The letter from Tidefall Academy had spent six weeks on the fridge and had somehow become more official every time Jasper looked at it. It was thick cream paper held beneath a crab-shaped magnet, which did not improve its dignity, and the heading was printed in dark blue beneath a silver crest. Jasper knew the first lines almost by heart.

TIDEFALL ACADEMY OFFICE OF ADMISSIONS AND MAGICAL DEVELOPMENT

The phrase magical development still sounded to Jasper like something that ought to appear on the side of fertiliser. His mum was checking his school bag again.

"Mum."

"I'm making sure."

"You made sure last night."

"That was before you slept near it."

Jasper looked at his father. "What does that mean?" His dad folded the newspaper down just far enough to show his face. "Some socks become ambitious after midnight."

"Thank you," Jasper said.

"Don't encourage either of them," his mum said, although she was smiling.

Magic was not a secret in Australia, but most families went years without having much reason to think about it. There were licensed practitioners, specialist services, government rules, schools, safety campaigns and the occasional news story involving somebody who had attempted a home repair with more confidence than training. It was part of ordinary life in roughly the same way bushfire aircraft and submarines were: real, important, and usually somebody else's problem. That had changed for the Holloways during the previous year.

Jasper's first undeniable magical incident had happened in his classroom when a glass ornament lifted itself from a shelf and remained floating through most of a maths lesson. Before that there had been smaller things. A tap turning off while both his hands were covered in paint. Three upstairs lights switching on when he woke during a thunderstorm. A football changing direction in the air just enough to miss someone's face.

Every incident had been explainable on its own. Together they had eventually attracted the attention of a regional assessor called Dr Maren, who arrived at their house with a wooden case, sensible shoes and the sort of calm voice adults used when they knew everyone else in the room was nervous. She put a bead on the dining table and asked Jasper to move it without touching it. He failed four times. On the fifth attempt, the bead shot across the table and struck his father's shoe.

"Technically moved," Dad had said.

Dr Maren laughed, which Jasper liked immediately. Three weeks later the Tidefall letter arrived. Now, on the morning of departure, his mother placed another piece of toast on his plate as though boarding school created an immediate risk of starvation.

"You will write," she said.

"I know."

"Properly."

"I know."

"Not a message saying 'alive'."

His father considered this. "Could add punctuation."

"You are making this worse."

Jasper ate while they went through the rules again. Tell a teacher if his magic behaved strangely. Do not pretend injuries were fine because he was embarrassed. Wear sunscreen. Do not go into deep water without supervision. Call home. Keep track of his things. Remember that being capable of making an object move did not mean he should test this on cutlery during dinner. The last rule had been added after an incident with a fork. Jasper listened, answered when required, and did not mention the dream. He nearly did when his mum said, "If anything feels wrong, even if you can't explain it, tell someone."

The memory of black water returned so sharply that he could almost feel the pressure behind his ribs.

"I will," he said.

The drive to the harbour took a little over twenty minutes. Jasper counted the first ten because counting was easier than thinking about leaving home for an entire school term.

Perth passed outside in bright summer pieces: pale walls, dry verges, eucalypts throwing narrow shadows over footpaths, a magpie standing on a sprinkler head with the confidence of someone who paid council rates. Jasper's school bag sat at his feet. His suitcase was in the boot. The Tidefall jumper was folded beside him because wearing it in the heat would have been ridiculous. The harbour appeared after the road dipped toward the coast. Jasper sat straighter.

Families crowded one end of the jetty beside labelled luggage bays. Beyond them waited the Tidefall vessel, a long dark-blue boat with broad decks, a silver wave crest near the bow and absolutely no attempt to look magical. Jasper felt mildly cheated.

"No floating?" his dad asked, apparently reading his expression.

"I didn't say anything."

"You looked disappointed by the lack of dragons."

"A little."

His mum was already out of the car checking the luggage label.

"It's Row D," Jasper said.

"I know."

She checked it again. The dock was full of children trying different strategies for not looking nervous. Some talked constantly. Some clung to parents. A few stared at their phones with great determination, as though the right notification might cancel boarding school. Older students moved through a separate gate with the exhausted confidence of people who had done all this before. A Tidefall staff member called for new students to form a line. Jasper's stomach tightened. His mum hugged him first. The hug lasted long enough for Jasper to notice three different boats passing behind her.

"Mum."

"I know."

His father hugged him next and said quietly, "Being nervous and going anyway still counts."

"I'm not nervous."

"Of course not. You're pale for fashion reasons."

Jasper laughed, which was almost certainly the point. The boarding bell rang. His parents waved from the rail while Jasper carried his bag onto the gangway. Halfway across he looked down at the water. Small waves slapped against the pylons. Sunlight broke into restless pieces across the harbour. Then a patch of water beside the Tidefall boat went perfectly smooth. Jasper stopped walking. Ripples reached the edge of the patch and curved around it. The effect lasted perhaps three seconds before the surface loosened and became ordinary again.

"You moving?" someone asked behind him.

Jasper stepped forward quickly. "Sorry." He looked back once more. Nothing. His mum was still waving. The waiting area at the harbour made leaving feel more real than packing had. Tidefall staff had divided the jetty into colour-coded lanes, and families stood around pretending not to examine one another. Some children already wore their Academy jumpers despite the heat. Others carried brand-new backpacks with stiff straps and labels their parents had written too carefully.

Jasper noticed one boy crying openly into his father's shirt. Two places ahead, a girl was explaining something animatedly to her grandmother as if she were going on a day trip rather than disappearing to boarding school for months. The contrast made Jasper feel better. Apparently there was no correct way to leave. His mother handed him a small envelope.

"Not now."

"What is it?"

"Something for later."

His father leaned toward him. "Almost certainly a list."

"It is not a list."

"Then I withdraw the accusation."

Jasper put the envelope in the front pocket of his bag without opening it. A staff member checked his admission card, destination tag and emergency contact details. The process was so ordinary that Jasper found himself laughing silently at every fantasy he had built around arrival. No one examined him with a glowing crystal. Nobody asked him to demonstrate magic. A woman with a tablet asked whether he had any allergies and told him which deck to use. The boat engines started while Jasper was still on the dock. Their low vibration travelled through the planks beneath his shoes.

For one second, the vibration matched the pulse from his dream closely enough to make his stomach tighten. Then the engine changed pitch and the resemblance vanished. Jasper looked toward the water again. The smooth patch was gone. Small harbour ripples slapped the pylons exactly as they should. He wanted to believe ordinary explanations because ordinary explanations were easier to carry onto a boat with one suitcase and a family waving behind you. Jasper waved back and boarded the boat.