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He was left standing on the street in the night, smelling of smoke and regret.

Chapter Ten

Margaret had heard wizards and witches talk often about the way magic “inhabited” the body. In fact, one of the few threadbare snatches of her father she could recall was of him telling her as a child that magic filled a person up, like it was warm tea in the cup of life.

“You feel it vibrating in your bones,” he’d said. “You feel it burning through your fingertips, waiting to get out.”

But Margaret had never felt that way. There had been so many times in her life she thought she would’ve felt that way, would’ve been moved to the kind of response that brought her heretofore unseen magic to the surface.

And yet, even in her lowest moments, it never appeared. Like last night. Not once when Bernie was destroying her grandmother’s pub did magic vibrate inside of Margaret. It didn’t buzz under her skin or leap to her aid.

There was a reason, of course. Margaret’s shame of all shames.

She was a daughter of a witch, a granddaughter of a witch, and yet, there wasn’t a single scrap of magic in her. It didn’t matter what havoc the world wreaked around her; she had nothing to give. She would never be like Liza, using her wand effortlessly to subdue a danger or mend a crisis. She would be useless, helpless as she watched the thing she cared about most in the world torn apart.

It wasn’t just the damage. Margaret could mend what had been done to the pub. But that would take time Margaret didn’t have, not with Fox Bar across the street suddenly bursting into existence. She needed her pub to be able to operate on all fronts, and now, she’d need to close for at least today while she got everything back into shape.

If she’d been magic, then all of this would’ve been easier. Sure, she’d have to look up the repairing spells, and she would’ve had to be a really strong witch to take care of something like the sign. But she could’ve done it. As it was, Margaret couldn’t do anything . . . at least, she couldn’t do anything that required more than pure, non-magical elbow grease.

Margaret sighed. She was in bed with a blistering headache, and the sun was shining in through her bedroom window. She hadn’t closed the drapes last night. The exhaustion from trying to subdue Bernie and keep her from maiming Silas had been so extreme that she’d barely managed to stumble into the shower, clean the smoke and ash out of her hair and scrub it from her body, before she collapsed into bed.

She opened the drawer of her nightstand and fished around for something to wrangle her curls. As she did, her fingers brushed an envelope, and Margaret’s hand stilled. She knew it would be torture to look. Knew nothing good would come of the reminder of what was in that particular envelope. And yet, she still plucked it from the drawer and held it in her hands as she examined the scrawling text on the front.

It was her mother’s name and the address of the pub: 118 Hollybrooke Lane. She slipped her finger under the envelope’s flap and pulled out the sheet of paper inside. It was on cream-colored paper with gold lettering, as shimmering as it had been the day she first received it sixteen years prior when she was eleven years old.

Dear Ms. Nettle,

It is my unfortunate task today to inform you that, after careful review, your daughter, Margaret Nettle, has not been accepted to Emberwind Academy to pursue the area of Magical Studies.

As an institution of magic dating backing thousands of years, we recognize that admission into our school is highly coveted—and highly competitive. This year’s applicant pool was one of the strongest we’ve seen, and tough choices had to be made.

Based on Margaret’s abilities demonstrated during her entrance exams, we feel Emberwind Academy is not the right place for her to flex her wings at this time. She did not demonstrate appropriate marks in the following areas of study: wand waving, wand control, spell balancing, spell equations, and star charting. She also scored a 23 when tested for raw magical ability, which puts her far below the suggested threshold of 75.

We wish you and Margaret all the best as you search for an appropriate institution to guide her education.

With magical condolences,

Headmaster Lewis R. Twittle

As she read, she traced the letter in her hands. There was a faint green stain on the top and bottom edges where, sixteen years ago, the letter had been sealed with wax. The letters had faded somewhat, though they remained entirely—unbearably—legible. Worst of all, though, was that the letter still reeked of magic.

Cinnamon, sea salt, coffee, and pine. That’s what magic from that damn school always smelled like. The kind of smell that should’ve been a warm hug . . . if it wasn’t associated, doggedly, with the worst day of Margaret’s life.

Well, the second-worst day. Maybe the third. But, certainly, top-three worst days.

As always, there was an urge to crumple the letter, to fling it into the trash and never see it again. But the letter wasn’t Margaret’s, even though it was about her. It had been her mother’s, tucked gently away in a leather suitcase that lived in the closet, and so Margaret kept it, as she kept all of her mother’s things.

Even when the letter’s very existence tormented her.

“Why’d you keep this?” Margaret said aloud. Of course, no one responded, though the dragon did snort again, sending tiny flames into the air that thankfully dissipated before catching anything on fire.

In her darkest moments, Margaret wondered if her mother had needed to hold on to it in order to truly believe that her only daughter was a magic-less girl who would never set foot in that magical school. This letter was the proof and the reminder.

Margaret took in a deep breath and held the letter for several beats to her chest before tucking it safely back into the drawer. She then turned her attention to the rest of the room, which had shades of last night’s havoc strewn about: clothes on the floor, the broom Margaret had accidentally brought upstairs with her last night, and, of course, the culprit of last night’s ordeal snoozing away as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t turned into a raging, feral beast last night. Margaret wanted to be upset with her, but she had no energy for that. It wasn’t Bernie’s fault. Margaret knew that, even if she couldn’t fully explain what had happened. Dragon behavior was a tricky thing, but Margaret knew Bernie hadn’t meant to harm Margaret or the pub. Still, she had clearly meant to set Silas on fire; thus, Margaret needed answers.

“Bernie,” Margaret said, poking the creature in the belly. “Wake up. Let’s talk.”

Bernie snored.