but if she wasn’t the Mistress—if she was an imposter, say—then when the real Mistress arrived, there was going to be a very unpleasant scene. It would probably involve screaming and fireballs and some of the torture devices in the spare bedroom. On the other hand, there were the boots. The boots had to count for something. “It’s not a Loathsome Hag, is it?” whispered Edward, who had been hiding behind the door. “No, no . . .” The guardian waved him into silence. “It’s a Wicked Witch. I think.” “Yay, a Witch!” “Hush! There might be a problem!” The guardian poked his head out the door again. Molly was still standing there, gazing up at the tower with vague nearsighted interest. “You can do magic, right?” Magic was a requirement in a new Master, unless you were a Mad Scientist, and Molly didn’t look like the sort to hook lightning rods up to cadavers while wild theremins wailed in the background. “Absolutely,” said Molly. “I’ve got a book of potions. And I can turn invisible if I hold my breath.” The guardian rubbed the back of his neck. “You seem a little . . . young.” “I’m smart for my age. I can read at a tenth-grade level.”
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