Marcellus had been staring at the same drawing for nearly an hour.
The little machine on the parchment had two broad wings, a narrow body, and a tail that was supposed to keep it steady. In the margin, he had written three different calculations. All three ended with the same problem.
It would not fly.
He pushed the parchment away.
"Stupid wings."
Across the room, Luxia looked up from her embroidery. "Are you speaking to the drawing or to yourself?"
"The drawing."
"Then I hope it apologises," she said, teasing him.
"It should. I've spent all morning on it," Marcellus said irritably.
"And has it improved?" Luxia asked, amusement in her voice.
"No," he said in frustration.
"Perhaps it needs a rest," she suggested softly.
"It's a machine. It doesn't get tired."
"Then perhaps you need a rest," she said, her voice softer still.
Marcellus frowned at the parchment. "I don't understand how brooms do it."
"Do what?"
"Fly. They're sticks. They don't have wings, or engines, or anything. They just—" He waved a hand in frustration. "They go up."
Luxia set her embroidery aside. "You have been thinking about flying again."
"I'm trying to understand it."
"You've been trying to understand it since you were old enough to draw."
"Because nobody explains it properly."
"Who have you asked?"
"Father. He said broom flight is a magical discipline, not a mechanical one. He said I should learn more magic before I tried to build something that flies."
"And you disagreed?"
"I said learning magic doesn't explain why a broom can carry a person."
Luxia's mouth twitched. "I imagine he had an answer for that."
"He said I was asking the wrong question."
"Was he?"
Marcellus looked at her. "I don't know. That's the problem."
Luxia considered him for a moment, then asked, "Have you thought about school?"
"Cyrus's school?"
"Not only Cyrus's. Your own."
"I'm six."
"And Cyrus was nearly eleven when he went. You have time to learn what choices you might have."
Marcellus sat up. "There are choices?"
"Of course."
"How many schools are there?"
"In Britain?"
He nodded.
"Thirteen recognised schools, as I understand it. Nine provide a general magical education. The other four concentrate on particular fields, though they teach other subjects as well."
Marcellus blinked. "Thirteen?"
"Is that so surprising?"
"I thought there were only a few."
"Those are three of the general schools."
"Wait." He leaned forward. "Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are in Britain?"
Luxia laughed softly. "Yes."
"But Beauxbatons sounds French."
"It was founded by Norman witches and wizards. Its traditions are French in character, but the school is here."
"And Durmstrang?"
"It was founded by Viking settlers. Its customs and teaching have been shaped by northern magic. It, too, is in Britain."
Marcellus stared at her. "I thought Durmstrang was some foreign school."
"What are the other schools called?" he asked.
"I know some of their names," Luxia said. "I couldn't give you a proper account of all thirteen without consulting someone who knows the education system better than I do. But the specialist schools are easier to remember. John Dee's, for example, is devoted to divination and alchemy."
"Cyrus's school."
"Yes. It was founded by Anne Boleyn, John Dee, and Nicholas Flamel."
"Flamel?" Marcellus's eyebrows rose. "The alchemist?"
"The very same. He still serves on its governing board."
"He's alive?"
"Very much so, last I heard."
Marcellus absorbed that. "And the other specialist schools?"
"One is known for potioneering. Another for magical crafts—making and enchanting objects. The fourth teaches beastkeeping and herbology."
"Could I go to one of those?"
"If you wished. You would need to learn the general subjects too, of course. A school's speciality doesn't mean it teaches nothing else."
Marcellus glanced down at his drawing. "A school for magical crafts might be useful."
"I thought you might say that. But if you want to build a flying machine, you'll need some knowledge of alchemy, too. The greatest alchemist after Nicholas Flamel is Albus Dumbledore."
"But he teaches at Hogwarts," Marcellus said, thinking it over.
"Can he teach me how to make flying machines?"
"I don't know. You would have to ask."
He groaned. "Everyone says that."
"Because you keep asking questions no one person can answer."
"That seems like a flaw in the world."
"It may be. Or it may mean you have more to discover."
Marcellus folded his arms. "I want to discover how to fly."
Luxia studied the drawing. "Then perhaps you should begin with something that already flies."
"A broom?"
"Or a dragon."
His attention snapped to her. "A dragon?"
"You live on a dragon ranch, Mars. You've watched them from a distance and read whatever books your father could find. But have you ever asked how a dragon's body works when it flies?"
"I've seen them fly."
"That is not the same as understanding it."
Marcellus looked at the sketch again. The wings were too small. He had known that, but he hadn't understood what the right proportions should be.
"Where would I find books about that?"
Luxia's eyes moved toward the window, beyond which the temple's pale stone roof could just be seen through the trees.
"The temple library might have something."
"The temple has a library?"
"Of course it does. It has kept records, histories, and scholarly works for generations. Some were donated by our ancestors. Others were copied or acquired from far away."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"You've been there. You were more interested in the carvings and the ceremonial lamps."
"I was little."
"You still are."
"I'm six," Marcellus protested.
"Exactly."
Marcellus slid off his chair. "Can I go now?"
"If you ask your father and take someone with you."
"Who?"
"Helios may be there."
"Who's Helios?"
"The temple's custodian and one of its priests. He is a distant cousin of your father's."
"Is he old?"
"Not especially."
"Does he know about dragons?"
"I suspect he knows a great deal about many things. You'll have to ask him."
Marcellus seized his drawing. "I'll ask him about flying."
"First," Luxia said, "you'll ask him politely whether he has time to help you."
"I know how to be polite."
"Then you should have no trouble proving it."
The temple stood on a rise beyond the main estate, its stone walls warm-coloured in the afternoon light. Marcellus had visited before with his parents, but never with a question he desperately wanted answered.
A man was sweeping the broad entrance steps.
He wore a long, dark robe, belted at the waist, with a few small charms and polished beads hanging from it. His black hair fell to his shoulders. There was something striking about his face—handsome, certainly, but not in the polished, courtly way Marcellus had seen in portraits. His presence was quiet and intense, as if he were listening to something just beyond the ordinary world.
The man glanced up.
"You must be Marcellus."
Mars stopped. "How did you know?"
"Your mother said you might come. And you have the look of someone carrying a very important piece of paper."
Marcellus looked down at his drawing. "It is important."
"I see." The man leaned his broom against the wall. "I'm Helios."
"Mother said you were my father's cousin."
"Distantly. Far enough that we need not argue over who inherited which chair."
Mars smiled despite himself. "I'm looking for books."
"Most people who come to a library are."
"Books about how dragons fly. And how flying brooms are made."
Helios's expression grew interested. "Two very different kinds of flight."
"How are they different?" Marcellus asked.
"That is for you to discover," Helios replied with a knowing smile. "And you've come to the right place. Come along."
He led Mars through the entrance and into a cool hall. The temple smelled faintly of incense, old wood, and dust. Sunlight fell through high windows, laying bright rectangles across the floor.
"Do you work here all day?" Mars asked.
"I keep the temple in order. I tend to the library, help with ceremonies, and answer questions when I can."
"Are you a priest?"
"I am."
"Do you do magic?"
Helios looked down at him. "What do you mean by magic?"
"Spells."
"What do you mean by spells?"
"Like…" Mars hesitated. "Can you make things fly?"
"Sometimes."
Mars sighed. "Everyone says sometimes."
Helios gave a low, amused laugh. "Perhaps you should ask a more precise question."
They passed a room lined with shelves of scrolls and small wooden boxes. Beyond it lay the library proper: a high chamber with shelves reaching nearly to the ceiling, ladders on rails, and tables covered in books. Some were bound in leather; others had metal clasps or strange markings pressed into their covers.
Mars stopped in the doorway.
"How many books are here?"
"Enough that you should not try to count them today."
"Have you read them all?"
"No."
"Then how do you know where anything is?"
"Because I have spent years learning in the library."
Helios took the drawing from Mars, careful not to crease it.
"Let us see. You want to understand how a dragon flies and how a broom is constructed. We should begin with the natural world, then move to enchanted craft."
He led Mars to a section marked with a carved dragon's head.
"These books discuss magical creatures—their anatomy, habits, and abilities. Some are practical manuals for handlers. Others are studies written by scholars."
"Can I read them?"
"Some. A few are too advanced, and some describe dangerous procedures. I will choose suitable ones."
He pulled a thick book from the shelf and placed it on the table. Its title read The Wing and the Enchanted Body: Studies of Draconic Flight.
Mars opened it. A detailed illustration showed a dragon in flight, wings extended, with lines marking the muscles and joints.
"This is what I need!"
"Perhaps," Helios said. "Read the introduction before you decide."
Mars turned the page. The text was dense, but he recognised words about wing-loading, balance, and the relationship between a dragon's body and its magic.
"Dragons use magic to fly?"
"The book argues that their flight cannot be explained by anatomy alone. Their wings matter. Their muscles matter. Their weight matters. But magic is part of the process."
"Then how do we know what the wings actually do?"
"By observing them carefully. By comparing species. By asking what changes when a dragon is injured, exhausted, or growing."
Mars leaned over the illustration. "Could I watch the hatchlings?"
"With Mr. Pritchard supervising you, certainly. But you must remember that a hatchling is not a machine for you to experiment on."
"I wouldn't hurt it."
"I believe you. That is why I am telling you before you make a mistake."
Helios showed him another shelf, this one holding books about broom-making and enchanted objects.
"Here are treatises on flight charms, wood selection, binding, and the construction of broomsticks. Some are written by craftsmen. Others are theoretical."
Mars pulled out a slender volume. "The Broommaker's Art."
"That one is a good beginning. The author explains how the wood is chosen, how the twigs are shaped, and how the enchantment is laid into the frame."
"Does it explain how the broom carries a person?"
"Not completely. No single book will answer every question."
Mars opened it anyway. The first pages described the choice of wood and the careful balancing of the handle. He traced a diagram with one finger.
"Why does it need to be balanced if magic holds it up?"
"Because the rider must be able to control it. Magic can lift something without making it stable. A broom that rises but cannot be steered is not much use."
Mars's eyes returned to the page. For the first time in days, the problem seemed less like a wall and more like a path with several turns.
"Can I borrow these?"
"You may read them here. If you want to take a book home, we'll need to check whether it can leave the library."
Mars nodded, already reading.
Helios moved to the next shelf. "There are other works you might find useful: studies of flying carpets, enchanted vessels, and creatures that travel through the air without wings."
"Flying carpets?"
"Some cultures prefer them to brooms."
"Why?"
"Comfort, tradition, and sometimes fashion."
Mars gave a small, delighted laugh. "I want to read about those too."
"I thought you might."
He settled at the table with the two books open before him. The drawing of his little machine lay between them, suddenly looking less like a failed invention and more like the beginning of a question.
After a while, Mars looked up.
"Helios?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think I could really build something that flies?"
Helios did not answer immediately. He studied the drawing, then the child bent over the books.
"Labor omnia vincit," he said at last.
"What does that mean?" Marcellus asked, puzzled.
"It is a spell to make things fly," Helios said, smiling. "But perhaps it will help you make something that does."
Mars looked down at his drawing again.
"You're a determined boy," Helios added.
Then he left Mars to his books.