Page 72 of Magical Moonbeam
• Hide thoughts in a cell made of iron
• Save Stonewick
• Text Celeste and Mom before they think I’ve vanished
I set the unfinished list aside. A knock followed by a brisk triple tap that said goblin impatience more than courtesy.
“Come in.”
Twobble burst in, vest buttoned wrong, quill behind his ear, ink on his knuckles.
“Headmistress, Interviewee Number One is begging an audience,” he announced. “I only frightened her once.”
“Small miracles. Send her in, Twobble.”
He darted off. A woman entered with cedar-scented braids and wind-pinked cheeks.
“My name is Professor Lainsley Turnel,” she said with a resume that read of charm-binding and sigil work. Her handshake was dry and confident.
“Your goblin guide tells me most sprites here chew sigils like toffee,” she said, grey eyes bright.
“Only on Thursdays,” I teased. “And they favor lemon ink. You’d be a gift to our defensive charms. Honestly, our book sprites are full of life and our kitchen sprites love to dabble, but we do get the rogue every now and again.”
She chuckled, and I noticed how at ease I felt.
We spoke of chalk needs, ventilation, and whether she’d object to teaching near a corridor occasionally haunted by waltzing armor. She wouldn’t. Apparently, haunted armor makes excellent demonstrators.
Lainsley left with a contract and a smile. One vacancy solved, heartbeat fractionally steadier, though Gideon’s phantom remained at my shoulder. If I reached across the Veil on Moonbeam’s Eve, would I be ready?
Could a single Hedge witch, still learning to plug leaks in her mind, outmaneuver a mage who’d been sowing shadows since he was a teenager?
Before dread spiraled, Twobble ushered in the next candidate, Lara Benedim, who ducked beneath the doorframe with the ease of someone used to cramped classrooms. Shewore a broad smile and even broader shoulders and managed to levitate my tea cup an inch to prevent a spill when Frank thumped awake.
“I teach kinetics,” she said. “By the fifth lesson, your students will be able to float a six-stone trunk or their self-doubt, whichever is heavier. If you’re curious, yes, I am of giant lineage.”
“Ceiling height?”
“Preferably cathedral.”
“Our west practice hall seats a gryphon comfortably.”
“That’ll do.”
Lara’s only other request was reinforced beams for safety. She thanked me with a slight bow and promised to keep my teacups grounded.
Time blurred after that, a spool of anxious thread pulled taut. The corridors outside were filled with spring sunlight and the hum of rumors as students gossiped about newly arrived professors, each whisper turned into legend.Moonbeam specialists,someone said;secret duel coaches,said another. I’d quash those tales later.
Interview three swept into my office like a greenhouse breeze carrying tea roses. Petrah Lineo, transfiguration mistress, ivy trailing from the brim of her hat.
“No toad transformations unless explicitly requested,” she declared, offering syllabi inked in spirals of green. “I convert fear to confidence. It’s tidier.”
When she asked about greenhouse access, I pictured vines snaking through lecture halls and approved her on the spot.
Yet between signatures, dragonfire flickered at the edge of memory: silver scales, lava-lit cave, the voice that had told me to stand whole beneath the Moonbeam. Keep thoughts tight, Maeve. Dragons stay buried in bone-deep silence. No leaks.
I swallowed and motioned for Petrah to join the staff.
By late morning, the scent of ink and newcomer perfumes mingled with the aroma of my tea. I rubbed the butterfly birthmark through my pants, reciting a silent vow that nothing of scaled secrets would trickle outward.
