By the time four-o'clock rolls around, I'm in a state of anxiety that's near panic. I haven't been able to concentrate on my latest book at all, and I'm alternating between fear and impatience. I vascillate between racing to the garden and not showing up at all. In the end, my curiosity about what Professor Potsdam might have to say overwhelms my remembered fear.

When I walk into the garden, Professor Potsdam is there, at ease before a small table set with tea things. There's no one else in sight, so I have no idea who's set the table - a member of the staff, or Professor Potsdam through a spell.

"Ah, Lady Montague," she says as I approach, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm all right," I say warily as I sit. It's both a balm and a sting to be called Lady Montague, now that I've been demoted to cousin Eliza. I hadn't wanted Professor Potsdam to be the first one to call me by my new title, but I guess that can't be helped now.

"And how is Hieronymous?" she asks.

"Holding up," I say, which is about as positively as I can put it. "Does he know you're here?"

"I doubt it," she says with a giggle. "You won't tell him, will you? He's a little upset."

"A little," I agree, thinking what an understatement that is.

"Oh, well, it's all right. He'll come around eventually, you know, he always does."

"I think this one might take a while," I say. Hieronymous hasn't mentioned Professor Potsdam since the morning we arrived in the music room at Yeavering Hall, and I haven't dared bring her up in conversation.

"Oh, I have time," she tells me with a wink. "Tea?"

"Thanks," I say, and she pours me a cup. "Have you been - you know - there this whole time?" I ask, not wanting to mention the cottage - not wanting to feel its name in my mouth.

"Oh no," she says. "I've been in London putting a good word in for Hieronymous with the UK's Council. They weren't exactly inclined to believe that such a prominent magician as the late Lord Montague would suddenly go on a killing spree, but I've managed to provide enough evidence to ensure they won't give Hieronymous any trouble about it."

I'm a little taken aback by Professor Potsdam's reference to the Council - whoever they are. I've been so preoccupied by the police inspectors and the deceased guests' families that I hadn't even thought of Hieronymous being in trouble with the magical authorities. Still, it seems that Professor Potsdam has already taken care of the situation, for which I'm suddenly grateful.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" I ask.

"I'm leaving for Iris this evening," says Professor Potsdam, settling back into her chair with her cup. "And I wanted to know whether you'd be coming back, or staying here."

I stare at her, wondering how she could know that I'd been pondering that very question only this morning.

"It's all right if you haven't decided," she continues, "but I will need to know before the school year begins, and sooner is usually better."

"I don't even know if he'll let me stay," I prevaricate. Professor Potsdam waves her hand at me.

"Oh nonsense, if he didn't want you to stay, he'd've kicked you out by now."

"I guess," I say grudgingly, though I know she has a point. And then, there was the conversation about Socotra. Much as I've been trying to tell myself that it was just an idle suggestion that won't come to anything, the mere fact that Hieronymous would even propose taking a trip together is rather enticing.

"And you two do make a lovely couple," Professor Potsdam is saying. "It really couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it."

"I thought you had planned it," I say.

"Maybe a little," she says, and sips her tea.

"But why? I ask.

"Well, I told you dear," she says, "I needed someone to open Lord Montague up. I wouldn't have been able to disrupt his spell if he hadn't been trying to eat whoever he was trying to take. She'd have to be young - he didn't find older souls very appetizing - attached to Hieronymous in an official way so that he'd target her, clever enough to determine Lord Montague's intent and how to foil it, and fond enough of Hieronymous to give herself up to save him."

"So you picked me?"

"Oh no. I picked Minnie Cochran."

"What?" I ask, stunned.

"Well she's just Hieronymous' type, don't you think? Very much the academic star, and beautiful too - you know," she drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The hair."

"Oh," is all I can say. Of course - although Minnie is smaller and slimmer than Violet had been, they both share one similar trait - the huge mane of wavy, chestnut hair. I don't know why I hadn't made that connection before.

"But," Professor Potsdam says, "she got a bit involved with problems of her own over the course of the year, and I'm afraid Hieronymous wasn't very impressed, so I had to make do with what was available."

"Meaning me." I feel as though Professor Potsdam has just twisted the knife that the late Lord Montague had planted in my heart.

"Yes, but don't look so upset, he's the one who chose you, really. That's why I did the spell just before the winter break you know - to find out who he'd think of, if it wasn't Minnie."

I remember that - the spell she'd done that let the students know if someone they cared about was thinking of them. I hadn't thought of another student, I'd thought of Hieronymous, and felt the tiniest flicker of something in return. That was enough, it seems, to set this entire series of events in motion.

"And it did work out after all," continues Professor Potsdam. "Lord Montague is gone, and here you two are." She beams.

"And how long had you been planning this?" I ask.

"Oh, says Professor Potsdam with another wave, "as soon as ever I met Lord Montague. I knew what he was the instant I laid eyes on him, and knew I'd have to try to stop him when he finally decided to take Hieronymous in earnest. It took me years to decide what to do and how to do it."

"Then," I say through clenched teeth, "why didn't you save them? Mrs. Craft and the rest?"

Professor Potsdam gives me a stern look that, after a moment, softens into an expression of sadness. "Would you believe me if I said I tried?" she says.

"No." I reply.

She sighs and puts down her teacup. "I'm sure you've noticed that I'm terribly clever, Eliza, but I'm not infallible. And I'm afraid I made the same mistake Hieronymous did - I dismissed Lord Montague's guests as perfectly ordinary people with no purpose to him save to give him the sort of unthinking adulation he seemed to crave. In fact, I was possibly a little too clever. I assumed he was going to use a very esoteric bit of white magic to suck the amount of energy he needed for his spell from the fabric of the Otherworld. By the time I realized what he was going to do with his guests - a vulgar spell, no artistry to it - it had already been done, and there was nothing I could do."

I stare at her, uncertain. I'm so used to seeing Professor Potsdam as absolutely in control, the omniscient, omnipotent ruler of Iris Academy, that it's jarring to think of her making a mistake. Could it really be true that she hadn't anticipated Lord Montague's murders?

"Then again," she continues, "if I had managed to save them, I would have tipped my hand a bit too early, and then where would we be? He wouldn't have been able to take Hieronymous, but I wouldn't have been able to stop him for good. He'd be in hiding somewhere, biding what time he has until the next chance came - with an eye on both of you. Not a very nice prospect."

"But it was so many people," I say, despairing. Even the prospect of Lord Montague lying in wait somewhere isn't enough for me to think that the deaths of all those people could be worth it.

"I know, dear, I know," says Professor Potsdam. "But in the end, I suppose it comes down to the same choice that you and Hieronymous made - what to sacrifice, and what to save."

"That's different!" I shout at her, outraged. "It's different when it's just your own life!"

Professor Potsdam smiles at me then, a smile imbued with regret and with pity. As I watch her, waiting for an answer, I realize that sitting here in this garden, reclining with flowers and plants blooming around her, she looks almost exactly like the woman on the last card that Mrs. Craft turned over for me on the last day I'd seen her alive.

"Oh chick," says Professor Potsdam. "What on earth made you think you were only gambling with your own life?"

The implication of this statement bubbles in my head, and I push it back down, unable to grapple with it now. I find that I'm pressing my hand to my stomach, to the spot just under my sternum where Lord Montague had attempted to tear me in two. And I ask the question I've been waiting to ask Professor Potsdam since she appeared in the strange auditorium at Revane Cottage. "What are you?"

She doesn't stall the way Lord Montague had done when I'd asked him the same question, just fixes me with a steady gaze, taking her time in providing an answer. "I'm something that's trying to bring a little good into this world," she says, finally. "By whatever means necessary."

It's not exactly an answer, but strangely I feel satisfied with it. "Thank you," I say, and stand, leaving my cup of tea half finished.

"Do let me know about school as soon as you can, my little spring bud!" Professor Potsdam says, with her usual verve.

I walk back to the house, a confusion of thoughts crowding my head, trying to keep my feet firm and steady as I go.

The next afternoon is when Mrs. Craft's family is due to arrive at the house, and for them, I insist on being there when they arrive. I wait for them in the foyer, carrying my handbag. In it is the small wooden box of cards that I'd taken from Mrs. Craft's room. I have the vague idea that I could ask the family if I could keep them, maybe, though I don't know how I'd go about doing that in a way that doesn't sound completely callous. Part of me wonders if I could just "accidentally" forget to say anything, and let them leave the box with me.

The family consists of Mrs. Craft's oldest son - the younger lives abroad - his wife, and their daughter. The husband and wife are frowning up at the interior of the house with its rich furnishings and air of opulence, and give Hieronymous - who is still looking exhausted - hard looks as he exchanges clipped greetings with them. The daughter is a little too old to be a girl, but too young to be a teenager. I find myself staring at her with curiosity.

She has a plump torso but gangly arms and legs which seem to indicate that she'll grow much taller in the next few years. The dress she's wearing is too short at the wrists and too tight around the middle, and she keeps tugging at in in a desultory way. It also looks too warm for the August weather - probably it's her only black dress, chosen in a hurry. Although her face is round with lingering baby fat, I can still see the outline of the square, strong jaw she shares - shared - with her grandmother.

Hieronymous looks startled when, after finishing greeting Mr. Craft and his wife, he sees the daughter standing behind them. Mrs. Craft sees this and her expression softens. She offers a rather sheepish smile. "So sorry," she says. "Tabby and her Gran were quite close and she wanted to come up with us, but..." she trails off, then turns to address her daughter. "We need to discuss a few things with Lord Montague so..." She looks around, a bit lost, hoping maybe for a convenient place to have her daughter wait. I can understand that she doesn't want her daughter in the room when they get into the whys and the hows of Mrs. Craft's death.

"I'm Eliza," I say abruptly, stepping forward and addressing Tabby. "I'm - uh - Lord Montague's cousin. Do you want to take a walk with me? We could go into the garden?"

Tabby peers at me and for a moment I think she's going to say no. But finally she says "okay," in a low whisper. Her parents both give me grateful looks before they're ushered into the study by Hieronymous. He, in turn, glances over his shoulder at me quizzically, but doesn't linger.

"Come on," I say to Tabby, and lead her to the back of the house and out into the garden. She looks at the huge house with rather wide eyes, looking a bit like I must have looked when I first set foot inside it. As we stroll among the flower beds and rose bushes, I start trying to make a bit of small talk - asking about her favorite subjects at school (science), and whether she has any siblings (one older brother who's at university now). Her answers are short and terse, and I begin to wonder whether I should say anything about her grandmother. I don't want to upset her, and I don't know how to put into words what I want to say.

We walk in silence for some time, and I try to compose something heartfelt and meaningful in my head about how much I liked Mrs. Craft, how kind she was, how she made me feel welcome in this strange house when I didn't have anyone to talk to. In the meantime, I'm terrified that Tabby will say something about Mrs. Craft before I'm ready; to start asking why and how herself, or worst of all, burst into tears. But before I have anything more than "I'm so sorry" scripted out, Tabby turns to me with a frown.

"My Gran was a witch," she says.

I'm so startled by this that I halt in my tracks to stare at her.

"My dad says she wasn't. But she was," says Tabby.

It's a long moment before I can think of what I ought to say. "Did she tell you that?" is what I finally ask. Mrs. Craft had insisted to me that she was not a witch, but a diviner, though I don't know how well her granddaughter knows the distinction.

"No," says Tabby, looking at the ground and kicking a stone from the middle of the path to one side. "But I can tell things sometimes. Like Gran was a witch, and it's all right to tell you that she was a witch, because you'd believe me." She looks back up at me, anxiety shining in her eyes. "You do believe me, right?"

I try to think of what I can say that won't get me in trouble.

"Yeah," is what I eventually say. "I believe you." She gives me a look of pure relief.

"The man - the Lord - would believe me too," she says with more confidence. "But he's a little scary."

"Oh," I say. "He's not so bad when you get to know him."

"He's not your cousin either. And you don't want anyone to know."

"Now you're just showing off," I complain, and she gives me an impish grin.

"It's all right, I won't tell," she says.

"Thanks awfully," I deadpan. "How old are you, anyway?"

She pauses before saying "twelve," with an air that shows that she knows it would be childish to say that she was almost thirteen.

"So when's your birthday?"

"October seventh."

Very soon. And I think I know what she should expect in the coming year. I only hope that her parents are going to be more accepting than her grandmother's had been.

"Hey," I say, stopping in the middle of the garden path. "I think you should have these."

I fish into the handbag and bring out the wooden box of cards. "I was going to-" I start, a little guiltily, wanting to explain away my instinct to take them with me through deceit, but then I remember that she'll probably see through any lie I tell her. In fact, she can probably see through my intent now. "Never mind," I finish, flushing a little. "I just think you should have them."

Tabby takes the box from my hand and opens it to see the cards inside.

"Your Gran - grandmother - read my cards the day before she - the day before," I stutter. "She was great. She made me laugh. And even though I only knew her for a few days, I'm going to miss her my whole life."

Tabby stares up at me with wide, blue eyes and now it's me who might cry. "Thanks," she says in a small voice. I give her a smile, blinking back tears. She looks so young at this moment, but I have to remind myself that she's only four years younger than me.

"Tell you what," I say, digging in my handbag again, "if anything weird happens to you next year, and you feel like you can't talk to anybody about it, write me a letter, okay?" I produce a pen and a scrap of paper from the bag.

"Weird?" asks Tabby. "Like what?"

"You'll know it if - when it happens," I say. "Just write me if you need to, and I'll answer any questions you've got." I prop the paper up against my bag and pause for a moment before scribbling first my name, and then an address. Folding the paper, I take the box from Tabby to place the piece of paper inside, on top of the deck of cards, and hand it back. She takes it solemnly, as though I'm conferring an honor upon her.

"Think we should see if your parents are out yet?" I ask.

"Sure," says Tabby, and we walk together to the front hall. It's only a few minutes before the Crafts emerge from the study, with very different expressions than they'd worn when they'd walked in. Mr. Craft is pumping Hieronymous's hand in a chummy fashion, while his wife is dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Hieronymous is making an effort, but behind the forced smile I can tell that there's nothing he'd like to do more than yank his hand away and slam the study door behind him.

The Crafts collect the rest of Mrs. Craft's things, and usher their daughter - who gives me a last smile and a wave before they leave - out the front door. Once they're gone, Hieronymous rubs his eyes and asks me "any more of them today?"

"No," I reply. I'd asked Mrs. Barton, mostly to see if I'd have to run up to my room and hide immediately after the Craft family departed. But, it seems, they're the last family that needs to be handled this afternoon.

"Good; I haven't even started planning for tomorrow. I think the minister's about ready to send me to an early grave myself."

Right - tomorrow is the late Lord Montague's funeral. Hieronymous had never given me any indication that either he or his late father had been in any way religious, but apparently due to Lord Montague's standing in Parliament, there will have to be a sort of "show" funeral for his non-magical colleagues and acquaintances. Hieronymous has done his best to keep it small and quiet by holding it a local chapel rather than relocating to London. Still, it seems that several notable personages have already expressed interest in attending - and if Hieronymous hasn't started planning the service yet, he's got quite a bit of work ahead of him, and not much time in which to do it.

"Anything I can do to help?" I ask, suddenly feeling a bit guilty that I've left all of the work to him over the past week, even though nearly all of it is way beyond my current skill level.

"It's all right, I can manage," he says, with what I think is the beginning of a smile. "Thank you, just the same." He turns to head back to the study.

"Sure," I say. "See you at dinner?" From the look of things, it's going to be another of the silent, staring-into-space dinners, but I can't help looking forward to it.

"Doubtful," he says, over his shoulder. "Don't bother waiting." And he shuts the door behind him.

I take myself up the stairs slowly, despondent. I'd hoped to try talking with him over dinner about what I'd decided to do about the school year, what I'd decided when I scribbled the address on the paper I'd given to Tabby. No - if I want to be honest with myself, I'd known what I was going to decide ever since my conversation with Profesor Potsdam. The only thing I haven't decided is how to say it to him.