“I bet there’s plenty of room for magical pranks that are safe, right, Owen?”

Owen looked at me like I was crazy, and then he caught on. “Yes, of course! Magic doesn’t have to be dull and boring. You can have fun with it. I bet you have lots of ideas for that.”

Idris sat up eagerly. “Oh, yeah! I have lots of ideas.”

“That might be something we could get the boss to consider—that is, if we could convince him we could trust you,” I said.

“You can trust me, honest!”

“Why should we trust you?” Owen asked sternly.

I touched Owen’s sleeve. “Maybe we could give him a pencil and some paper to write down his ideas, and then we’d have something to show the boss.”

“It would have to be purely theoretical, since there’s a magical dampening field in the detention area.”

“I’m sure he could still come up with some good theories, even without testing them. He probably even has ideas he’s already tested that he’d like to write down.”

Idris practically bounced in his chair. “I do! I do! Please!”

Owen took a small memo book out of his suit coat pocket, along with a pen, and handed them to Idris. “I’d like to see what you come up with.” Then he stood and gestured for me to follow.

Outside in the observation room, Owen asked, “What was that about?”

“I thought if we threw him a bone, he might be more cooperative. Think of it as nonmagical dragon taming. Did you get what you needed?”

“I believe so. If I have the basis for the spell, it should be easier to counter it. I’ve got one of those bracelets, but it doesn’t contain a true counterspell.”

He started to head off, and I called after him, “I am going to see you again someday, right?”

He stopped and turned around. “When this is all over, we’ll go where no one can find us and spend lots of time together. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I said. The question was, what would really count as “over,” and would it ever really be over?

As if to prove my last thought, the guard in the observation room glanced at his crystal ball, then said to us, “The boss wants to see you both right away.”

For a change, I found myself hoping that the sudden meeting was to discuss the conference and my progress in planning it, but I had a sinking feeling that it would be about the weekend incident. Merlin wouldn’t believe what they were saying about Owen, but he’d want to look into it.

When we got to Merlin’s office, Ivor Ramsay was there, looking irritatingly smug. Merlin looked uncharacteristically stern. “We need to talk about the most recent situation you’ve dealt with,” he said.

Owen looked confused, and while he was still thinking of how he should respond, I jumped in. “The rumor mill is getting out of control. You people need a legitimate news source within the magical world—you know, someone who actually checks facts.”

Owen gave me a “stifle it” glare and said coldly, “I gave you my report. The security team called me for help, and Mack from the Council’s enforcement branch was with me. I’m not sure what the problem is beyond the misinformation that’s being spread.”

Ramsay gave a low chuckle. “Easy, son,” he said, making a calming gesture. “No one is accusing you of anything—at least, no one in this room is. But we do need to consider the reputation of this company and do some damage control. The Council is very well aware of the role you played in resolving the situation, as well as the interference by others who might be affiliated with Spellworks. However, the magical community is hearing a different story.”

“It’s slander,” I said, backing Owen up. “All we can do is deny it and present our own evidence.”

Ramsay leaned back in his chair. “And denial looks guilty. It’s a no-win situation.” I was really starting to dislike this guy. He almost seemed to be gloating, like he was enjoying this. He paused, making a great show of deep thought, then said, “I suppose all we can do is put Owen here front-and-center in the good things we do so people can get to know him beyond the rumors.” He gave Owen a warm smile. “No one who really knows you could suspect you of these things.”

Yeah, I thought, and putting him front-and-center was a good way to kill him. Owen could be okay in meetings and one-on-one with people he knew and trusted, but anything beyond that and he’d be paralyzed by panic, which could make him look cold and aloof and give the wrong impression. Even now, just raising the topic had made Owen go horribly pale. We’d been standing in front of the conference table like kids called on the carpet, but I tugged on Owen’s sleeve to get him into a chair before he passed out, then I sat beside him, keeping what I hoped might be a calming hand on his arm.