text: Within minutes the students were back in their seats, stomping and whistling and clapping until their hands hurt. The magisters let them celebrate, and even Magister Beechvale found himself tapping his foot in rhythm to the applause.
  
  But at last the cheers began to subside, and Magister Hickory strode up to the stage, his hair standing about his head like a red-gold lion's mane. A tall woman greeted him. She was dressed in flowing white robes, and her dark hair cascaded down either side of a heart-shaped face.
  
  Thornmallow recognized her at once: Magister Dr. Morning Glory. Dr. Mo.
  
  Magister Hickory picked up one end of the shattered staff, and Dr. Morning Glory picked up the other. When they placed the two halves together, the entire assembly arose and began cheering madly again. But the cheering stopped when it was clear that the two halves were not sticking together.
  
  Dr. Morning Glory raised her hand, and the room was immediately still. "Young Thornswallow, you who saved Wizard's Hall," she called out. "Come up here to us."
  
  Shyly, Thornmallow stood. He had to push his way through several of his friends before marching proudly up the stairs. This time he didn't stumble. All the while, the students below the stage were calling, "Thorn-ny! Thorn-ny! Thorn-ny!"
  
  When he reached the top step, Dr. Morning Glory held her hand up again for silence, then once more placed her end of the staff against Magister Hickory's.
  
  "Now, my boy," she said, her voice as lilting as a song, "come and put your hands on top of the stick, but do not touch our hands."
  
  Thornmallow did as he was told, and all at once a glow encased the staff, moving up and down the stick, healing the break even as they watched.
  
  "Now, child, take your hands away," whispered Dr. Morning Glory.
  
  He did—and was amazed. The staff held together.
  
  Dr. Morning Glory raised the staff above her head so that all the hall might see.
  
  "That's wandy!" cried out a third-year student, and they all clapped.
  
  "I don't understand," Thornmallow mumbled. "Do I have a talent for magic—or don't I?"
  
  She smiled at him but then looked past him and spoke to the entire room. "Thornpower asks if he has a talent for magic." She smiled slowly and shook her head. "He does not. At least, he does not have a talent for enchantment. His talent is far greater. He has a talent for enhancement. He can make any spell someone else works even greater simply by trying."
  
  Slowly Dr. Morning Glory lowered the staff and handed it to Magister Hickory. "Alone he is only an ordinary boy, the kind who makes our farms run and our roads smooth, who builds our houses and fights our wars. But when he touches wizards he trusts and admires—or their staffs—he makes their good magicks better. When he touches wizards he hates and fears, he turns their own evil magicks against them."
  
  She turned and spoke to Magister Hickory, but her voice had such power, everyone could hear her. "We magisters—in our pride—thought we understood the dark magic that was at work. We were given the rhyme by Nettle:
  
   Ever on the quilting goes,
  
   Spinning out the lives between,
  
   Winding up the souls of those
  
   Students up to one-thirteen.
  
  And we read it thinking we needed one hundred and thirteen students here at the Hall. But we didn't need all one hundred and thirteen. We needed just the one. The final one. The enhancer. The one who would really really try."
  
  There was a sudden whispering throughout the room, and Dr. Morning Glory let it go on for a while before silencing it.
  
  "My fellow wizards," she began again. "My dear students, my colleagues, my friends: every community needs its enhancers. Even more than it needs its enchanters. They are the ones who appreciate us and understand us and even save us from ourselves."
  
  She put her hands on Thornmallow's shoulder, and all at once he could feel the stinging in his ears again.
  
  As if she felt the pain herself, Dr. Morning Glory leaned over so that her mouth was close to his left ear. "You will always have that pain, child," she whispered, "whenever a wizard touches you. The stinging nettle hairs are embedded deep. But the pain will remind you of your strength, of what you have done, of what you can do—if you truly try."
  
  He looked over his shoulder at her, and it was suddenly as if he were staring at his own dear ma.
  
  "Can I stay?" he asked. "Here at Wizard's Hall? Even if I am not an enchanter?"
  
  "It may often be painful."
  
  "I don't care about that."
  
  She smiled and pulled a white handkerchief embroidered with the letters MG from the air. Carefully, gently, she rubbed a spot on his nose. "Of course you can stay. We couldn't do without you, Thornbarrow."
  
  "Thornmallow," he said. Then he looked back at the cheering crowd. Ears burning, he waved his hands triumphantly, feeling nicely prickly on the outside and—if truth be known—fairly squishy within.