“Give me Miri,” Tamara yelled, coming from the shadows. “Quick!”

Reaching for his belt, Call pulled out the knife and tossed it to her. The wyvern’s mouth was open, smoke just beginning to curl out. With two quick strides, Tamara walked through the smoke to the wyvern and moved to stab the blade through the wyvern’s eye. Just as it was about to hit, the monster disappeared in a great gust of blue smoke, returning to its element with a howl of rage. Tamara began to float upward.

Call grabbed her leg. It was a little bit like holding the string of a balloon, since she continued to bob in the air.

She grinned down at him. She was smudged all over with dirt and sand, her hair loose and tumbling around her face. “Look,” she said, gesturing with Miri, and Call turned in time to see Aaron, free of the ice, sending a flood of small rocks toward a wyvern. Celia, from her perch, rained down more stones. In the air, they became a massive boulder that dispersed the creature with a single strike before it crashed into rubble against the far wall.

“Only one more,” Call said, panting.

“No more,” Tamara told him gleefully. “I got two. Although, I mean, you did help a little with the second.”

“I could just let you go right now.” Call tugged on her leg threateningly.

“Okay, okay, you helped a lot!” Tamara laughed, just as the room broke into applause. The Masters were clapping — looking, Call realized, at him and Tamara and Aaron and Celia. Aaron was breathing hard, glancing from his hands to the place where the wyvern had disappeared, as if he couldn’t believe he’d thrown a boulder. Call knew how he felt.

“Whee!” said Tamara, waving her arms up and down as she bobbed. A moment later, the apprentices who had floated up to the ceiling were slowly floating down, Call letting go of Tamara’s ankle so she could land on the floor feetfirst. She handed Miri back to him as the other apprentices landed, some laughing, some — like Jasper — silent and grim-faced.

Tamara and Call made their way toward Aaron among the hubbub of voices. People were cheering and clapping them on the backs; it was a little like what Call had always imagined winning a basketball game would be like, though he’d never won one. He’d never even played for a team.

“Call,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see Alex, a big grin on his face. “I was rooting for you guys,” he said.

Call blinked. “Why?” It wasn’t as if they’d talked much, or at all.

“Because you’re like me. I can tell.”

“Yeah, right,” Call said. That was ridiculous. Alex was the kind of guy who, back home, would have been pushing Call into a mud puddle. The Magisterium was different, but it couldn’t be that different.

“I didn’t really do much, anyway,” Call went on. “I just stood there until I remembered to run — except then, I remembered that I can’t run.” He saw Master Rufus circling through the crowd to approach his apprentices. He wore a small smile, which for Master Rufus was like leaping and cartwheeling down the hallways.

Alex grinned. “You don’t need to run,” he said. “Here, they’ll teach you how to fight. And trust me, you’re going to be good at it.”

Call, Tamara, and Aaron went back to their rooms feeling that, for the first time since they’d gotten to the Magisterium, everything was falling into place. They’d done better than all the other apprentice groups, and everyone knew it. Best of all, Master Rufus had gotten them pizza. Real pizza from a cardboard box with melty cheese and lots of toppings that weren’t lichen or bright purple mushrooms or anything else weird that grew underground. They ate it in the common room, friendly-fighting over who got the most pieces. Tamara won by eating the fastest.

Call’s fingers were still a little greasy as he pushed open the door to his bedroom. Full from pizza and soda and laughing, he felt the best he had in a long time.

But the minute he saw what was waiting on his bed, that all changed.

It was a box — a cardboard box taped up heavily, with his name scrawled in Call’s father’s spidery, unmistakable handwriting:

CALLUM HUNT

THE MAGISTERIUM

LURAY, VA

For a moment, Call stood and stared. He moved slowly over to the box and touched it, running his fingers along the duct-taped seams. His father always used the same heavy tape to pack up boxes, like when he had to ship something that had been ordered from out of town. They were practically impossible to open.

Call took Miri out of his belt. The knife’s sharp blade tore through the cardboard as if it were a sheet of paper. Clothes spilled out onto the bed — Call’s jeans, jackets, and T-shirts, packets of his favorite sour gummi candy, a windup alarm clock, and a copy of The Three Musketeers, which Call and his dad had been reading together.

When Call picked up the book, a folded-up note fell from between the pages. Call lifted it and read:

Callum,

I know this isn’t your fault. I love you and I am sorry for everything that happened. Keep your chin up at school.

Affectionately,

Alastair Hunt

He had signed it with his full name, as though Call were someone he hardly even knew. Holding the letter in his hand, Call sank down onto the bed.

CALL COULDN’T SLEEP that night. He was keyed up from the fight, and his mind kept going over the words of his dad’s note, trying to puzzle out what they meant. It didn’t help that Call had immediately eaten all but one package of the gummi candy he’d received, making him about ready to bounce off the cave roof without the need for wyvern breath to propel him. If his father had sent Call’s skateboard (and it was annoying that he hadn’t), he would’ve been careening into walls with it.

His dad had written that he wasn’t angry, and the words he picked didn’t sound angry either, but he sounded something else. Sad. Cold, maybe. Distant.

Maybe he was worried about the magicians stealing Call’s mail and reading it. Maybe he was afraid of writing anything private. It was an understatement to say that his dad could be a little paranoid sometimes, especially about mages.

If only Call could talk to him, just for a second. He wanted to reassure his father that he was doing fine and that no one had opened the package but him. As far as he could tell, the Magisterium wasn’t so bad. It was even kind of fun.

If only the Magisterium had telephones.

Call’s mind went immediately to the tiny tornado on Master Rufus’s desk. If Call waited to be taught how to pilot the boats to sneak back there, he might be waiting forever to talk with his father. He’d proved at the test that he could adapt his magic to many situations he hadn’t been specifically trained for. Maybe he could adapt to this one, too.

After so long with only the two uniforms, it was awesome to have a bunch of clothes to choose from. Part of him wanted to put them all on at once and waddle through the Magisterium like a penguin.

In the end, he settled for black jeans and a black T-shirt with a faded Led Zeppelin logo on it, the outfit he deemed most suitable for sneaking around. As an afterthought, he buckled Miri’s sheath through a loop of his belt, and ducked out through the darkened common room.

Looking around, he was suddenly aware of how much his and Tamara’s stuff was spread all over the place. He’d left his notebook on the counter, his bag tossed haphazardly on the couch, one of his socks on the floor beside a plate of crystalline cookies with a bite missing. Tamara had scattered even more — books from home, hair ties, dangly earrings, pens with feathered ends, and bangle bracelets. But of Aaron, there was nothing. What little stuff he had was in his room, which he kept super clean, the bed made as tightly as if this were a military school.