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While magic may seem boundless, it does have its limits. We wizards are not as impervious as we may make it out to be.

“I suspect,” Silas said to Wyatt, “that we all have our days where whatever we’re trying to do just doesn’t turn out the way we want it to be. Maybe today wasn’t your finest moment. But that doesn’t mean you won’t get the hang of that vanishing spell—of any spell—soon enough. After all, this report is perfect.”

Wyatt brightened. “It is?”

Silas nodded. “It certainly is.”

Wyatt, bless him, looked like he might burst into tears on the spot.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said. “That means a lot.”

And then he turned, gathered his belongings, and left.

The moment stayed with Silas as he packed up his things. It had been his first and last class of the day, and now it was his planning time. He thought it seemed like a perfect day for a stroll through the village. Maybe he’d find a new place to grade the reports that he had just stuffed into his bag.

He made the journey through and out of the castle quickly. On his way into Hex Hollow, he paused to examine the new building that had appeared, it seemed, overnight, the one with the glittering letters Fox Bar that seemed destined to permanently float in the air. The building was ready to go, and there was construction happening inside. Well, magical construction. There were bangs and smoke of varying colors slipping out of the window and door panes. It was a bit too flashy for Silas’s taste and reminded him of when an old record shop in his non-magical neighborhood had been replaced by a splashy clothing store. The building had looked better, hadn’t been the victim of peeling paint, but something about it hadn’t felt right.

Other places were clearly gearing up for the decorating contest that Silas had heard about. Everyone seemed to be adding more lights, more accents, more enchanted reindeer that leapt over door frames when you walked by, and more Santas that waved in the shopwindows when you made eye contact. It felt a tiny bit early to Silas, but he supposed he couldn’t begrudge anyone getting a head start.

He let his feet carry him, mostly just taking in the village. At least, he didn’t intentionally let himself wander over to the Toasty Owl. Truly. It was happenstance that he ended up at the front and found himself looking at the small, hand-painted sign in the window that read Temporarily closed for refurbishments. Come see us tomorrow!

As before, guilt swirled in his stomach. He didn’t like leaving things like this. He’d thought, certainly, after both her reassurances that she’d fix it and her rebuffing of his offers, that she’d have had the place back up and running by now. And yet, the place’s exterior showed no improvements; in fact, it looked even worse with boarded-up windows and the charred wood from the dragon’s fire visible in the morning light. The Toasty Owl’s sign was hanging on, blackened as it was, but only just.

How much business had Margaret lost because of his fiasco? And why had she had to close at all? Silas thought again of Old Man Weatherby’s shelves and his uncle’s vague warnings about the limitations of magic. But none of it made logical sense to Silas, no matter how he turned it over in his mind. Especially since Margaret had assured him that she had it in hand.

Still, he couldn’t seem to walk away. Even as he wanted to respect the fact that Margaret had turned down his offers of help, he couldn’t shake the fact that something about this wasn’t right. Maybe she didn’t realize that he was perfectly able to help her. Hell, his students were often shocked at the things he could do without magic—“You built your desk yourself? With your hands?”—and maybe Margaret was the same. Maybe, if he showed up with the proper tools . . .

That was it. Without another thought, Silas marched to Weatherby’s, collected the toolbox, and returned to the Toasty Owl. He stood at the door, on the threshold, and steeled himself. He would respect her if she turned him down again. But he would at least try to make right what he had made wrong.

Silas knocked on the door, listening for sounds of life inside. But there was nothing but the whistle of the wind outside. It was less insistent today, more of a delicate breeze that carried the scents of the other shops with it: roasted coffee beans from down the street, lemon from the bakery across the way, and cinnamon, always cinnamon, floating with the magic in the road.

Silas knocked once more and then tested the door to find that it was unlocked. Careful of the wind, Silas pulled the door open, then stepped inside, quiet as a church mouse. This room was full of fragrant smells, too. Some kind of orange-scented cleaner, the leather of the armchairs, and something else. Vanilla, maybe?

He let the door fall gently shut behind him as he stepped into the pub. There was no one else here that he could see, but someone had clearly been cleaning. There was a bucket in the corner and a mop propped up against the edge of the bar. The wall shone with fresh paint, no longer bearing the blackened remains of the dragon’s fireballs. And the floor, too, was shiny, polished to perfection. All of it Margaret’s work, no doubt.

Silas allowed his eyes to sweep over the pub, taking in every detail. She’d mostly restored the interior of the pub to its previous cozy glory, save for the boarded-up window. For a moment, he considered turning around. Maybe she was just working her way to the outside. But then . . . he wanted to help. It was his fault, wasn’t it?

And it was different being in the Toasty Owl now, when it was empty. He approached the bar, looking over the colored glass bottles. He set the toolbox on the bar, wondering if he should alert Margaret to his presence. Did she have some kind of bell he could ring? He glanced around, his gaze catching on a ceramic bowl on the center of the bar.

The dragon, fast asleep.

Up close and mostly still, Silas could now see that it was a range of colors: white, brown, gray, even light pink. The wings, tucked as they were on its back, looked leathery and tipped in tiny, black spikes.

Silas was shocked to see that now, with the dragon asleep, it was really no larger than a housecat just snoozing away in a bowl. He fought the urge to approach the dragon, especially given what had happened the day before. But oh, how he wanted to. A crack of light from the boarded-up windows fell over the dragon, dust swirling in the sliver of sunshine that shone through.

What would a dragon’s hide feel like? Silas wondered. He imagined, much like any reptile. But was a dragon technically a reptile? How did one know? His mind was instantly full of so many questions. He retrieved the notebook he carried with him in his pocket for such occasions and sat and began to write his questions down.

A soft hum made him pause. He turned at the sound to see Margaret drifting down the spiral staircase at the other end of the pub. She was in decidedly non-magical clothes: worn jeans and a battered brown T-shirt that had paint splatters on the front and back. Her curls had been pulled back and subdued by a cream kerchief, though several auburn tresses had sprung free around her forehead.

She was the source of the hum, Silas realized. Her voice was soft and sweet as she glided down. Silas was struck by her in that moment, by the way the light spilling in through the non-broken window danced across the freckles on her cheeks and lit up her eyes. She was, it was impossible not to see, beautiful.

At the same time that this realization struck him, Margaret reached the last stair and cast her gaze out.

“Oh!”

“My apologies,” Silas said, jumping up quickly. “I knocked a few times, but the door was open, and I—”

Margaret smiled. “It’s all right. I just wasn’t expecting you.”