The Workbook and I had big plans for my future, and Mousseline Academy was only the first part of it. Set on a high cliff beside a river, the Academy was housed in a large white-painted manor with five small wings, turning it into a glowing star upon the black rock and green of the hillside. Below was a cozy country town, quite affluent in its own right, a place where the teachers and the older students stayed when school had quit for the day.

The town also had—and the Workbook assured me that this was important—a training school and hospital for Weavers.

As it was winter and snow was thick on the roads, a sleigh took me to the town of Mousseline, its carriage open to the elements and pulled by a single massive monster. The white wolf-like creature was as tall and as broad as a draft horse, and needed no driver. Three others, all adults and all strangers to me, joined me in the sleigh. I sat in the corner and, as was my habit, watched.

It took me the better part of ten minutes to realize the wolf wasn’t well-trained, as I had assumed, but a small Amarok, as its ears flicked and twisted to follow the conversations of the adults. I was curious—Amarok are different than Talkers. The giant wolves are as intelligent as humans, and maintain their own societies. There was a Howl living in the nearby mountains, and sometimes I’d spot them in Old BlueHouse on business, but I’d never had the chance to speak to one. When we stopped for lunch at an inn along the road, I waited until the adults had gone inside before approaching the beast and dropping into a curtsy.

“May I ask you some questions, honorable Amarok?”

My head was bowed low so I felt, rather than saw, the enormous nose of the Amarok pass over me, sniffling. Then, a gasp.

“A witch?” I looked up to see the wolf’s blue-grey eyes widen in astonishment. The creature looked around, as if checking to make sure we wouldn’t be overheard, and its voice dropped to a light but grumbly whisper—she was a she-wolf. “You’re a real witch?!”

I realized with a jolt that the Amarok was likely around my own age, relatively speaking. I nodded.

The Amarok danced in place, her front paws shuffling in the snow. If she hadn’t been hitched to the sleigh, I thought she would have started turning circles. She put her head down to rest beside my ear and whispered, “Are you on a quest?”

I sighed to myself—I’ve always felt far too old for my age, and my first encounter with a mythical monster was just reinforcing that.

I nodded.

The Amarok’s tippy-tapping increased. In the same low voice, she asked, “Is it to bring magic back to the human world?”

What a strange way to phrase it! The human world already had magic—Weaver magic, which the Workbook had explained as a vastly different kind of magic than the kind it was teaching me, but humans had magic nonetheless. Based on the somewhat frantic thumping of my bookbag against my back, the Workbook also didn’t want me talking about this.

“I’m bound to silence,” I said to the Amarok. She backed up a few steps and looked at me, sorrow in her eyes and tail sagging. I felt as though I had kicked a puppy. “For the moment,” I amended quickly. “I’ve just set out this morning and you know how it is—I need to learn before I act.”

The Amarok’s head and tail perked. “Have you chosen your companion yet? My great-aunt was a mage’s companion, and we still share the stories of her adventures.”

The Workbook’s thumping increased. I swatted it into stillness as I said, “I think we should start at the beginning,” I said, once more bowing to the mighty but very young wolf. “My name is Bernadette Red-Rose-of-Thorns GlassClaw, and I am pleased to meet you.”

The Amarok blinked at me before lowering her head and sniffing me all over once again. “That’s not your name,” she declared, sitting before me.

“It’s what I’m called,” I replied.

“Ah.” The wolf nodded as if that had meant all the sense in the world. “The humans call me Misty.”

“May I call you this as well?”

“Yes.” Shivering as if greatly pleased, Misty dipped her head and placed her forehead against my own. Her breath smelled sweet, like honeyed mint, and I suddenly felt warm and comfortable in spite of the freezing weather. “It’s a pleasure to meet you! I hope when you choose a companion for your quest, you remember me, Bernadette Red-Rose-of-Thorns GlassClaw.”

I laughed and dared to place a careful hand on the she-wolf’s muzzle. “That name is a mouthful, isn’t it! You can call me something else if you’d like.”

Misty nuzzled my hand. “When I came to serve my five years, the local lord gave me the choice between the names of Misty or Boopsie. I’m not using Boopsie—would you like to have it instead?”

I laughed again and pressed my forehead against the wolf’s a second time: she was beautifully soft. “I would love to be called Boopsie, thank you.”

And that is how I gained a true name and my first true friend.