He studied me curiously. "Is that how you addressed your previous headmaster?" he asked.

I remembered how I used to tremble when faced with the headmistress of my old school. "No," I chuckled.

"Good, because it's not how you'll address me either. I'm no tyrant, but I don't stand for backchat. Speak respectfully when you talk to me, and add a 'sir' at the end. Got that?"

I took a deep breath. "Yes." A pause. "Sir."

"Better," he grunted, then invited me to sit. Opening a drawer, he found a file and perused it in silence. "Good grades," he said after a couple of minutes, laying it aside. "If you can match those here, we won't complain."

"I'll do my best. Sir."

"That's all we ask." Mr. Chivers was studying my face, fascinated by my scars and burn-marks. "You've had a rough ride, haven't you?" he remarked. "Must be horrible to be trapped in a burning building."

"Yes, sir." That was in the report Mr. Blaws had shown me — according to the forms my 'father' submitted, I'd been badly burnt in a house fire when I was twelve.

"Still, all's well that ends well! You're alive and active, and anything else is a bonus." Standing, he put the file away, checked the front of his suit — there were traces of egg and toast crumbs on his tie and shirt, which he picked at — then made for the door, telling me to follow.

Mr. Chivers led me on a quick tour of the school, pointing out the computer rooms, assembly hall, gymnasium and the main classrooms. The school used to be a music academy, hence its name (Mahler was a famous composer), but had closed down twenty years earlier, before reopening as a regular school.

"We still place a lot of emphasis on musical excellence," Mr. Chivers told me as we checked out a large room with half a dozen pianos. "Do you play any instruments?"

"The flute," I said.

"A flautist! Superb! We haven't had a decent flautist since Siobhan Toner graduated three — or was it four? — years ago. We'll have to try you out, see what you're made of, eh?"