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Her shoulders shook. Her head wasn’t just in her hands; the heels of her palms were pressed against her eyes, and when she pulled them away, he saw that her cheeks shone with tears.

Crying. She was crying, and the sight filled him with an indescribable need to find the person responsible and hurtle them into the sun.

Unfortunately for him, however, removing her hands suddenly revealed Silas to her. She started, blinking rapidly while swiping at her cheeks to clear the evidence of her tears.

“I-I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, then forced a laugh. “The bell must be broken. Something else for you to fix.”

Silas moved like a man possessed. He strode toward her, took the seat opposite her, and seized her hands. He wanted to say something profound to her, but the touch jolted him. Her hands were so cold in his, even though she’d been inside and he’d been out there in the snow. Still, just the touch seemed to soften Margaret. She looked from him to their hands and squeezed his through his gloves.

“I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up,” she said. “It’s not any of the shopkeepers. They’ve all been by to tell me not to worry. But the other villagers . . . the tourists . . .”

She sniffed. Silas kept hold of her hands.

“I don’t blame them,” she said. “I just thought . . . after everything . . . but I shouldn’t be surprised. I really am a fool.”

“You’re not.”

“I am,” Margaret said, gently tugging her hands back to wipe at her eyes. “I know better—I knew better. This is all just business.”

She leaned back, shaking her head.

“It’s just the first night,” Silas said. “They’ll see what he’s offering, and then they’ll remember what you offer.”

Her eyes cut to him. “And what do I offer?”

The question was sharp, the Margaret from that first day surfacing. A challenge, but a desperate one. The armor was clicking back into place.

“I can’t change who I am,” she said. “I can’t wave a wand like Liza and make this place look like some kind of candy-coated winter wonderland. That’s not me.”

“I know,” Silas said, as gently as he could. “Margaret, I know.”

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t you get it? I’m not magical.”

This time, it was not just one tear that escaped, but several. She turned away from him, standing from the chair, and walked away toward the bar. She put her hands on it, fighting to steady her breath.

“I don’t understand,” he said. Of course she was magical. She might not have used her magic the way that Liza did, but Silas had never been more enchanted by someone in his entire life.

Margaret huffed, then suddenly tore from the room as she stomped up the spiral stone staircase that connected the pub to her room. Silas wondered if he should go after her, but when he moved to stand, he saw Bernie shake her head from where she was perched on the bar.

Right, then. He would stay put.

Not long after, Margaret’s boots were coming back down the staircase, and there was something in her hand. She all but threw it at Silas before returning to the back of the bar, where she promptly began grabbing glasses and throwing different liquids and items into each one.

Silas blinked. Bernie nodded at the letter. Clearly, he was supposed to read it.

Silas’s eyes darted across each line, taking in each word.

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.

And on and on it went, each word offering Silas both clarity and rage. What did it mean that Margaret did not demonstrate appropriate marks in the following areas of study: wand waving, wand control, spell balancing, spell equations, and star charting? How was such a thing possible?

He looked at the date. She would’ve been ten or eleven when this letter arrived. A child. Silas had students himself who—well, frankly, he wondered if they were still waiting for their magical skills to arrive or, at least, the most basic magical skill of them all: common sense. Margaret had that in spades. And beyond that, she was . . . well, he had never met anyone like her.

“I don’t understand,” Silas said again, knowing he had already said it but not knowing what else he could possibly say.

“I’m not a witch,” Margaret said. “I’m someone who should’ve been a witch because my family has all been magical, but I’m not. I’m a mistake.”