson every evening after our meal is finished, until I’ve mastered it enough to speak and write all the spells I plan to teach.” Helga and Rhonwen sat down at the little square table, and Goderic leaned against a chair.

“I’m surprised you can find the energy for more lessons,” he chuckled. Salazar brought over two cups that he had filled with cider and put them on the table, pulling out the chair across from Helga and fixing her with a cheeky stare.

“As it happens, I speak Latin too, you know,” he smirked, moving his chair into position behind him without taking his eyes off Helga’s and sliding one cup over to her. “If Rhonwen is ever too busy, I would happily fill in for her. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on any… private lessons.” He said it with just enough slant on the words that even Goderic took notice and made a face at him. Helga thought of several possible tart responses… and then simply extended one long leg under the table and shoved Salazar’s chair out from under him as he moved to sit down in it. Salazar avoided tumbling to the floor, but only just; when he pulled himself upright, he was muttering a string of Vasconian curses and trying to tuck his hair behind his ears to look dignified.

“Serves you right,” Rhonwen muttered, smothering a grin; and then Goderic melted into uproarious laughter that was so contagious, Helga found herself covering her mouth to hide giggles. Salazar righted his chair and sat down, making a great show of looking put-out.

But over the rim of his cup of cider, he gave Helga a look that told her he hadn’t learned his lesson in the slightest, and had no intention of doing so in the future either.