Jonah Spellman came from an old and respected family who had lived in Calvert Govain for hundreds of years. His blue eyes sometimes sparked like fire. With his black hair, golden-tan skin and strong, athletic posture, he often liked to seem a little different—a little above it all. He was calm, clever, and always cool—no matter the situation. He only attended Ravenwood Friends Middle School during summer term, for the special arts programme. And yet, when Allan read her poem, Jonah had been the only one who seemed to see something strange happening— the only one who reacted. That alone said something mysterious about him…
Allan's best friend during the regular school year was Emily Perkins, a skinny, fair-skinned girl with pale blonde hair and thoughtful blue eyes. They had, as Allan often said, "pretty much grown up together." Emily had a sharp heart and an even sharper mind. In literature lessons, she was always moved by Allan's way with words. She believed that every single thing Allan said had a hidden meaning underneath.
When Allan finished reading her poem, Emily's eyes were shining with pride. She blinked quickly, trying not to cry.
Then Mrs Watson turned to her and said gently, "Allan… did you really write this poem yourself?"
"Yes, Mrs Watson," Allan replied.
One of the guides on Allan's magical journey was her teacher, Mrs Eleanor Watson. Mrs Watson was in her forties, with silky, chestnut-brown hair that fell neatly to her shoulders. Every time she moved, her hair released the kind of scent that made you wonder what literature might smell like. She had bright blue eyes, and if you looked carefully into them, you could almost see the sparks of light she'd lit in her students' lives. There was something so alive—so full of feeling—in the way she looked at the world. Even students who said they didn't like books or poems would forget the time completely once they stepped into her class. After everyone had finished reading their poems, Mrs Watson let the class go early. But school rules said no one could leave the grounds before the final bell rang.
There was no school uniform at Ravenwood Friends, so Allan had left the house that morning wearing a short-sleeved white T-shirt and a pale blue dungaree dress. Emily wore a burgundy skirt and a soft yellow top. Now the two girls were waiting in the school garden, impatient for the last bell to ring.
Allan glanced around the garden, curious to see who else was still about. She wasn't really looking for anyone in particular—but if there were two people she didn't want to see, it was Headmaster Mr Thaddeus Morrow and his ever-watchful deputy, Mrs Camila Veron. As always, they were standing at their usual spot—upright, sharp-eyed, and perfectly still, like two stone statues planted at the top of the courtyard steps.
Allan suddenly found herself caught in a ridiculous thought. Of course it wasn't a coincidence. Surely the architect who had designed the school—and hoped to make his brilliance eternal by stitching it into the bricks—must have created those very steps so that, one day, Morrow and Veron could claim them as their unofficial post, with the widest, most powerful view of the whole courtyard. The moment the idea formed in her mind, Allan burst out laughing. She couldn't stop. She laughed so hard, she couldn't even explain it to Emily, who was staring at her like she'd gone slightly mad. And once the giggles finally faded, she wasn't about to tell Emily the silly thought. Not a chance.It would only make her sound completely ridiculous…
Mr Morrow and Mrs Veron were most likely standing there to remind everyone—students, parents, even themselves—exactly who held the unshakable authority at Ravenwood Friends. They were probably also preparing to deliver one of their classic end-of-term messages, the kind that gently (or not so gently) hinted at the costs of the coming school year. After all, the leadership of such a grand and privileged school in Baltimore was no small matter. Mr Morrow was a towering Black man—built like an NBA player—with a potato-shaped nose, a bald patch forming at the top of his head, and deep brown eyes that made you feel the school was in very firm hands. Mrs Veron, originally from Mexico City, was a classic Latin American woman with warm olive skin, dark eyes, black-dyed shoulder-length hair, and a figure that didn't go unnoticed. When she stood beside Headmaster Morrow, they made such an oddly matched pair that Allan often thought: you could search the whole of the Americas and still not find a less likely duo…
The final school bell had rung, and Mr Morrow and Mrs Veron had completed their last duty of the day. With her blue backpack slung over one shoulder, Allan made her way straight home to 326 Elderwood Brave. It had been the kind of day that left a warm, buzzing ache in your chest—the kind of day where you read a magical poem and leave your whole class quietly stunned. She returned home with the sweet, rightful tiredness that follows something special…
It was just after 3 o'clock in the afternoon when she reached the front gate and noticed the door was slightly ajar. Stepping in with cautious feet, she peered into the kitchen on the left—but it was empty…
"Grandma, I'm home!" she called out, her voice echoing slightly. Perhaps she was in the back garden, tending to her flowers or checking her beloved greenhouse. Allan moved towards the kitchen door that led outside, and when she poked her head into the garden, her breath caught in her throat. The whole garden had been transformed. Whatever tiredness she had felt vanished in an instant. Colourful balloons danced in the breeze, the air was sweet with the smell of cakes and cookies, and everywhere she looked were flowers, hand-written cards with warm, thoughtful wishes, and banners full of love. Grandma Samantha had prepared a surprise thirteenth birthday celebration—and nearly everything was perfect.
There were around fifteen people in the garden. Among them were Grandma Samantha's grumpy, bossy sister Aunt Margaret, and her husband—known to everyone as Mad Uncle Arnold—who insisted on styling his beard into a goatish point and wore round glasses to look more like a professor. He was, as usual, locked in a heated debate with Grandpa Sam, trying to outsmart him on every possible subject…
After a few hours of joyful chatter and cake, Allan spotted something glinting in the grass. She bent down to take a closer look—and there it was. Grandpa Sam's secret office key, the one usually hidden behind the wooden panels on the right side of the garage. Despite the rusted metal, the phoenix-shaped emblem on the keyring was clearly visible. Sam was still deep in conversation with Mad Arnold, not paying the slightest attention to anything else…
Allan took a breath, gathered her courage, and made her decision. She would go to the garage. She would find the envelope—and see what was inside. She picked up the key, walked through the house, and made her way to the garage door. Her legs shook as she stepped inside. Her hands trembled as she turned the key. The truth was, it wasn't really the secret office that frightened her—it was the letter. The envelope had her name on it. It belonged to her. But the office belonged to Grandpa Sam. Just as she pushed the key into the lock, the old Jeep—Woody—suddenly crackled to life. Its dusty radio switched on all by itself. From the speakers came the familiar voice of the N.B.C. band, singing: "Pretty Girl, Don't!"
Don't do it, pretty girl, let the flame die down
The spark feels sweet but it'll burn this town.
One more step and the whole sky cracks
And you might not ever make it back.
Think twice before your balloon bursts loud,
Not every scream makes your mother proud.
The stars are watching, the dark gets deep…
Is this the story you want to keep?
Allan turned to Woody and whispered, "Yes! That's exactly what I needed, little Woody," then pushed open the door. The room looked almost exactly as she'd imagined it. Wooden crates piled up in the corners, torn posters and broken old frames, thick folders tied together with string, yellowed documents, hardback books with cracked spines, black-and-white photos of Grandpa Sam in uniform with his army friends, other photographs even older still, chunky radios, rotary phones, and more. The room was stuffed with items from a dozen different pasts, as if a second-hand bookshop, a flea market and an antique dealer had joined hands and started waltzing together.
Allan didn't have much time. She had to find the envelope—and fast. Her eyes landed on the drawers beneath the desk in the centre of the room. Something about this moment felt strangely familiar, like she'd done it before in a dream. A soft flicker of déjà vu passed through her as she hurried to open the middle drawer. And there it was. The envelope. Her name—Allan Pie—written across the front. It had already been opened. Grandpa Sam had read it. Without a second thought, she rushed to the old photocopier in the corner and slammed her finger on the power switch. She made a copy of both the envelope and the paper inside— Then she hid them under her blouse and ran out of the room before anyone could see her.
Out in the garden, she discreetly slipped the key back into the grass — placing it exactly where she'd found it. "Grandma, could I have a glass of that lemonade with mint, please?" she asked sweetly.
She scratched Dibo's head affectionately, then launched a slice of salami across the garden to Archie, who was standing stiffly at attention as though waiting for a military command. Allan's heart was still thudding, and she couldn't stop herself from acting oddly — she even kicked a few balloons as she walked, popping them with dramatic flair. Then, feigning the innocent intention of picking a few fresh mint leaves, she wandered over to the quietest corner of the garden — Grandma Samantha's beloved greenhouse. There, in the dappled shade of her grandmother's herbs and tomatoes, Allan slipped the papers from beneath her blouse and began to read.
From: The Department of Magical Integrity (DoMI) – Maryland Division, Havenport Office, 12 Seafarer's Lane, Havenshore District, Havensport, MD, USA
To: Ms Allan Pie, 326 Elderwood Brave Road, Calvert Govein District, Baltimore, MD, USA
Dear Allan Pie,
Following observation and assessment by the Astral Runebinder Chamber (ARC), your exceptional intelligence and Mystoric potential have been recognised. Among Maryland's magically gifted students, you've been selected as one of just thirty to proceed to the first stage of the Mindstone Celestian LAT (Luxian–Aridian–Tenebris) Adaptation Process.
We're excited to meet you and to see your talents in action. Bring your curiosity and a calm mind; we'll take care of the rest.
Kind regards,
Patrick Solomon
The Department of Magical Integrity (DoMI)Maryland Regional Representative
Examination Date: Friday, 23 August 1996
Time: 18:30 (please arrive at the campus entrance by 17:00 at the latest)
Venue: Orvethia University – Yorkshire Building, 47 Liberty Avenue, Baltimore, MD, USA
***
Allan's whole world was Calvert Govain. Everything beyond her quiet neighbourhood—other countries, other lives, other stories—only reached her through books, radio broadcasts, newspapers, gossip magazines, grown-up conversations, and the flickering images of distant television channels. Sometimes, she even wondered if the world beyond was just a well-rehearsed illusion. The kind of trick so convincing, even the magician forgot it wasn't real.
(Monday, 19th August – Ravenwood Friends Middle School, Creative Arts Summer Camp – Final Week)
It was the beginning of the last week of the Creative Arts Summer Camp. Allan was walking home from school, her thoughts completely caught up in the letter she'd secretly taken and read from Grandpa Sam's mysterious room. The exam. The one she'd been invited to—on the 23rd of August, at Orvethia University. She had never heard of a region called Mindstone in any of her geography lessons. Words like Luxian, Tenebris or Aridian meant absolutely nothing to her. Until now.
She had just turned the corner leading into Elderwood Brave when she came face to face with Lillian Blackwood and her son, Dorian. The Blackwoods lived at the far end of the street, in a towering mansion that looked far more like a shadowy castle than a family home. Lillian Blackwood was, without question, the most elegant and coldly composed person Allan had ever seen. In thirteen years, she had never once smiled at Allan—never greeted her, never spoken a word, never even made eye contact. But today... today something was different. Barely noticeable, but definitely there. For the first time, Lillian seemed to be trying—just slightly—to draw attention. Her jet-black cropped hair was as sharp as her eyes. Her grace was like a glass statue: breathtaking to look at, but dangerous to touch. Dorian, however, looked nothing like her. Every time Allan saw them together, she couldn't help but wonder if Dorian had been adopted.
The stare between Allan and the Blackwoods lasted longer than it should have. It was cold, awkward, and oddly sharp around the edges. Then, quite suddenly, Lillian broke the silence.
"Your name is Allan, isn't it? You live at the top of the street—in the little blue house—with that old couple, Sam and Samantha Pie?"
Allan replied, "Yes... Why do you ask?"
Lillian smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Those men who came to visit you recently—Victor and I know them very well. Especially poor Daniel Watson... Still thinks he's on stage!" She let out a laugh like shattering glass—high-pitched and brittle. Dorian, standing just behind her, chuckled too, though it seemed unwilling, as if something inside him didn't quite want to. There was a flicker at the corners of their mouths—something dark, something wrong. Something that didn't belong to daylight. Before Allan could speak again, Dorian stepped forward. His voice was calm, polite, even—but every word dripped like slow poison. "Allan Pie... So, you've been chosen for the Mindstone State Selection. Impressive. But let me remind you—being Tenebris is far rarer. Far greater. And this isn't the sort of magic you pull out of a hat."
At that very moment, Lillian snapped round sharply and gave Dorian a warning. "How many times must I remind you not to speak of such things in public? Especially with so many Gravians around us! Honestly, Dorian. And who knows—perhaps after this exam, it'll turn out Allan is one of them too! Wouldn't that be something? Ahahahaha!"
"Maybe she is!" Dorian laughed in reply.
Lillian Blackwood had corrected her son the way one might scold a noisy snake rustling through the grass—graceful on the outside, venom on the inside. Then she turned her eyes back to Allan. They were as sharp as a dagger inlaid with black stone. "Best of luck, darling!"
Allan said nothing. She turned and carried on walking home, determined not to let the Blackwoods' unpleasantness take up space in her mind. Her thoughts were already drifting elsewhere. She kept hearing that word—Tenebris. If Dorian Blackwood could say it so easily, so confidently, then it surely couldn't mean anything good. She could feel it in her bones. If he was Tenebris, then being Tenebris must mean being part of something shadowy... something dark. Like standing on the side of chaos—and calling it power.
She left the Blackwoods behind and continued walking. Just as she reached the front of her house, she found herself face to face with their next-door neighbours—Nancy Thornfield and her daughter, Elsa. Nancy, a respected psychiatrist with a private clinic in Calvert Govain, was nothing like Lillian. Whenever she saw Allan, she always smiled and offered a kind word. Today was no different. "Congratulations, Allan!" she said warmly. "I heard you've been selected for the Mindstone State Evaluation—how exciting! Daniel Watson is an old family friend of ours. We're very proud of you, darling. Let's see if Calvert Govain produces any other clever young wizards—oh! I mean, clever Celestian candidates!"
Encouraged by her gentle tone—so much like a mother's—Allan decided to ask a question. "Mrs Thornfield, when you said 'other clever Celestian children', what did you mean?" Nancy's smile deepened. "Oh, sweetheart. Didn't Sam and Samantha tell you anything?" She glanced at Elsa, then added, "Well then, why don't you pop round to ours? You and Elsa can chat about the exam while I make you both some warm milk and fresh biscuits. Doesn't that sound like a plan?"
Elsa jumped in at once. "Honestly, Mum, I've got far too much to do! I don't have time for pointless distractions. Besides, your precious next-door girl Allan Pie—sweet, helpful, and painfully curious about every tiny detail—is ninety-nine point nine percent likely to turn out Luxian anyway! Which is fine, I suppose. Not that I care. I, on the other hand, am certain I'll be Maryland's top Aridian candidate. I represent balance. I represent neutrality."
Mrs Thornfield gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle and said softly, "Whatever the results may be, the only thing that truly matters is that both of you grow into kind, healthy people. Good luck, dear. Please give my regards to Samantha…"
At that very moment, Dibo—Grandpa Sam's wildly excitable dog—spotted Allan from the window. He charged around from the back garden to the front gate, tail wagging like a windmill. From then on, Allan stopped thinking about Dorian the Tenebris, Elsa the Aridian, or any of the rest of it. Right now, her full attention was on Dibo, whose happy, ridiculous energy was the greatest joy she'd felt all day…