Infinite Regress by Christopher G. Nuttall

of a cave-in should not be underestimated.”
    He rose, resting one hand on the table. “I’ll see you on Sunday,” he said. “Before then, I suggest you take the time to read through these papers—I’ll key the wards so you can get access. If you see anything interesting, please let me know.”
    Emily sighed, inwardly, as she rose and headed for the door. There were so many papers crammed into the office that she didn’t have the slightest idea where to begin. It would take years, perhaps, to read them all.
    “Well,” Cabiria said, once they were outside and heading back up to their bedroom. “That was more interesting than I expected.”
    “True,” Emily agreed. She gave the older girl a sharp look. “You’re lucky he didn’t notice your sarcasm. Talk like that to Professor Lombardi or Mistress Irene and you won’t be sitting down for a week.”
    “Of course,” Cabiria said. She winked, clearly amused by Emily’s remark. “That’s why I do it to him.”
    Emily winced. “And if he decides to expel you?”
    “He’s too invested in his project to care,” Cabiria said. “This has been his obsession for decades! All he wants, right now, is to get on with it before he dies.”
    “I hope you’re right,” Emily said. “But if you’re wrong, it’s your own stupid fault.”

Chapter Eight
    “T ELL ME SOMETHING,” C ALEB MUTTERED . He stood beside Emily, one hand wrapped around her waist, as they watched the First Years climbing out of their carriages. “Were we ever that young?”
    Emily shrugged. The First Years would all be around sixteen years old, but it was clear, just looking at them, that they were staggeringly inexperienced. They gaped up at the towering castle, they lugged their trunks behind them as if they didn’t know how to levitate them and some of them were even wandering off in the wrong directions. She caught sight of a pale-skinned girl staring at the castle and smiled, reading the girl’s thoughts from the expression on her face. What the hell am I doing here?
    “I can’t remember being that young,” she said, mischievously. “It never happened.”
    She shook her head in amusement as the tutors calmly corralled the youngsters, passed their trunks to the stewards and escorted the newcomers to the Great Hall. It was easy, now, to deduce their origins; the youngsters from magical families were clinging together, wearing robes with an ease and confidence that came from wearing them ever since they could walk, while the children from non-magical families seemed uncomfortable in their robes. Even the wealthier non-magical families weren’t used to wearing robes. And yet, it was easy to pick them out from the poor. Their robes were of better quality.
    Changing the uniform policy might have been a mistake , she thought, as the novices walked past her. It promotes disunity among classmates .
    It wasn’t the only problem, she noted. The children from magical families, the ones who knew each other already, chatted happily, while those who were new to magic shuffled around, unable or unwilling to look their fellows in the eye. Whitehall had to be hugely intimidating to them, she knew; they probably feared what would happen if they said the wrong thing or touched the wrong item. It wouldn’t take them long to learn to master their magic and cast spells, she was sure, but they would be vulnerable until then.
    And the children of magical families will already know a few hexes , she thought. The rich and well-connected always have their advantages, don’t they?
    She glanced at Caleb. “How many spells did you know when you went to Stronghold?”
    “A few hundred,” Caleb said. “Mother was very insistent that I knew how to defend myself magically, as well as physically.”
    Emily felt a flicker of envy. If only she’d had a mother like that. A mother who would’ve defended her—and taught her to defend herself. It would have been a dream come true. She swore to herself, deep