East Staple House, though a wizarding facility, was not only removed from society by its rural position on the Kent coast, but by intention also, to protect its residents’ sense of calm. (Whatever calm most of them possessed between themselves, at least – Ari’s own sense of inner peace, nowadays, was heavily supplemented by the strong dose of twice-daily Calming Draughts.)

So they never received the latest copy of the Prophet, or at least never on the proper day – and rarely without a few of the more distressing pages first removed, like Forsyte’s ink but a good degree further. Sometimes one could get away with being sent an article through the post for a while before it was confiscated, but none of Ari’s family had sent him anything that he could think of that related to Irvingly. He had been expecting a visit from another of his siblings yesterday, whilst it was the weekend, but no one had come – so he had been grateful to see Konstantin today. (Though this visit was oddly unscheduled, from a brother who was surely too overexerted with work and such things to bother dropping in on him, especially in a place like this.)

Ari frowned. “No,” he said – it had been long enough since his last dose that he was still capable of chewing numbly on the inside of his cheek, if he tried. “What’s happened in Irvingly?”

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