On the lawn below, in front of the transceiver building, so many people—the vast majority of them shimmers—had raised their arms to the sky, emitting those strange bands of light into the clouds that seemed to charge the air not just with electricity but with fervor. Standing in the middle of the crowd next to her shimmering husband, retired philosophy professor Margo Stillman was glad that she hadn’t transfigured yet. The last thing she wanted to do was raise her flabby arms in public. Not able to get into the spirit of things, despite the constant drone of chanting and cajoling beaming over the Sig-net, Margo eyed the crowd, a skeptical expression on her face. What a strange sight. She didn’t think she would ever be able to believe in this transfiguration nonsense, even though she had se
