But the next year, he told me I could make it to Watford on my own. The Mage fetched me for school himself the first time, when I was 11. It’s like this every September, even though I’m never in the same care home twice. “It’s a school for dire offenders,” she whispers. They’re sitting in a Plexiglas box, and I slide my papers back to her through a slot in the wall. “He goes to a special school,” one of the office ladies explains to the other when I leave. All summer long, we’re not even allowed to walk to Tescos without a chaperone and permission from the Queen-then, in the autumn, I just sign myself out of the children’s home and go. There’s always a fuss over my paperwork when I leave.
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