The rest of the term passed just as agreeably. The house cricket team did not win the school cup, but it contended for the first time in years. Wintervale made the roster for the school match against Harrow, which thrilled the entire house. Iolanthe, to the prince’s head-shaking amazement, won ten quid for writing the best Latin essay in the entire school. She promptly spent the money on ices and fancy cakes for everyone—and a very nice monogrammed shaving set for Kashkari, toward which the prince chipped in half of the cost.
The last Sunday before the end of Summer Half, Kashkari finally organized the tennis tournament he had been talking about for a while, in honor of Birmingham and a few other senior boys who were leaving to attend university.
There was one trophy for the junior boys and another for the senior boys. A group of Iolanthe’s friends watched the junior boys from her room. When it was time for the senior boys to compete, they left en masse, eager to defeat one another.
The prince was the last person remaining.
She tilted her head at the door. “Shall we?”
He closed the door and took out a plate from her cabinet. “Flamma nigra,” he said. A black flame crackled into being.
“What’s this?”
“Give me your hand.”
He plunged their combined hands into the black flame. The flame was the temperature of a sun-heated stone, licking at her skin with the playfulness of a puppy. After a few seconds it turned purple, then deep blue, then sky blue, then the pale blue of a vein seen through the skin. At last it turned transparent and dissipated.
She stared at her hand, then at him. “That was—that was the blood oath?”
He lowered his head, almost as if he were feeling shy. “Yes. You are free.”
“Do you understand what you have done?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
“How can I not? I have been thinking of nothing else for weeks. The enormity of it is still beyond my understanding.”
“Then why? Is it because we had made one attempt on the Bane’s life?”
That had been the terms of their agreement, one and only one attempt. But surely that didn’t count, since the Bane did not remain dead.
“That was part of it.”
“What’s the rest of it?”
He hesitated briefly. “The choice was made for me. I was never asked whether I was willing to walk this path. I do not want to take that choice from you—friends do not enslave friends. You should decide for yourself.”
Her eyes prickled with the beginning of tears. “What if I decide to take off on my own?”
He looked down for a moment. When he looked back again at her, this boy who had told her that he lived for her and her alone, his gaze was not without fear, but also not without hope. “That is your right.”
Below, boys were calling their names. Like a sleepwalker, she drifted to her open window. “We’ll be down this minute.”
Outside, everything looked the same, summer sky, summer grass, summer boys. Yet everything was different. Her life was her own once again, to do as she willed.
She turned around to the boy who had just become her truest friend in the world. “Do I need to decide now?”
“No,” he said. “Take your time.”
“Come on, Fairfax. You too, prince,” shouted Wintervale. “We are waiting for you to draw lots.”
“Coming!” she shouted back. Then, more softly, “We’d better go play some tennis.”
At the door, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “No matter what you decide, knowing you has been the greatest privilege of my life.”
She closed her own hand over his and blinked back tears. “Likewise, prince.”
“And just so you know, I am going to annihilate you at tennis.”
She laughed even as she wiped at her eyes. “You can try, Your Highness. You can always try.”
EPILOGUE 
TITUS WAITED.
Cape Wrath was beautiful this time of the year. The sun shone bright enough to turn the sea from its usual moody gray into a deep, dark blue. A few sheep, their biscuit-colored wool still short after the spring shearing, grazed on the green headland. The lighthouse glistened, white and serene.
But he was no longer capable of appreciating the loveliness of his surroundings.
She was late.
She had left school two days before he did. She knew the exact hour she must meet him here, at the only remaining entrance to his laboratory. It was now past that time.
If he did not leave now, he would miss his train.
He continued to wait, a black pain strangling his heart. He could no longer imagine life without her.
They had perhaps thirty seconds left.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
Ten.
“Sorry! Sorry! Don’t go without me!”
It was her, valise in hand, hurtling toward him. His heart almost bursting with joy, he grabbed her hand. They sprinted together toward the lighthouse.
Explanations spilled from her. The train from Edinburgh to Inverness had been delayed en route because a section of the tracks had been covered by a small-scale landslide. She, the great elemental mage of their era, who could now move tons of soil at a snap of her fingers, had to remain in her seat while railroad workers cleared the tracks with shovels. Shovels!
But all he heard was poetry, verses of hope and friendship and courage and everything else that made life worth living. She was here. She was here. She was here.
She panted with exertion. “And I couldn’t leave the train, since I had to get within a hundred miles of Cape Wrath before I could vault. More than that on my own in a day might kill me.”
“You cannot vault a hundred miles at a go.”
“I split the distance into four segments, and did some blind vaulting in the middle.”
He pushed open the door to the laboratory and thrust the potions at her. He was turning her into a tiny turtle this time—just in case anyone still wanted to confiscate his canary. “Blind vaulting, are you mad?”
She threw aside her valise and gulped down the potions. “Of course I am. I am here, am I not?”
He was choked. “I am—I am glad you are here.”
She smiled at him. “Ready?”
Perhaps she was only asking him whether he was ready for her to transform. But when he answered, he answered for all the possible futures that awaited them.
“Yes,” he said. “I am ready.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Kristin Nelson, for the six drafts we went through together.
Donna Bray, for knowing the way to perfection. It’s a destination that one never reaches, but I had no doubt she set me on the right path.
Everyone at Balzer + Bray, for their incredible dedication and expertise.
Colin Anderson, for the smashing cover art.
Erin Fitzsimmons, for the genius art direction.
Janine Ballard, for the invaluable read.
Flannery Keenan, for her honest opinion.
Dr. Margaret Toscano, for the fantastic Latin spells.
Maili Ryan, for her peerless fact-checking skills.
Ivy Adams, for all the laughter.
My family, for giving me both the support and the space I need. A special thank-you to my firstborn, the most unwavering champion anyone could ask for—and a pretty darn good fanboy besides.
And if you are reading this, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.