"This password is no longer valid."
"What do you mean, 'no longer'? I just changed it yesterday."
"The password can only be set by the Headmaster or the Headmistress of the school."
"That's right. I am the Headmistress."
"Not anymore."
"What are you saying? Is this some kind of joke? I don't have time for jokes — tomorrow is the start of the school year! Let me into my office immediately."
"This is not your office."
"Whose is it, then?"
"Headmistresses of the school."
"I understand that. Who is she?"
"Evelyn Greenwood."
The stone gryphon settled back into slumber, resuming the stillness proper to rock. The very old witch — arid, features sharp and strict, clad in an equally stern black dress, grey hair coiled in a tight bun — froze in shock, becoming almost a sculpture herself.
"But that's impossible," she stammered at last — only her thin, wrinkled lips were moving. The statue was silent. "Who appointed her?
"The School." Awakening from, and returning to, eternity was a slow business.
"Is that possible?" Again, no reply. "But this…" She almost said 'girl' but corrected herself — eighteen years had passed — "…woman no longer belongs to this world." Memories flickered in the witch's mind, and a line of sorrow settled on her brow.
"She studied at the school."
"Yes, but… she can't be here."
"The School always remains a home for its students, present and past."
"She probably doesn't have any experience either. And the Board won't allow it. And…" The witch bent her back — always straight despite the age. She no longer thought about the sudden loss of her post. She thought instead of the girl she had once known, and the woman she had never met, and… "Why?" More silence followed. "Where am I supposed to look for her?"
"In the Book."
These were the statue's final words. The former Headmistress slowly turned and walked away.
"I don't even know where to start."
Opposite that very old witch stood a man in his mid-thirties — fit, with unruly black hair and green eyes. He scanned the room as if comparing it with another, one preserved in his memories. Good memories.
"You see," she said, "the reason I am hosting you in my old office is the same as why I called you. I am no longer the Headmistress. The School has appointed another person to this post."
"You mean the Board?" The man looked up from a blackboard, concentrating seriously on her words. "Right before the start of the school year? I don't know anything about it. But why?"
"I mean the School," said the old woman, gesturing at the walls, "itself."
"How is that possible?"
"Just like that. The statue refused to let me in."
"Are you sure this isn't a poltergeist prank? Or that someone hasn't enchanted the statue?"
"Unlikely. Neither I nor the other professors could detect any sorcery. Still, I would ask you to check personally. Otherwise, this 'someone' may have enchanted the Book as well."
"All right. I'll do that." The man furrowed his brow. "And who is the new Headmaster — or Headmistress?"
"You should sit down first." The former Headmistress spoke with care, a faint thrill in addressing her former student, now a good friend. He remained standing. Her face suddenly betrayed guilt. "This person is Evelyn Greenwood."
"But that's impossible," he muttered after a few seconds, shaking his head. "At least because… she's dead."
"I'm afraid that's not exactly the problem. You see… I have something to tell you."
Finally, the man sat down.
***
The day was approaching its midpoint. Outside, the sun shone bright and warm as always, yet it fell upon the wall of the house opposite, while only cool, humid air drifted in through the open window of this apartment. Such was the common pattern of autumn, just taking over from summer, especially near a large body of water.
The apartment contained furniture, yet it felt empty. There were few personal objects to tell a visitor anything about its occupant — nothing to turn the space into a home.
A woman in her mid-thirties sat on the couch, the TV off. She wore dark blue pajamas, speckled with stars and comets, warm enough to keep out the chill. She remained motionless, her face flickering with emotion, her lips moving without sound. From time to time she paused, pondered, shook her head, then resumed her silent conversation — for someone… for someone. She held a phone, unlocking it intermittently to jot down notes. On the nearby coffee table, a laptop glowed with a list of vacancies, though it failed to capture her attention.
The longer she was alone, the harder it became to engage with the real world; the deeper she sank into her imagination. This had always been so, yet now she sought to translate it into words. The act acquired an almost intellectual character and, for a while, soothed her conscience. For a while. She did not intend her writing to be read by anyone else; it was a means of reflecting, of telling herself about herself — what mattered, what she observed, and how she thought. Today.
A sudden noise came from the balcony. Seagulls were ever-present in the streets: they patrolled day and night, rummaged through bins, perched on roofs and lampposts, but they never dared intrude on private property. Still, if a foolish bird did fly in, driving it out would be no easy task. She rose and went to the open balcony door, her movements fast and fluid.
A breeze lifted the thick, shoulder-length curls from her face, revealing a narrow visage, a slightly long nose, and grey eyes. They widened in surprise at the sight of an owl perched on the glass fence. One could have expected a dove, a magpie, perhaps even a parrot — but an owl? No. She had never seen such a bird in the park, and here it was, in the town, holding an envelope in its beak. After checking that no 'clown' lurked below, capable of carrying the creature off, she returned her incredulous gaze to it.
"Is that for me?"
The owl gave a low, guttural sound and stretched its neck towards her. She reached out and took what it offered. The envelope read: To: Miss Evelyn Greenwood-Riddle.
"You've got the wrong person… actually — no, the address is right, but you're still mistaken. She doesn't live here." She held the letter back out. The owl did not take it. Instead, it fluffed its feathers and hissed.
"All right! I'll ask the owner whether she used to live here." She turned to go inside, but the bird shrieked and beat its wings. "What now? I'll ask — but I can't promise an instant answer. Do you want to keep it? Here."
The owl leaned forward — and bit her finger instead.
"Ow! What are you doing? That hurts." Blood welled at the tip of her finger, yet the bird blocked her way when she tried to step towards the kitchen for a napkin, clearly prepared to follow. "No — you're not coming in there. I don't understand… do you want me to read it? It isn't addressed to me."
Another guttural sound.
"Fine. On your conscience, then."
She broke the seal and drew out a sheet of thick paper. Both the handwriting and the linework were unusual — strokes swelling and thinning as if they were written with a quill. There were only a few lines. She began to read aloud:
"'Miss Evelyn Greenwood-Riddle, The School of Magic…' What?"
She paused, giving the owl a sceptical look, then scanned the street again — the parked cars, the opposite windows. No pranksters in sight.
"'…is pleased to offer you the position of Headmistress…'" Nonsense. "'…with a wage in—' gold? '…and accommodation within its walls. If you accept, please sign below.'"
She shifted the letter from one hand to the other, eyebrows raised, ready to question the delivery once more — when a wave of sickness hit her. It felt as though something had caught hold of her from within and drawn her forward into a narrow tunnel. Its walls were transparent: houses, fields, forests, villages and towns streamed past in a blur. The speed made her head spin. Even with her eyes shut, the motion would not stop; nausea rose sharply in her throat.
At last she was flung out onto something hard and rough — bare, dusty boards. She tumbled across them until she struck another set at right angles and came to a halt.
"Ayyyyy!"
"Are you all right?" an alarmed, age-worn, rattling voice sounded above her, and careful hands settled on her shoulders.
"No. I'm going to be sick. You'd better stand back."
She was on her knees now, one hand braced on the floor, the other pressed to her stomach. Head lowered, she breathed slowly and deliberately.
"He was right," the same voice said somewhere to the side. "Here — drink this. You'll feel better at once."
She seized the small, thick-cut glass bottle and swallowed the contents without a second thought. As promised, the relief came immediately.
"Do you also have something for bruises?"
The smile faded as she took in the old woman properly — the clothes, the bearing. Then she looked around the room and noticed a man by the door, watching her in silence, with focused attention.
"Certainly. Not on me — in the school."
"In the school?!"
"Of course. Miss Greenwood, we haven't a minute to spare. If you're able to walk…"
"'Miss Greenwood'?! Oh no. I told the bird this was a mistake. That isn't my name." At first, the strangeness of the journey had been pushed aside by the nausea it caused; now the misunderstanding itself eclipsed everything else.
"My eyes say otherwise."
"That's impossible. We don't know each other. I'd remember you — you're far too distinctive."
"If you are not Miss Greenwood, why did you sign the contract?"
"I signed nothing." The surprise on her face was genuine — as was her certainty.
"That cannot be." The old witch looked equally certain, though for the opposite reason. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here. Show me the document."
The letter had remained in the woman's hand the whole time. She held it out. Bloodstains marked the page, and among the smears one clear fingerprint stood out.
"I'm sorry — the owl bit me… No. Oh no, no, no. You can't seriously claim that this"—she tapped the print—"counts as a signature. Come on."
"Well…" The old woman looked faintly embarrassed by such practical barbarity. "Technically — the School dates back to times when… My apologies, but it is legally valid. You have signed a contract with the School." There was no pity in her gaze at the newcomer's horror.
"But my name isn't Greenwood. I can't be the Headmistress of a school of — magic. Are you joking? What magic?"
"The kind that brought you here."
"But I know nothing about it!" She threw up her hands, refusing to yield. "And I'm telling you again — that is not my name."
"Then what is your name?" The witch stood firm as stone.
"My name is…" Her gaze fixed on the deeply lined face before her. "My name is…"
"Did you lose it on the way? Like the rest of your memories?"
Fear rose steadily. The newcomer searched for them — at least one — as though they might have fallen somewhere nearby. Her eyes scanned the corners, the floor. There was nothing. Only dust.
"Let's go to the school," the harsh voice softened. The old witch drew the shaken woman into an embrace and guided her towards the exit. "Its walls will help you remember."
As they moved along the narrow, dark corridor, the man occasionally cast her an interested glance. She, in turn, kept eyeing the object in his hand that gave them light, with open disbelief.
"What's that?"
"This?" He lifted his hand slightly. "A wand."
"A magic wand?"
"That's right."
"Mm. That's what I thought. Just checking."
They went on.
"Did you talk to the bird?"
"Yes," the woman admitted. "Don't look so alarmed — I talk to my bedside table as well." She waved a hand, as if surrendering to her own habits, then added, "Luckily, nothing has answered me so far."
"Give it time," he replied mysteriously.
They reached a massive wooden door banded with wrought iron. A few quiet words were spoken, and the bolts slid back of their own accord. Beyond it stretched a broad corridor of high, pointed arches, lit by torches fixed along the walls every few feet. It was completely empty.
"Is this a castle? Is the school in a castle?" She sounded genuinely delighted.
"Yes." The man studied her face. "Does it feel familiar?"
"No," she answered firmly — and, as he kept looking, met his gaze without flinching.
"You don't recognise me either?"
He didn't sound convinced. He had been introduced to her in that dusty room, but the name had meant nothing, and by now she had forgotten it entirely — crowded out by the more urgent problem of losing her own.
"I don't," she said, making it clear she did not consider it a tragedy.
"Does this mean anything to you?"
He pushed his hair back from his forehead, revealing the scar there. She examined the mark with thoughtful attention.
"It does."
The man brightened slightly.
"That we haven't met. If we had, I would have remembered."
"Because the scar is unusual?"
"Exactly."
"Not so fast," said the old witch, resting a calming hand on each of their shoulders. "We're short of time." She moved ahead at once.
"How did you get it?" the woman asked more gently.
"Your father gave it to me."
The statement stirred nothing in her. She still paused to think.
"Were we enemies?"
"You never considered me your enemy…" He did not answer at once and seemed unsure how to continue.
"So my father and I didn't get along." She spared him the effort. "And he…"
"He's dead," the man snapped.
No my condolences, she noted inwardly.
They walked for a long time — turning again and again, climbing staircases, being carried by them — and met no one on the way. Their conversation faded as well. At last they stopped before the stone gryphon. To both wizards' displeasure, another pair was already waiting there.
"Good evening, Headmistress. Oh — pardon. Professor."
The woman spoke first. She was in her thirties, brisk, with short, neatly smoothed black hair. Generally pleasant-looking — if not for the glints of ice that surfaced in her eyes from time to time.
"We happened to hear about the unfortunate incident earlier today. I must say, we were surprised you did not inform the Board. You know we are quite capable of acting promptly and would certainly have helped you find a worthy replacement."
"K-who would doubt it," the former Headmistress's companion coughed aside. The Board representative raised a thin eyebrow but chose not to respond.
"Oh, I have no doubt of the Board's competence," the old witch replied with dry politeness. "It's simply that in this case there was no need to trouble you. The School found a new head on its own."
"You mean the teaching staff? But you're not authorised…" the younger witch began indignantly, but was cut off.
"I mean the School itself. The agreement has been signed." The folded letter appeared briefly before the Board members and vanished again beneath the black cloak. "It will come into force as soon as we cross the office threshold."
"But… you can't do that. We will lodge a protest!"
"As you wish. Though you may spend quite some time looking for arguments — there have been no precedents. And we do not have that time today. If you'll excuse us, we have much to do."
"And this young lady, I take it, is the new Headmistress?"
A frail old man joined the exchange, leaning forward on a thin cane beneath both palms. His age showed in everything — posture, grey hair, voice, the yellowed, withered skin — yet his eyes were clear. They held an inviting quality, which made it all the easier for them to look straight through a person. Now they rested on the woman who had stood quietly beside the old witch, watching events unfold. Catching his gaze, she instinctively glanced down at her dirty pyjamas and felt her ears grow warm beneath her thick hair.
"What a charming young woman. Won't you introduce her to us?"
"Why not? Miss Greenwood."
At the former Headmistress's words, the newly appointed one looked away and swallowed. A predatory gleam flickered in the old man's eyes.
"Are you quite certain this isn't a misunderstanding?" he said slowly, his gaze sharpening, snake-like, as if to fix her where she stood. "That the girl is not merely a victim of circumstance?"
If she was meant to feel like prey, she gave no sign of it.
"I've already signed the papers," she said, her tone indifferent.
"Oh, that proves nothing. One word from you — and the contract loses its force. Why take on such a burden?"
She remained outwardly calm, yet one thought kept striking through her mind, beating at her temples: "I wanted this… the moment I read the letter, somewhere deep down, I wanted it." Behind her, the old witch restrained the man's hand already moving towards his wand. "It's madness, but… why not?"
"You will be provided with accommodation for the duration of the inquiry," the old man went on. "Where would you feel most at ease? Just say the word. An old house… a large garden… a hedge maze… solitude… peace…"
"Why did I think of that? And why did he say the same thing?" The supposed prey could not hide her surprise.
"Thank you for your concern, but I have already been given accommodation — the school. I'm quite comfortable here. If that is all, I should like to begin my duties."
She smiled sweetly at the elder, and he was forced to yield.
"This is not within my authority," he said, extending a hand towards the statue.
The woman approached the gryphon, puzzled; the others stepped back. The stone creature stirred — spreading its wings, extending one leg, and lowering its head in a deep bow. The door it guarded swung open.
"Was it my imagination, or were they trying to buy me?" the Headmistress asked once the office door had closed and the three of them were alone again.
As she spoke, she wandered about the room, studying the objects that filled it. Some resembled scientific instruments — for astronomy, physics, chemistry. Others were wholly unfamiliar and suggested nothing at all. There were countless things: across the floor, inside cabinets, upon a large desk already buried in papers. Behind the desk, two staircases rose to the upper level, and portraits covered the wall between them.
"Evelyn…" one of them whispered, striding quickly towards her.
It was a man in a long black robe, middle-aged. Together with his straight black hair, it set a stark contrast against his pale skin, making both it and his elongated face appear even more pronounced. Her presence clearly stirred him. Yet he faltered in confusion when he realised she was not moving towards him at all — rather, he himself was nearing the limits of his frame. Her gaze rested on him only for a moment or two, with no greater curiosity than she gave the rest, and then moved on.
As for the woman, she decided not to be surprised by anything anymore — not by portals, wands, flying staircases, living statues, moving portraits, or whatever might come next. She would simply take in the information and adjust as best she could. She turned her back to the desk, leaned against it with her elbows, and continued to survey her surroundings.
Lots of old books… "That's good."
A window… "What's beyond it?"
She went to look. It was already dark outside. Stars burned in the sky; their reflections lay still on the smooth surface of the lake. The castle walls, lit by hundreds of torches, flared like the rim of a solar crown against the cold hush of the universe.
"It wasn't your imagination."
"Why?"
"To widen their sphere of influence," said the man with the scar. "Standard practice. But why refuse it, when it was exactly what happened?"
"Because I don't like being bought," she replied.
The sudden peal of bells shattered the brief quiet.
"Already!" The witch hurried to the window and looked down. Far below, countless yellow lights streamed in two currents towards the castle. "They've arrived. No time to prepare — the ceremony is about to begin. Very well," she gathered herself, "I'll conduct it as deputy. After that, you'll only need to give a welcome speech. I'll arrange the feast as well…"
"Wait — a speech?" Horror showed plainly on the Headmistress's face. "You mean in front of people? No."
The witch's posture hardened.
"No, no, and no again."
"You can withstand an attack of a sophisticated wizard, yet you're afraid to address a hall of students?"
"An attack?" the woman said, baffled. "Never mind. Yes — I am. What am I supposed to tell them?"
"It's quite simple. I'll introduce you. You greet them, wish them a good year, and remind them of the school rules — of their existence," she added, forestalling a question. "Details aren't required. Except for two points: the forest and the third-floor corridor. The headmaster always mentions those."
"What's wrong with them?"
"They're forbidden."
"Why?"
The reply was an indignant look.
"Well, I'll have to explain it somehow, won't I?"
"It's dangerous there," the witch said, plainly and briefly.
Now it was the woman's turn to look unconvinced. The man in the corner gave a quiet chuckle; she answered with a small smile and shrug — everyone knew that sort of explanation rarely satisfied anyone.
"In the forest — obviously because of what lives there. And on the third floor…" The witch hesitated. "I'm not even sure what's there now. Still forbidden. For discipline. Invent something — we must go."
"In this?" the Headmistress asked, pointing at her pyjamas.
"Yes — you're right." The witch flicked her wand; the pyjamas became clean and neat. "Appropriate enough for tonight," she added, recognising the absurdity of it, as well as of the situation.
"Children and me… who would have thought."
They climbed down the narrow tower stairs and passed along wide corridors lined with locked doors.
"Well, we're not a kindergarten. Our students are between eleven and eighteen."
"Me and teenagers… that's a terrible idea."
The Great Hall was enormous — and completely full. Students of every age sat at four long tables that stretched almost the entire length of the room. Some were laughing and talking; others sat stiff and wide-eyed; still others watched her with curiosity or suspicion. She tried to behave as though she fully belonged in the high-backed chair at the centre of the staff table. She might have managed it, if not for the absolute certainty — felt in every nerve — that she had never given a speech in her life, not to an audience, not even to a mirror. Words of guidance, of instruction, of moral sense. Why had she refused the house with the garden?
"Good evening!" Her voice cracked. She pretended something had gone wrong with the 'microphone' — a wand hovering at her throat, held aloft by one of the professors, unnoticed by the rest. Throughout the ceremony she had watched — the proceedings, the students — searching for something to say. She had even found it, or thought she had, but the moment she faced the hall, every word fled, leaving her alone before it. She wanted to run — but that wasn't an option.
"We are glad to welcome you. To our school. All of you — and especially the newcomers." She drew a nervous breath. "From this evening, and for the next seven years, it will be your home…" Her halting voice carried across the hall and rose into the high vaults, where stars and nebulae shimmered overhead, "officially sanctioned summer furloughs and holiday leave, of course."
The young people were already stirred up, so they received this attempt with ready enthusiasm. It gave her a little courage. However, she paused again, lowering her eyes, as if listening for something.
"Nevertheless," she continued, her voice steadier now, "it will remain your home for the rest of your life — if you let it. If you open your hearts to it. Then it will fill them with magic: fun, friendship, love…" A small smile touched her lips. "Magic, in a word. So be brave. Be curious. Explore. But don't forget to follow the rules your prefects will explain. I want to single out one in particular — the forest. Its inhabitants dislike visitors and may express that dislike rather directly…"
A burst of commotion flared at the far end of one table — nudges, winks, muffled jeers.
"And if you feel irresistibly drawn to test this for yourselves," she added, with a restrained conspiratorial glance in that direction, "do prepare properly first — take everything you might need."
A ripple of excitement spread at once.
"No — 'red table' — not from the museum of medieval weapons. From the hospital wing. You'll be provided with strong painkillers, blood-stopping sprays, bone-mending draughts — including for shattered bones…" She counted on her fingers, estimating possibilities. "Bandages for reattaching detached limbs. Good. I trust no one will require absolution… Have I missed anything?"
She turned to the staff table, where several professors were staring in open disbelief. Behind her, waves of laughter and groans rolled through the hall
"Oh — the third floor. What have we there this year? Nothing dangerous, actually. The corridors are lined with portraits of historians and theorists who spent centuries — some nearly a millennium — in storage. They've already quarrelled with one another, so they'll be delighted to find new listeners."
She glanced across the hall. "Damn," she muttered, then turned back to the staff. "I hope we do — the 'blue table' looks extremely enthusiastic… Right. That's all. Welcome — and enjoy your meal!"
"Red and blue tables! Red and blue!"
The old witch paced the office while the Headmistress stood at the desk with her head guiltily lowered, first tracing the surface with her fingers, then gripping its edge.
"I don't remember names very well — what's the tragedy? Besides, I nearly died of fright in there."
"I was the one who nearly died of fright, listening to that catalogue of detached limbs," the deputy shot back with a withering look. "And where exactly are we supposed to find that many portraits now?"
"In the portrait gallery?" the woman suggested under her breath.
"Oh, thank you ever so much!"
Most of the framed figures on the wall immediately echoed the formidable witch in indignant agreement.
"I did warn you," the unfortunate Headmistress murmured even more quietly.
"You war… what? You…!" The deputy nearly choked on outrage. "You haven't progressed a step beyond your students."
"Don't work yourself into a boil over it." The man with the scar on his forehead — who had been on duty in the hall during the ceremony and feast — came to the woman's defence as she burned with embarrassment. "The kids enjoyed themselves. What more does anyone need on the first day? And believe me — it wasn't the strangest speech I've heard in this place."
"Thanks," the woman mouthed silently.
"I, for one, liked what you said about the school. Where did that come from?"
"I don't know. It felt like it ought to be that way." She paused. "I wanted it to be that way. I wanted it so badly — as if I'd never had it."
"It is that way," he said knowingly. After a short pause he added, "I noticed you didn't eat anything at the feast. Why?"
"I was nervous."
"Only that?"
"No. Honestly? I still keep hoping I'll go to sleep and wake up tomorrow and realise this was all a dream."
"A dream?!" came a voice from the corner.
"What's that got to do with food?"
"Just in case… If I eat anything here, I'll be tied to this world — and won't be able to get back to my own."
***
There was a scream in the headmistress's bedroom.
"You slept until lunchtime."
"I did. And I'd have slept until dinner if I hadn't been woken by… what did you call it?"
"A house-elf."
"Exactly. He came in to tidy up and behaved with absolutely no ceremony. Simply tipped me out of bed so he could make it. Then snapped open the bathroom door with his fingers. If I'd been inside at the time, I doubt it would have stopped him."
The young Headmistress sat cross-legged in a chair in her pyjamas, energetically working through everything that appeared on her desk. She was half-turned as she spoke to the portrait of the pale man in a long black robe — the one she had paid no attention to yesterday. He stood straight, arms folded, filling the frame completely. He looked calm — too calm. Anyone who knew him well — if such a person existed — might have noticed that he took a quiet pleasure in finally being of use to her.
"Usually, when they arrive, the bedrooms are already empty."
"I had a difficult day yesterday." She spread her hands, as if that explained everything. Then her face — and her whole posture — softened. "Today doesn't look any easier."
"So you still remember nothing?" the man asked carefully, studying her with clinical attention.
"No."
"Only forget more. That's strange."
"Why won't any of you just tell me?"
"Because our words wouldn't tell you anything."
The silence on that subject plainly irritated her, but she let it pass. He chose not to press it further.
"I see you've abandoned your hunger strike."
"Good thing the 'housey' had the decency to feed me. I promised I'd wash up after myself, by the way." She gestured to suggest that unpaid kindness was already in short supply. "And yes, I stopped. I decided that if I died, it would make getting home even harder. Or easier…" She straightened, thinking it over.
"Then I recommend one of the towers. Quick and reliable," the portrait said dully — still watching her closely.
"Hm. Sensible. But the falling part… no, thank you." She shuddered. "Home… where is it, anyway? What is it?" Then she brightened slightly. "Also — I remembered that right after the letter brought me here, I took some medicine. So yesterday's sacrifice wasn't necessary."
She finished the last of the food.
"So — as one of my predecessors in this post — where should I begin?"
"You probably won't like the answer. With history."
"You guessed right."
***
"Let's begin by working out a legend for you — something we can substantiate and consistently maintain."
That evening, after classes and paperwork were done, the deputy came to see the Headmistress.
"Yesterday I spoke with my colleagues. They are devoted to the School and trust its decisions. You needn't be afraid of them. The Board, however, is another matter. They are not on our side. If we cannot explain who you are and prove your right to hold this post, they will go to the Ministry. If — by some miracle — the Ministry supports us, they will turn to the parents. Many of them, no doubt, are already surprised by the reshuffle. And if it emerges that you cannot perform magic… the press will feast on it. The press…" The deputy shook her head gloomily.
"And why, in fact, do I have the right to hold this position?"
"And on what grounds, exactly, do I have the right to hold this position?"
"Because the statue admitted you to the office." For the old witch, this was self-evident. "It has been part of the School since its founding — part of the ancient magic that built it. The founders' magic. Incorruptible, and always guarding the students' interests. I like it." She nodded approvingly to the woman. "It is also very fortunate this happened in front of the Board members. We now have independent witnesses. They cannot deny what they saw with their own eyes — and they themselves were seen by a Ministry official. Yes, that young man was from the Ministry — not Education, another department. Better still. As a professional, he can confirm the statue was not enchanted. Legally, we are fully protected. Only…"
"Why would the School do such a thing?" the Headmistress finished for her.
"Young blood. Fresh eyes?" the pale-faced man in the portrait put in.
"I wouldn't qualify even for an internship with my experience. And at my age — I'm too old for one." She shook her head, then voiced what had been circling in her thoughts all day. "If I can't be useful to the School, does that mean I'm the one who needs help?"
"Only you can answer that," said the old witch, fixing her with that same accusatory look — as if she refused, on purpose, to remember the forgotten.
"How am I supposed to answer it? You said these walls would help me remember, but I'm only forgetting more here. You're waiting for answers from me, yet you're the one who holds the information. I chose you, and you refuse to cooperate."
"We are cooperating. You are sitting in the headmaster's chair. I am sitting opposite you."
"I'm sitting in that chair because you defer to the School's will. But what if the fourth founder intends to destroy it — through me?" She clarified when the witch's eyebrows rose. "I've started reading the history. I tend to follow advice."
The witch's hands tightened on the arms of her chair; agitated, she began to rise. The new Headmistress, without softening the blow, stood by her words.
"She hasn't changed at all. That's worth noting."
The man spoke deliberately slowly and gently, trying to ease the tension between the two women. The witch glanced at the portrait and, composing herself, sat back down. She was calm again, though still displeased. He went on.
"Only we know her weaknesses. To the Board, we present only her strengths."
The young woman's expression plainly asked, Do I have any?
"For instance — her origin."
"Her origin? An advantage?!" the old witch burst out.
"There is another side to it. The name has been spoken — there is no taking it back. All that remains is to use what benefits us. The family is ancient — with a capital A — and renowned for its magic…"
"Not only for magic. There is no less danger in it…"
"Then we emphasise the other branch — the one no one knows, though someone can attest to it. The old man is still alive. I am certain he will help."
"I never told them." The old woman's voice tightened. "All these years."
"And you won't have to. They won't go to him for her. Even if her name surfaces in conversation, it will lead nowhere. There has never been any proof — only rumours. And one indisputable fact."
"But a complete namesake, born the same year…"
"Still more plausible than what we have now — you must admit. Let them search, if they feel compelled. I expect they'll find nothing. And we will gain time. Time is all we require."
"Well," the old witch conceded at last, having no better proposal, "one question remains. Why?"
They fell silent for a while.
"We need something very simple — almost dull. Something that won't tempt their curiosity. Perhaps it truly is an internship: staff development under professional supervision. Or we shift their focus to an incident rather than a person. For example — you encounter a mountain giant on a walk. He sneezes on you, wanders off without noticing, and you begin coughing up stones which turn into little giants the moment they hit the ground, growing at speed. I happen to be nearby, calm the children, return them to their parent — and there we are. A new school year begins, you are advised to lighten your duties, and I am conveniently on hand. Hmm…" She pressed a finger to her lips and narrowed her eyes. "Though I do wonder who counts as the parent in that case."
The witch clutched at her chest and swallowed.
"I'm not proposing that exact story. Only the framework."
"It would land straight in the Curiosity of the Year column."
"My dear," the witch said at last, recovering, "I'm already at the age when a snot of a mountain giant is not necessary for me to suddenly feel unwell."
Despite the late hour, an owl burst through the window. It did not perch — only dropped a letter into the Headmistress's hands and flew off with an indignant cry.
"From the Board. They'll be here tomorrow."
As it turned out, the Board had no appetite for scandal either. They could not accuse the professors of overreach, yet neither did they wish the public to learn that the School might ignore their authority — let alone compel their agreement. They settled on the internship version. The press and the parents were informed that the experiment had been approved by the Board and conducted under its supervision. The official line was: I am here to learn, not to change things.
One problem fewer.
"May I draw an advance on my salary?"