Weatherby gestured for me to come inside and close the door behind me. She looked around her office as she gathered her thoughts. To be honest, I had no idea what she’d say.

I don’t know if she did, either, as she seemed almost surprised with herself when she asked: “Have you chosen an advisor yet?”

“Excuse me?”

“A mentor, a…an adult on the teaching staff who knows how this place works and acts as your advocate. All new students get one. Most stay with their assigned advisors but you can choose someone who better meets your needs.” She flashed a grin at me which was itself rather wolfish. “I tend to get the more interesting students, so I thought we might save time.”

I stared at her. Mistress Weatherby was about thirty, slender and dark, with long black hair and large pendants made from polished silver and precious stones hanging on thick chains around her neck. She did look like the kind of adult who would draw a certain kind of strong-willed student…but did I want to be thought of as that kind of student?

Well, an Amarok had decided she was my roommate, so I likely already was that kind of student.

The Workbook rattled in the bookbag propped against my leg, no doubt trying to remind me of our carefully laid plans.

I nudged it with my ankle to remind it that no plan survives first contact and said, “I might make extra work for you, ma’am.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Mistress Weatherby said. “But if you do decide I should be your advisor, my first act would be to determine if…ah…” She met my eyes. Hers had been lined in black kohl and brushed with powdered silver across the lids. “Misty seems very taken with you.”

My mouth widened in a silent oh. Was she…?

Did she…?

Was she trying to make sure that rooming with Misty was something I wanted?

The unfamiliar concept of being heard—truly heard as if what I wanted had actual value to someone else—sank into me and warmed me, much as when Misty had first pressed her forehead against mine. I wasn’t sure what to do with it.

The Workbook bumped against my leg again, as if pointing out an escape route.

But I didn’t want to be nobody. I didn’t want to spend my entire childhood as a nameless mouse. I wanted…

Well, I wanted to figure out what I wanted, and chasing where those warm feelings might take me seemed a good start.

“Misty is remarkable,” I assured Mistress Weatherby. “We’ve just met today but I feel so much better from having known her. She’s thoughtful and full of life. I can see a real friendship developing between us.”

Weatherby glared at me. “Are you sure you’re eleven?”

Never lie, the Workbook had told me over and over again. Lies were too messy, too hard to keep straight. They messed up your magic when they got away from you. So I spread my hands wide and said, “I assume you’ve heard my story, ma’am, so I can honestly say that my life as I know it started when I was fished from a pond. I might be as young as eleven or as old as thirteen.”

“Or sixty,” she muttered, and then gave me that wolfish grin again. “Come, let’s figure out where you’re supposed to be and get you situated.”

An hour later, my belongings had been moved from a normal human-sized dorm room to another large enough for myself and Misty. It was a round room at the end of one of the star’s five wings. It appeared to be an abandoned biology classroom, with windows jutting out from the walls to let in light, exterior doors large enough for an Amarok which opened into an abandoned low-walled garden, and a stunning view of the river below. Flowerbeds lined the interior walls beneath the windows, dead plants cluttering the soil in brown clumps.

A bed, two dressers, my travel trunk, and an enormous flat-topped desk had been left in the center of the room by three very put-upon servants, while a fourth had rolled out a thick rug made from woven strips of fabric and covered this in layers of plush sheepskins as a comfortable sleeping nest for Misty.

I loved it. I loved all of it!

As the servants left, I started unpacking. Cleaning magic would’ve made short work of the mess left behind in the old classroom, but I held back—I didn’t know this place yet, and could trust nothing about it.

Then, I took out the Workbook and placed it on the desk.

With a sullen thump, it opened to a page with an illustration of a plump young girl with light brown hair skipping merrily into a roaring fire.

“Oh, stop,” I told it. “This is going so much better than we planned! Instead of bursting onto the scene when I’m an adult, I can start building my reputation now.”

The Workbook had to give me that. It was the one who had taught me that the most important thing a person can be is interesting.