If anyone tells you that magical academies are all intrigue and destiny, ignore them. Most days, they're about missing socks, runaway homework, and the sort of gossip that could power the city for a week if only anyone could bottle it.
The morning after the secret garden, I woke to the soft, unpromising smell of toast and panic. Mara was at the foot of my bed, clutching a stack of papers like a drowning witch with a raft made of spelling tests. She had that wild, slightly deranged look usually reserved for exam week or catastrophic potions accidents.
"Zari," she whispered, shaking my shoulder urgently, "something terrible has happened."
My first thought was, "Not the hedgehogs again." My second was, "Please let it be something I can solve with breakfast."
Riven tumbled in after her, sporting two mismatched slippers and a guilty expression. "We need a team meeting. And coffee. And possibly diplomatic immunity."
