Crispin’s mother lapped up every story we had to tell about her son and our exploits to date. She seemed particularly interested in the goings-on at the Avium and how Crispin had been viewed by the professors.

“The imposter called himself Odwald Ebonheart,” I said dramatically once we were safely behind the closed doors of Dean Windsworth’s office.

“Well, I guess he got away.”

I groaned, feeling the ache and strain of fighting hit me all at once as I calmed down from my battle fury.

“It’s time to see how high this conspiracy goes,” I said, waving Dean Windsworth’s letter to Mordane Swiftgale.

“Wait, you’re saying he’s not dead?” Professor Larry Leechwood stopped pouring the green fluid into Crispin’s mouth. “Because I have no idea what this is going to do to him if he’s alive.”