“Interrupt me one more time, young lady, and I will have you held in contempt!” The magistrate narrowed his eyes. “Our overdependence on superstition,” he said quietly, “has crippled our city. Our weakness of mind has kept us shackled to outmoded, useless institutions. Yours,” he said viciously, “in particular. Why do we fear the mordeshoor so much?” He turned to the jury now. “Why do we fear the dead? We are terrified to even visit the graves of our loved ones—why? Because superstition dictates that visiting our dead will only encourage their corpses to come back into our lives. Nonsense!” he cried. “We are governed by nonsense. And I will stand for it no longer.”

Laylee felt her heart seize.

“Laylee Layla Fenjoon—I find you guilty of all charges. You will be sentenced to six months in prison and stripped of your magic forthwith—”

“But, Your Honor!” cried her useless attorney. “The jury!”

The magistrate hesitated for half a second before turning to the jury. “Respected members of the jury,” he said, “all those in favor of sentencing this witch, say aye.”

“Aye!” they chorused.

“All those opposed?”

Silence.

“No!” Alice screamed. The pale girl ran forward and Benyamin caught her around the waist, hauling her backward. “Please,” she cried, “Your Honor—this is a mistake—”

But the judge had only looked at her with disgust, tossed his gavel to the floor, and walked out.

The courtroom exploded into chaos.

People were shouting all at once and all over each other, spreading the news (and their unsolicited opinions) like a virus. Laylee, meanwhile, had gone numb. She couldn’t see or hear properly anymore. There was a deafening rush of sound reverberating in her eardrums that made it impossible to distinguish voices. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Was this really happening? Had she really thought she’d be found guilty? Like this?

She hardly noticed when someone grabbed her roughly by the arm and marched her out of the courtroom, so it was only as she had one foot out the door that she remembered to look back.

Alice was still screaming, kicking furiously as Benyamin, who was white as milk, fought to hold her back from doing something dangerous. Madarjoon looked stricken.

And Oliver Newbanks stood tall and said nothing, silent tears streaming down his face.

It was then that Laylee was struck by a sudden, terrifying idea, the likes of which I must assure you she would never, ever have considered under any other circumstances. But reader, she was desperate. Her ghosts were still hanging about the room, staring at her in shock and dismay, too stunned even to speak, and it was in this moment, overcome by a delirious panic, that she cried out to these creatures, the spirits only she could see, and said, “Tell them I’ve asked for their return!”

The ghosts did not respond. They merely blinked.

“Tell them!” she cried. “Do you understand? You have to hurry—”

But then, and perhaps most disturbing of all: Her ghosts very abruptly disappeared.

So soon?

Had her magic already been broken? Where would the ghosts go? What would happen to them now?

Laylee was devastated. Sadness blew through her like a sudden gust of wind as she realized, with a final, inward collapse, that she’d no moves left to make. She felt dizzy with resignation, the weight of the day crashing into her so swiftly she could hardly stand.

The next hour was a blur.

Laylee was carted down several hallways by coarse, unsympathetic hands, navigating a serpentine path so complicated it practically guaranteed that even if she broke free, she’d never find her way out. Eventually she was shoved in a holding cell in a back room of the courthouse and left there without a word.

Her mind was whirring. She was going to jail. Jail. For six months. No magic. Her breathing was coming in fast and hard in sharp, harsh exhales that began to terrify her. She couldn’t catch her breath. She felt the room spin around her. Stumbling to her feet, she ran, without thinking, to the trash can in the corner and heaved the contents of her breakfast into the basket. Her hands were shaking; her bones felt brittle. Her skin was cold and clammy and she made her way slowly to the single, thin bed shoved to one side of the room and somehow convinced her legs to bend as she sat there, waiting for life to crush what was left of her spirit.

It was then that she realized, with the full force of reality behind her, that she’d never expected things to go so badly today. She’d secretly, quietly—desperately—hoped that after all she’d been through, fate would finally lend a hand. She thought she’d finally have a chance at happiness.

She’d dared to dream of a happily ever after.

Instead, she’d been given shackles.

The deputies had returned, metal cuffs clanging in their hands. The two officers chained her wrists and ankles together so tightly the metal cut into her skin, drawing blood, and when she gasped at the pain, she was met only with dark, dirty looks that told her to be quiet.

Laylee fought back a flood of tears with every bit of dignity she had left.

She stood tall as she was forced out of her cell and down a dark corridor, flanked on either side by officers holding on to her far more tightly than was necessary. She held her head high, even as they pushed open doors to the outside, where a mob of journalists and nosy onlookers were waiting like vultures, ready to prey on the injured. Laylee narrowed her eyes as she swallowed back the lump in her throat and only faltered when she saw her friends standing off to the side, holding on to one another for support. The officers yanked Laylee forward through the crowd, shoving reporters out of the way—