Cyrus had barely finished greeting Mars when the younger boy began bombarding him with questions.
"How long are you staying?" Mars asked.
"Until after the Solstice celebrations," Cyrus replied.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Then you have to tell me about school."
Cyrus laughed. "I thought you would ask."
Mars fell into step beside him as they moved away from the entrance. The hall was still bustling around them, but the noise seemed to fade into the background.
"What's it like?" Mars asked. "Is it really as big as people say? Do you have lessons every day? Do you learn spells? Are there dragons?"
"One question at a time," Cyrus said, smiling.
"Fine. What's it like?"
"Rather like living in a very old castle with hundreds of other children. There are lessons, homework, meals, and plenty of people getting into trouble."
"Do you get into trouble?"
"Occasionally."
Mars looked delighted. "What did you do?"
"Nothing particularly interesting."
"That means you did something interesting."
Cyrus shook his head. "You sound like my younger cousins."
"Do you have a lot of friends?"
"Some. You get to know people quite well when you live with them for most of the year."
"Do you miss home?"
"Sometimes," Cyrus admitted. "Especially around the holidays. But there's always something happening at school."
Mars thought about that.
He had never been away from the estate for more than a few days. The idea of living in a castle, surrounded by children his own age, sounded wonderful.
"Do you play games?" Mars asked.
"Of course."
"Flying games?"
Cyrus glanced at him. "You really are obsessed with flying."
"I want to know how it works."
"That doesn't sound like an obsession."
"It is when everyone keeps telling me to stop asking questions."
Cyrus chuckled.
Mars hesitated, then asked the question that had been sitting in his mind since Cyrus arrived.
"Could you teach me to fly?"
Cyrus stopped walking.
"Fly?"
"On a broom."
"Oh." Cyrus considered him. "Have you ever been on one?"
"No."
"Then perhaps we should start with that."
Mars's eyes widened.
"You'll teach me?"
"If your parents allow it. And if we can find someone with a broom suitable for a beginner."
"I'll ask Father!"
"Ask him before you start climbing onto one," Cyrus advised.
Mars nodded solemnly.
Then, after a moment, he asked, "How do you steer?"
Cyrus laughed.
"You're already trying to skip the first lesson."
By the time the evening meal was announced, the hall had become even more crowded.
The long tables had been drawn together, and platters of roast meat, potatoes, vegetables, bread, and steaming pies were being carried out from the kitchens. Candles glimmered above the tables, while the great hearth cast a warm glow across the room.
The family gathered in a loose arrangement that reflected neither strict age nor rank. Some sat beside their spouses, others beside cousins they had not seen in months. Children occupied the places nearest the ends of the tables, where they could whisper, trade food, and occasionally escape the notice of adults.
Mars found himself seated between Cyrus and Adrian. Julian sat across from them, already reaching for a bowl of roasted potatoes.
"Don't take all of those," Adrian warned him.
"I'm taking a reasonable number," Julian replied.
"You've taken half the bowl."
"Then half the bowl is a reasonable number."
Cyrus leaned towards Mars.
"That's how most family arguments begin."
"Over potatoes?"
"Over anything."
The first part of dinner was cheerful.
Someone asked Tristan whether Rook had managed to steal anything from the hall. Tristan replied that the raven had already made off with a silver button, two pieces of ribbon, and a biscuit.
"He's developing expensive tastes," Clement remarked.
"He's developing a criminal career," Luxia said.
Mars looked pleased. "He's clever."
"He's a thief," Hugh called from farther down the table.
"Both can be true," Mars replied.
Laughter travelled along the benches.
The conversation gradually turned towards the family's business.
Clement was speaking with several of the older McArdours about the dragon ranches, the cost of maintaining enclosures, and the increasing demand for trained keepers.
"The new apprentices are doing better than expected," Clement said. "But we cannot keep expanding the breeding operation without expanding the training facilities."
"We could bring in more experienced keepers from abroad," one of his uncles suggested.
"And pay them what?" another uncle asked. "The last two we hired demanded more than some of our senior staff."
"They were experienced."
"They were expensive."
"They were experienced and expensive," the first uncle replied. "Those qualities are not mutually exclusive."
A few people laughed.
Mr Pritchard, seated near Clement, took a sip of his drink.
"Experienced keepers are worth the expense. A careless one can cost you a dragon, a building, or a person's life."
"Which is why we train our own," Clement said.
"Provided we give them enough time to learn," Mr Pritchard replied.
Mars listened closely. The adults were discussing matters he had heard before, but the scale of the business was beginning to make sense to him.
The McArdours were not simply a family with a collection of dragons. They were responsible for breeding, raising, transporting, and selling magical creatures, as well as maintaining the people and facilities required to do it safely.
A disagreement about a new enclosure could affect several branches of the family. A decision about hiring keepers could determine whether the ranches expanded or remained as they were.
And the money involved was apparently enough to make his relatives argue for an entire evening.
"How much would a new enclosure cost?" Mars asked.
Clement glanced at him.
"More than you have in your pockets."
"How much more?"
"Enough that you should finish your dinner before asking."
Mars looked down at his plate. "That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting," Clement said.
Cyrus quietly nudged a potato towards him.
"Ask again after pudding."
The discussion continued, shifting from hiring and expansion to the practicalities of transporting dragons. Clement explained that the Ministry had introduced another set of requirements for moving creatures between regions.
"They've revised the transport rules again," Clement said. "New declarations, duplicate records, another inspection process. We already document the condition of every creature and the precautions taken for its journey. Now they want the same information copied into three different forms."
"Are the new inspections useful?" Mr Pritchard asked.
"Some are," Clement replied. "I've no objection to a proper inspection. If a dragon is being transported, the Ministry ought to make sure it's handled safely. But making us repeat the same information in different formats doesn't make the journey safer."
One of Clement's uncles shook his head. "The people writing these rules have never had to move a dragon. They imagine you can treat one like a crate of glassware."
"Then perhaps we ought to invite them to watch a shipment," another relative suggested.
"Invite them?" Hugh said. "I'd like to see them try to get a dragon into a transport enclosure."
That earned a ripple of laughter.
Clement continued, "We can meet reasonable standards. We should meet them. But there's a difference between regulating a dangerous activity and burying it under paperwork. Every hour spent satisfying a pointless requirement is an hour our staff aren't spending on the creatures."
"Exactly," said his uncle. "And it's never just one rule. One department invents a form, another demands a different version, and then someone arrives to check that we've filled out both."
A relative who had been arguing with Clement over the cost of expansion leaned back in his chair.
"I still think you're spending too much on the new training grounds," he said. "But on this, I'm with you. The Ministry should stop confusing administrative fuss with actual safety."
"So you agree with me for once," Clement replied.
"Don't get used to it."
The table laughed again.
The disagreement over the training grounds resumed almost immediately. One branch wanted to expand at once; another preferred to wait until the next breeding season. They challenged Clement's figures, questioned the proposed timetable, and disputed which ranch should receive the first new facilities.
But when the Ministry's regulations came up again, the arguments fell away. They might disagree fiercely about how to run their business, yet they shared the conviction that the Ministry should not impose needless burdens on people doing difficult work.
Mars noticed the difference.
Within the family, an argument could go on for an hour over money, staffing, or the best place to build an enclosure. But when they believed an outsider was making their work harder without good reason, they closed ranks.
He wondered whether that was simply how families worked—or whether the McArdours had learned to be especially united because so much of their livelihood depended on one another.
As the meal continued, the conversation broadened into politics: the Ministry's authority, the regulation of magical creatures, and the way the wizarding world was governed.
An aunt complained that officials seemed increasingly interested in the affairs of old magical families.
"First they ask about creature licences. Then they ask about our properties. Next they'll want to know how many people live in every house on the estate."
"They already know how many people live in every house," someone pointed out.
"Then why do they keep asking?"
"Because the records are never up to date."
The conversation broke into several smaller arguments. Mars could not follow all of it. He understood enough to realise that the adults disagreed over how much authority the Ministry ought to have, but their earlier complaints had made one thing clear: they did not want rules imposed merely for the sake of having rules.
At one point, an aunt accused her brother of supporting a policy simply because it had been proposed by a man he disliked.
"I support the policy because it is sensible," he protested.
"You called it foolish last month."
"Last month I had not read the revised proposal."
"You said you would never read it."
"I changed my mind."
"Remarkable."
The table erupted in laughter.
Cyrus leaned closer to Mars.
"See? Family arguments."
"Do they always argue like this?"
"Usually."
"Does anyone ever win?"
"Sometimes. But the person who wins generally has to hear about it for the next ten years."
Mars decided that politics sounded exhausting.
Then the mood at the table shifted.
An uncle who had been listening quietly to the discussion set down his glass.
"Speaking of the Ministry," he said, "has anyone heard anything more about the Potter matter?"
The laughter faded.
Mars noticed Clement's expression change. It was subtle, but his father had become more attentive.
"What matter?" another relative asked.
"The child," the uncle replied. "The one who survived the attack at Godric's Hollow."
A hush settled over the table.
It had been four years since the incident.
Mars knew the broad outline. A dark wizard had attacked a family in Godric's Hollow. The parents had died, but their child had survived. The attack had ended the dark wizard's reign, or so the public believed.
He had never heard the adults discuss it at such close quarters.
"Is there any news?" Clement asked.
"Not that I have heard," the uncle replied. "The Ministry continues to insist that the child is safe."
"Safe from whom?" someone asked.
"From whatever remains of the people who followed the attacker."
"Are there any?"
"That is what nobody seems able to establish."
Another uncle frowned.
"Four years, and still the Ministry tells us almost nothing."
"Perhaps there is nothing to tell," Luxia said quietly.
"Perhaps," the man replied. "But the entire affair has left the wizarding world unsettled."
Mars looked from one adult to another.
Nobody spoke the child's name. Nobody even said whether the child was a boy or a girl.
But the subject had changed the atmosphere of the meal.
The uncle continued, "I only hope the child is being raised somewhere peaceful. Whatever happened, it cannot have been an easy beginning."
For a moment, no one answered.
Then Mars heard his great-uncle Edmund clear his throat.
"Well," Edmund said, lifting his glass, "if we are determined to spend the evening discussing grim matters, I suggest we do so after the pudding. There is a perfectly good roast in front of us, and I refuse to let the Ministry ruin it."
A few people smiled.
"Besides," Edmund continued, "we have something rather more important to discuss."
Clement glanced at him.
"What is that?"
Edmund looked towards the younger members of the family.
"The Mithraic initiation."
The Initiation
The conversation quieted again, but this time with curiosity rather than unease.
Mars had heard the term before. He knew that the McArdours maintained old family traditions connected to Mithras, and that certain ceremonies marked the passage from childhood into the responsibilities of the wider family.
He did not know exactly what the initiation involved.
Edmund folded his hands on the table.
"Some of the children are approaching the age when they should begin preparing for it," he said. "We have delayed long enough."
One of the older women nodded.
"The initiation should not be treated as a mere celebration. It is a commitment."
"Of course," Edmund replied. "But a commitment must begin somewhere. The children should learn what it means before the ceremony itself."
Clement considered the matter.
"I agree. They should understand the traditions, the obligations, and the history behind them. It would be wrong to expect them to take part without knowing what they are promising."
Another relative added, "And it should be done together. The different branches ought to send their children at the same time."
"That would be preferable," Edmund said. "The family has always been stronger when its members understand that they belong to something larger than their own household."
Mars glanced at Cyrus.
"Have you done it?" he whispered.
Cyrus nodded.
"Yes."
"What was it like?"
"I'll tell you later."
"Why later?"
"Because your great-uncle is still talking."
At the head of the table, Edmund was explaining that the preparations would begin after the Solstice. The younger children would be taught the history of the tradition, its symbols, and the duties associated with the initiation.
The ceremony itself would take place when the family elders considered them ready.
There was no argument.
One by one, the adults agreed.
Mars did not fully understand what he was being asked to prepare for, but the seriousness of the discussion made him sit a little straighter.
For the first time that evening, he felt that the family had something planned for him that was not simply another lesson or another visit to the ranch.
He wondered what Cyrus would tell hiM
Dinner eventually ended, though nobody seemed particularly eager to leave the hall.
The younger cousins escaped first.
Cyrus, Mars, Adrian, and Julian slipped through the side doors into the cool evening air. The estate grounds were lit by lanterns, and the winter sky stretched dark above the distant paddocks.
"Now," Mars said, turning to Cyrus, "you promised."
"I promised to ask whether your parents would allow it," Cyrus replied.
Mars groaned.
"That's not the same thing."
"It is when you're six."
"I'm seven."
"That is a very impressive difference," Adrian said solemnly.
Julian laughed.
Tristan appeared behind them, carrying a broom.
"Going somewhere?"
Mars stared at the broom.
"Is that yours?"
"One of them," Tristan replied.
"Can we fly?"
Tristan looked at Cyrus.
"Has he flown before?"
"No," Cyrus answered.
"Then we're not going far."
Mars practically bounced on his feet.
Tristan held the broom out, then drew it back when Mars reached for it.
"First, you listen. Flying is fun, but it is not something you learn by grabbing a broom and hoping for the best."
Mars nodded quickly.
"Understood."
"Good. And we stay low, we stay close, and we take turns. No showing off."
Adrian raised his hand.
"What if someone shows off accidentally?"
"Then he gets to walk back," Tristan replied.
Julian snorted.
Cyrus helped Mars settle onto the broom. Tristan kept a steady hand on the handle while explaining how to balance and how to give the broom a gentle command.
Mars's fingers tightened around the wood.
"Ready?" Cyrus asked.
Mars swallowed.
"Ready."
The broom rose a little.
Mars's feet left the ground.
His eyes widened.
"I'm flying!"
"You're hovering," Tristan corrected. "Let's begin with that."
Mars let out a delighted laugh.
The broom drifted forward, barely faster than a walking pace. Tristan guided him across the open patch of grass, keeping close enough to catch him if he lost his balance.
The first attempt lasted only a few seconds.
The second lasted longer.
On the third, Mars managed to move forward without Tristan holding the broom.
He wobbled, tilted too far, and landed in a soft heap of grass.
Adrian burst out laughing.
"That was brilliant!"
"It was not brilliant!" Mars protested, scrambling to his feet.
"You flew for almost ten feet."
"Then I fell."
"That's part of flying," Tristan said.
"Is it?"
"Not usually, if you learn properly."
Cyrus offered him a hand.
"Want to try again?"
Mars took it immediately.
"Yes."
This time, he managed to keep the broom steady for several seconds. He rose just high enough to see over the nearby hedge, then came down with a triumphant grin.
Julian clapped.
"Look at him! He's actually doing it!"
"I told you I could," Mars said.
"You told us you understood how brooms worked," Adrian replied. "You never said you could ride one."
Mars grinned.
"I understand them better now."
Tristan leaned against the broom he had been holding.
"There's another thing you ought to know about flying."
Mars turned towards him.
"What?"
"Flying is not just about getting from one place to another. There's a whole sport built around it."
"A sport?"
"Quidditch," Cyrus said.
Mars had heard the name, but only in passing.
Tristan began explaining the game: the teams, the different positions, the balls, and the hoops suspended high above the pitch.
Mars listened with growing fascination.
"People fly around chasing balls?"
"Among other things," Tristan replied.
"And they score by throwing them through hoops?"
"That's one way of putting it."
"That sounds ridiculous."
"Wait until you see a match," Cyrus said.
Adrian folded his arms.
"I think I would be a good Chaser."
"You think you'd be good at everything," Julian said.
"Because I am."
"You lost at chess yesterday."
"Chess has nothing to do with flying."
"Neither does your ability to talk."
Cyrus laughed.
Mars was still looking at the broom.
"Could I play Quidditch one day?"
"Certainly," Tristan said. "But first, you should learn to stay on the broom."
"I can do that."
"You fell off three times."
"Twice."
"Three."
"The last one was landing."
"Landing on your face is still landing," Adrian said.
Mars threw a handful of grass at him.
Adrian dodged, and Julian retaliated with another handful.
Within moments, the four boys were laughing and chasing one another across the lawn, while Tristan called after them to keep away from the hedges.
Mars ran beneath the lanterns, his cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement.
He had come to the hall expecting to meet relatives, listen to grown-ups talk, and perhaps learn a little more about Cyrus's school.
Instead, he had taken his first flight.
It had been brief, clumsy, and nothing like the soaring journeys he imagined when he drew his flying machines.
But it had been real.
And as he looked up at the winter sky, Mars knew he would remember the evening for a very long time.