6
The next morning, Knox and I stand on a wide stretch of sidewalk in front of a three-story brownstone. There’s a short flight of steps up to the front door. A small sign sits by the door, reading “West Lake Prep.” You’d think a big high school would be in a huge building, but this is Manhattan. We can fit half a skyscraper’s worth of stuff inside a utility closet. And that’s with IKEA, not magic.
I straighten the folds of my blue blazer and plaid skirt. The emblem on the pocket reads “West Lake Prep.” It’s all an illusion, though. All students receive a charm to hide their real clothes from the mortal world. If humans knew there were Magicorum kids at this school, they’d be camped outside, waiting for selfies.
In reality, I’m wearing a leather duster, cropped tank, black pants, and he
