It's harder than I thought it would be to write letters to my friends. While I have plenty to say, a lot of it consists of things that shouldn't be written down, especially when I know my mail is being monitored.

I write fairly generic letters to Elsie and Elizabeth, describing the decorating trip and saying I've been enjoying finally getting to relax, hoping they're enjoying their holidays and get to celebrate Holy Days in the way they want. Then I pause, considering whether to send Robin a similar missive. I haven't had a chance to speak to her since finding out she was attempting to spy on Edward for her family, and nor have I sorted through my feelings about that.

It would be disloyal to Edward – and potentially put him at risk – if I stayed friends with her. But… I can't hate her for it. She had understandable reasons. I just want to have an honest conversation with her, one without Edward's black-and-white viewpoint getting in the way.

Which is another thing that can't be done by letter. And the impression that a letter filled with pleasant small talk would give is that I want to move on and pretend it didn't happen. So, awful though it makes me feel, I shouldn't write to her.

I'm just about to start the letter to Edward when my grandmother informs us that dinner is ready. So I reluctantly set my quill aside and head into the kitchen.

It turns out that she's an excellent cook. She's made roast chicken with potatoes. Normally I'd find that bland, but the way she's cooked it and whatever spices she's added make it full of flavour. My dad asks her for the recipe, which she provides.

I escape as soon as is socially acceptable and get on with writing to Edward. It's mostly the same as what I sent to the others, although I go into less detail about the decorations and more about the magical theory.

I'm not sure if his reply will reach me before the Day of Gifts, so I can't rely on getting the help I need from him, but I ask about enchanted light regardless. I can always work on it myself in the meantime, or go to the – no, I can't consult the library, it'll be closed for Holy Days. So I'm more reliant on Edward's help than I thought.

I check over all three letters, then seal them in envelopes and address them. Normally my dad would add them to Roberts and Bryant's outgoing mail, but that's not an option when the office is also closed. So I'll have to go to the post office myself. And it's best to do that straight away if I want to make sure they're sent tomorrow morning.

"I'm going to send some letters," I say to my dad. "Is there anything you'd like me to do while I'm out?"

My dad glances up from his book. "No – not that I can think of. Just – be careful, okay?"

It's hard not to point out that I've done far more dangerous things than going to post some letters at eight after noon, but I successfully keep my mouth shut about that. "I'll be fine."

I am fine. I was half-expecting to encounter Lauren again or to run into someone more dangerous than her, but nothing of the sort happens. The post office is closed for the night, so I just push the letters into the box built into the wall and don't have to worry about the postal worker seeing the name Blackthorn in the address.

Then it's just a case of making it back. The night is thankfully quiet, so that's not difficult, and I'm soon back inside, wriggling out of my coat and dismissing my warming-spell. My dad is relieved to see me back safely, though he doesn't say it in as many words.

I convince myself that it's too late to do much work after that. Besides, I'm enjoying the cosy feeling of having just come in from the cold, and a hot drink and a history book seem like the perfect way to add to that. Though I don't stay up reading as long as I'd like to: we're planning to attend the dawn service to mark the beginning of Holy Days tomorrow, and that means an early start if we want time to wash and breakfast first. So it's just gone nine after noon when I reluctantly set my book down and wrap myself in blankets for the night.

I wake at six and thirty after midnight on the Ship's Day. The Ship symbolises voyages, beginnings and endings. Its day is a time for celebrating the achievements of the old year and looking forward to new challenges ahead. I have very mixed feelings about both of those things, but I can pay lip service to the ideas if I have to.

It doesn't feel like a special morning at first, except that we eat breakfast earlier than normal. But getting ready to leave the house before the sun rises, my grandmother fetching the unlit candle from its place on the mantlepiece, it takes on the feeling that a Holy Day should.

That only intensifies as we leave, and as we see many more families filling the streets despite the early hour. All of us going in the same direction. I'm not used to feeling as if I'm part of something larger than myself, and it's strange.

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The temple is crowded. Not a surprise, when nearly everyone living within the nearest mile is there or on the way. Its interior is ring-shaped, with six circular rows of stone seats ascending from the altar and an outer row of wooden benches that are clearly there to accommodate the unusually large numbers. We're early enough that we can get seats on the fourth row, but some unlucky latecomers are forced to perch in the gaps between the seats and move aside to let others past.

By the time the service is ready to begin, the temple feels distinctly claustrophobic, and I'm having to deliberately calm my breathing and stop my mind from thinking of all the bad things that could come of packing so many people into one place.

The bottom row of seats is reserved for the priesthood. There can't be more than half a dozen staff associated with this temple, but it's usual for those in the monasteries to attend Holy Days services in the community, so I assume most of them are monks. It's slightly eerie to see so many of their deep black robes in one place.

A woman sitting in the bottom row gets to her feet and steps forwards until she stands directly besides the altar, facing away from it towards the part of the congregation opposite us and to the right. Then a man sitting almost directly below us does the same, turning to look up at us. I wonder for a second if he looks at me directly, but dismiss the thought. And another woman rises, facing to our left.

Silence falls, broken only by the occasional cough or shuffling of feet.

"I am Sister Millicent," says the woman who first rose. "Priestess-In-Residence of this temple."

If I'm remembering my religious hierarchies correctly, that means she's in charge of the temple here, and responsible for leading its services.

"I am Brother Eustace," the man says. "Senior Priest-Instructor of the Creltin Monastery."

"I am Sister Zara," says the second woman. She sounds a little quieter, less confident, than the others. "Novitiate-Priestess at the Creltin Monastery."

So notably lower ranking than the other two, maybe even new to the priesthood. That explains her slight nervousness. I vaguely recall that it's normal when multiple priests give a service for one of them to be junior.

"In the names of the stars," all three say in perfect unison, "we greet you and thank you for coming."

I'm startled by three voices suddenly speaking as one. I wonder how much time they spend learning how to do that.

"As the year draws to a close," says Sister Millicent, "we mourn its passing."

"And so too do we mourn those who left us for higher paths this year," Brother Eustace continues.

Higher paths. Closer to the stars. A poetic euphemism for death.

"They are closer to starlight now, but we still regret their passing," says Sister Zara.

"And we remember them," say all three priests.

"Roberta Ames."

"Lia Anders."

"Matthew Anderson."

They continue in sequence and alphabetical order. They must be listing everyone who belonged to this congregation and died this year. I don't remember that happening before, but I suppose it must have done. And though I don't know any of the names I hear, I can't help but feel moved. There's the occasional choked gasp from around the congregation, presumably from someone who was close to one of the names.

Finally, Brother Eustace says the last name ("Luke Yarrow"), and it's left to Sister Zara to conclude: "Though the years move on, and so do we, we will not forget them."

"We will not forget them." It's not just the three priests that echo those words, but the whole congregation (me not included, because no-one gave me a script). The sound is startlingly loud, and I have to fight not to instinctively protect my ears. It's a powerful moment.

Then, silence. After a minute or so I start to wonder if something is wrong, and what we're waiting for.

And then, a single ray of light enters through the ceiling. The first sunlight of the new day.

"Behold," say the three priests.

"The sun rises."

"It is a new day."

"It is a Holy Day."

"It is the Ship's Day," say all three of them at once.

Thankfully, that's the last of the speaking in unison for the time being. The two monks sit down, leaving only Sister Millicent to talk.

"Beginnings," she says, "and endings. That is what the Ship's Day symbolises: as some ships come home to harbour, others set out onto the high seas. Though we may regret what has come to an end in the past year, we can look ahead to new opportunities."

A more usual sermon, then, themed around the symbolism of the constellation. It feels less intense than the ritualism of before. I let the words wash over me, trying to resist the temptation to apply them to my own life and ignore the encouragement to reflect on what I've achieved this year.

My life has changed beyond all recognition in the last four months. It feels silly to be proud of how I did in the summer exams at Genford when those grades are now so meaningless. I'm alive and I'm not mala sia and I know a little magic. My dad and I understand each other a little better. I've made friends, proper friends, who I care about and who care about me.

I don't know if those count as achievements. I certainly doubt they're what Sister Millicent has in mind.

And I'm already lost in my own thoughts, only half-listening. I force myself to pay her my full attention. She's talking about regrets now, about mistakes made and opportunities missed. That, I refuse to dwell on. There's a short prayer, asking the stars to grant us second chances in the coming year. I imagine even the stars couldn't make me stop being Malaina and give me the chance to avert my Fall.

I'm not sure I would take that chance, if it were offered.

Though maybe what happened after my Fall has been my second chance. Having the chance to make new friends, and repair my relationship with my dad, and finally get to know my grandmother.

I like that way of thinking about it. Because even if I failed so spectacularly the first time round, that doesn't have to define me.

Sister Millicent changes her topic to the future, and the unknown. The ship setting sail on a voyage to distant lands is an apt metaphor: who knows if it will reach its destination or be swept away by storms? And who knows whether the voyage we make might turn out to be better than the one we planned to make?

This is probably my biggest disagreement with Temple doctrine. The idea that everything occurs according to the stars' plans, everything happens for a reason. It just doesn't make sense to me, how there could be so much tragedy and injustice in a world ruled by divine powers. It's not like there was some grand cosmic plan behind my Fall –

Oh, stars, there might well be.

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