I cast a warming spell to make sure my teeth aren't chattering by the time I meet my grandmother. It doesn't make much difference, because the problem is not the cold. The problem is that I'm so nervous that it's turning into a Malaina episode. I can hear my heart beating in my ears, the world feels faintly unreal…

I keep walking, because I am not going to let my dad down by having an episode over his mother. Thankfully he doesn't try to make conversation as we walk, because it would be obvious pretty quickly if he did that something was wrong with me.

I can feel myself getting uncomfortably hot. I must be pouring too much power into the warming-spell. I need to stop it, now. I have enough presence of mind left to do so, at least, and the shock of how cold it is without magic helps bring me a little closer to reality.

Charles First-King. Edwin the Just. I want to turn and run in the opposite direction. I want to turn and run and keep running until I reach the Academy, or Blackthorn Manor, or somewhere, anywhere, where I know I'll be welcome. But I can't.

It's silly. I'm going to meet a long-lost relative, not marching to my doom. Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender. I imagine what her first impression of me will be, if I'm in this state. I'll never persuade her that I'm actually reasonably sane and well-adjusted.

Stars, I can't do this.

Ironically, it's that which helps me realise the problem. I can't fight a Malaina episode through sheer force of will. No-one can. I need a different approach.

It takes me two or three attempts to find the words. "Can – can we sit down for a minute?"

My dad stops walking at once. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes – no – sort of." I stumble over to the edge of the pavement, thanking the stars that the roads are quiet, and sit down.

He sits down besides me. "What do you mean?"

"I – Malaina."

"Because of – "

I nod.

"Stars, Tallulah. I had no idea – you should have told me – "

I shake my head. Not helping. This was a mistake. Eleanor the Bold. I try to slow my breathing, focus on the icy cold of the air and the trail my breath leaves. The silence lingers. Eventually I find the words: "Didn't want to ruin this for you."

"Tallulah. You would never ruin this for me. If my mother is nasty to you, or if she makes you not feel at home, or anything like that… anyone who would do that to you is not welcome in my home."

I blink a few times. But he means it. His voice is completely sincere and unwavering. And – he left my mother for my sake. That's enough to tell me that he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to his mother, if it came to it. "That… that helps. A lot."

"For what it's worth, the woman I remember my mother being? I think you and her will get on very well indeed." He shrugs. "It's my fault. I should have realised she's a stranger to you. I should have realised you'd be nervous."

He's right. "I – thank you. I – should have talked to you sooner, too."

But I wasn't certain, at first, that he would help me if it came to it. I'd convinced myself that fleeing to Ryk would be a better solution than just… talking to him.

"But you – you're okay with her visiting?" my dad asks.

"If what you just said is true? Yes."

"And you're – Malaina isn't – stars, I don't know how any of this works."

"I'm mostly fine now. The episode is going to pass. If we have a couple more minutes, it would help to stay here a little longer."

"Well. It's a good thing we left early, then."

So we stay there for a little longer. Until I feel calmer, closer to reality. I risk recasting my warming-spell when the cold becomes worse than fear of my own magic. It works flawlessly, no problems with control at all. I get to my feet. "I suppose," I say, "we have a coach to meet."

My dad smiles. "I suppose we do."

I allow myself to consider the good outcomes. To hope that she can understand me, at least a little. To hope that she'll care about me. That I can have a grandmother I love. I want that, I realise. I want it so much it scares me.

We reach the coach station only a couple of minutes before eleven. The arrival times are approximate at best – it's impossible to predict how much energy the horses will have or the conditions of the roads – which was why my dad wanted to arrive earlier. We're lucky, though, that in this case the coach isn't early.

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We're not the only ones waiting for it. There's about a dozen people gathered. Most of them are alone, though there's a young couple and a man with a toddler tugging impatiently at his hand. I suppose it makes sense, that many households have people travelling to join them for Holy Days.

The coach is five minutes late, arriving just as I'm starting to fidget restlessly. My dad and I stand a dozen yards away from it, not wanting to get in the way of the people disembarking or the other little family reunions taking place.

"That's her," my dad says after another couple of minutes, pointing at one of the last people to get off. She's tiny, is my first impression, and beautiful. She can't be younger than sixty – assuming she was significantly older than me when she became a mother – but she certainly looks younger. And she's wearing an exquisite deep blue dress perfectly shaped to her form. I don't normally wear dresses, but that seems like one I'd like to try. Well, if it were adjusted for someone a few inches taller than my grandmother.

She's spry, too: she has no difficulty whatsoever in lifting a suitcase almost as large as she is and carrying it over to us. I see her smile as she sees us, and then suddenly she sets the case down and runs towards my dad, and he runs towards her, and then they're together and they're hugging.

I walk awkwardly towards them. I don't quite know if I belong here or not.

They break apart after about half a minute.

"Tallulah," says my dad, his voice thick with emotion. "This is my mother, Dawn. Dawn, my daughter, Tallulah."

"It's… nice to meet you?" I don't know the etiquette for this situation, and I'm not sure what feels right either.

"You too, Tallulah," she replies. "Can I hug you?"

"I – yes?"

I have to stoop a little to wrap my arms around her. Not even close to how much my dad did, but it's still a little awkward. But I like it, to my surprise. It feels warm and comforting and nice.

"I'm sorry," she says as she releases me. "For not being there. I wish I'd got to see you grow up."

I want so badly to know why she hated my mother, and what led her – and my dad – to make the choices they did. I know it can't have been easy for any of them. So I can't hate her for it – but nor can I forgive her. Not without knowing. "Well," I say. "You're here now."

"So I am," she replies, with a giddy smile that seems as if it should belong to a much younger woman.

"I suppose we should go back to the apartment," my dad says. "Show you where you'll be staying. I'm sorry it's so small – especially for three of us – but – "

"You're there," my grandmother replies. "That's what matters." I hear what she doesn't say just as loudly as what she does say: and your wife isn't there. My dad knows it as well as I do. Better, doubtless.

"Well." My dad laughs awkwardly. "I hope that's true. Would you like me to take your case?"

"I can manage, thank you." There's a slight edge to her voice, which I can't help approving of.

And she does manage, without apparent difficulty, even when we reach the steep and narrow stairs up to the apartment. She steps inside, takes in the room for a second, and says "Seems decent enough."

"Your room is just here," my dad says, stepping around her and crossing to the bedroom door. "Shall we leave you to unpack?"

"There'll be plenty of time to do that later. I want to talk to you both. Could I trouble you for a cup of tea?"

"Of course," my dad says. "No sugar and plenty of milk. Right?"

"You remember."

"Tallulah, want anything?"

"I'll take a tea, if it's being made anyway. One sugar, slightly less milk. Do you want me to help make it?"

"I'll be okay. Thanks."

So I leave him to the tea-making and her to look around the room that was briefly mine, and… stare around the living room, wondering what to do with myself. I settle for sitting down and slowly unlacing my boots while I think.

I don't really have much of an impression. I guess I figured I'd know straight away if she was going to be awful about Malaina or make the wrong assumptions about the Blackthorns, or if she'd turn out to be the loving grandmother I always wanted. But I still don't know. I don't know her, even though we've now met. I definitely still haven't decided what to make of the reason I hadn't met her before.

I suppose I'll have plenty of time to get to know her over the next week. And if it does go wrong, at least I know my dad will support me. That knowledge means a lot.

A few minutes later, we gather in the kitchen with three mugs of steaming tea and a lot of questions to be asked.

"So," my dad says. "What have you been up to in the last eighteen years?"

She shrugs. "Not all that much. I still sew for a living. I've been working with the Temple's volunteer wing in my spare time. Oh – and I'm living with another widowed woman now. She's a historian. We keep each other company. It would be terribly lonely, otherwise, without a family in the house. Speaking of history – I see you have quite the collection of books?"

She looks at my dad, who looks at me. "I – yes. They're mine. It's… a hobby of mine."

"And a fine one it is too. I should introduce you to Sierra – my housemate. She's always trying to teach me history, but I've never been suited to book-learning."

"That would be nice," I say. I'm not sure I mean that, but saying it feels like more than just politeness.

"Glad to hear it. Well, that's what I've been doing. It sounds like you two have had a far more exciting time recently."

"You… could put it that way," my dad says grimly.

"Forgive me if this is a rude question, but – Tallulah – could you show me some magic?"

That is not a rude question. Especially not in comparison to all the questions I was immediately scared she would ask. "Of course," I say, searching the room for something I can use for a demonstration. I remember a quill in my pocket, and toss it into the air. "Invisible wings," I incant, and its fall slows to a stop just before it hits the table.

Then I make it rise to about eye level, and spin faster and faster on the spot for a few seconds until I dismiss the spell and pluck it out of the air.

My grandmother is watching the quill with rapt attention. "It's silly for me to be jealous. Especially when I know you must have suffered so much. But – I've always wished I could be a magician. I've always wanted that kind of power." She blinks a few times. "I – what's it like? Magic?"

I blink as well. I'm trying to work out what to make of her reaction. "I – amazing. And terrifying. And complicated."

I wonder what Edward would say, if asked that question. I think he'd find it hard to answer. Because for him, magic is… everything.

"Can you show me something else?"

I smile. "Of course."

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