A Word for the Owl

Thursday. Corvus writes that it is a year since his Professor vanished. I have sent him a tin of good tea and a very short note, because owls dislike long ones.

People ask me how the two academies differ, as though we were rival bakeries. We are different schools with different troubles. Here, apprentices mend an ancient spell while the eclipse burns overhead, six at a time at most, among walls of old stone. In Melbourne, first-years search a university for the means to free their professor, up to eight at a time, with an owl looking on and room for a wheelchair.

What we share is the world, the age rules, and a conviction that students can do far more than anybody expects of them.

Corvus, if you are reading this: you are doing splendidly. Do not let the first-years call you a raven.