With just two days left before their departure for Grovewell—and into the Primordium—Lucian and Leon found their nerves weren’t the only things wearing thin. The house felt wrong these past days. Father and Uncle Fletcher should be arriving back from York any day now, and a tight, quiet anticipation clung to everything and everyone—so much so that even the servants kept their voices low and their faces pinched. Mother was deadly worried about Father and even Lewis seemed more tired and mindful than usual. Still walking around with their magus straps around their waist made Lucian feel special even though he worried about anyone catching a glimpse of it.

  That noon, Lucian and Leon found themselves being hushed to the schoolroom by Martha Cromwell—a middle-aged woman—her chest thrust forward, lips pursed, the familiar jangle of keys at her waist. She moved with a stiff, careful gait, like one of those praying mantises, about to attack but never daring to.

  ‘Lively now, get in then,’ she said as they arrived. The schoolroom sat just across the hallway on the first floor, wedged tight between the linen closet and the library. As soon as they stepped in, she barked at them.

  ‘Sit yerselfs. No dawdlin’.’

  She went straight to the oak table, lining up copies of William Lily’s Latin Grammar and sorting inkpots into neat rows. ‘Reverend’s gon’ test ye lads. Sharp and lively ye must be, ready for the masters at the King’s academy. No blunders in your Latin. Mark me.’

  ‘Right then, lads,’ Martha said as she dropped the grammar book in front of them. ‘Amo, amas, amat, clean through. Keep yer endings straight, else Reverend Ainsworth’ll rap yer knuckles for muddle-headed Latin. Now—begin. I’ll be downstairs.’ Martha reached the door, brushing invisible dust from her bleached uniform. ‘If I come back and find so much as a whisper out o’ place… Remember: amo. To love.’

  The latch clicked. The jingle of her keys faded down the hall.

  Lucian rose and pushed open the high window. Warm air swept in from the yard, carrying a faint smell of hay and cooking, but it did little to settle him. He turned to the narrow tables in the centre of the cramped room and stared. Leon had set his Primordium letter over his grammar book and was staring at it without blinking.

  Lucian dropped back onto the oak stool. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘Luce… How d’they work? Your tricks, I mean. How d’you make ’em happen?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can’t,’ Leon said, colour rising in his cheeks. ‘I’ve… I’ve been trying, but—’ His shoulders slumped. ‘Truth be told, I liked the magic very much. I did. What Barlow and Hewitt did. It was… wondrous, same as your tricks, Luce. And I want to do it too. I just… I don’t know how. It won’t work for me. Not even the candle trick. The wick won’t burn.’

  ‘Why would you want it to?’ Lucian said, sharp. ‘I thought only ill-made folk can do tricks.’

  ‘Nay, Luce,’ Leon said, blinking hard as his eyes started to glisten. ‘I already said I was sorry, haven’t I? I didn’t mean it. It—it just slipped out. I’d sooner be ill-made than just a plain lad.’

  ‘All right.’ Lucian’s anger held for a breath, then thinned. Leon looked stricken proper. ‘To speak plain. I don’t understand my tricks at all. Most times I don’t feel it till it’s already begun. When I’m angry, I feel something building—mostly when Lewie’s at me, or when they make me eat those foul eggs.’ He grimaced at the memory. ‘Then it just spills out before I’ve a chance to stop it.’

  ‘I’ve never felt anything,’ Leon said quietly. ‘Never, no matter how hard I try.’

  ‘Mayhap you’re trying too hard. I’ve tried to call my tricks on purpose, and they hardly come, see? And truth be told… when they do, it feels… good. Too good. I can’t set it down proper. Only that it’s so good that when it stops—’ He faltered. ‘Well. More often than not I go dizzy and light-headed. Sometimes for hours, like all the wind’s gone out of me. Hollow inside. Wishing I could do it again. That morning at the riverbank, it wore me out. I was tired for days after.’

  ‘I—I hadn’t marked… Not proper’ Leon hesitated, opening and closing his mouth once or twice before he spoke again. ‘I… I still reckon Barlow’s mistaken. But he said magic answers to feeling and will, didn’t he? What if… what if we steal out and try it by the riverbank again?’

  No sooner had Lucian heard it than he shook his head.

  ‘Nay. I won’t risk it any more. Not till I learn how to hold it. And that hound… I reckon it’s still out there, waiting for my tricks to flare up again.’

  Leon frowned. ‘You reckon the hound wants your tricks?’

  Lucian had kept too much of that day close, locked away even from Leon. The memory of that burning pair of eyes pressed at the back of his mind like a thumb on a bruise. The way the hound had watched him. The way Lucian had known its intentions. Mayhap he could trust his brother. Leon did just bring his fears to him.

  Besides, they were both magi.

  ‘Well… It didn’t appear by chance and I could feel pieces of its mind. Clear as any thought of my own. It came for me. Scented my tricks, it did. And since that day… there’s something else. A presence, like… Someone’s… Looming about, quiet but there.’

  Leon shuddered.

  ‘Reckon it’s the hound, then? Trying to get to us?’

  ‘Nothing else fits.’ They went quiet.

  ‘D’you still reckon that hound’s the Black Shuck of Mr Birch’s drawing?’

  Lucian shrugged. ‘Lukey must finish his reading first. We could ask Uncle Fletcher once he’s back. Maybe he’d know more.’

  Leon let out a soft huff. ‘Hewitt and Barlow did warn us, didn’t they? Some evil thing. In the woods, looming about. Why didn’t you want tot tell ’em about the hound?’

  Lucian could still feel the sting of his tricks being snuffed, the way Mr Barlow had looked at him as if he were a problem to be handled.

  ‘Because I didn’t trust either of them, Barlow and Allerton—dangerous, they are.’

  ‘You reckon Barlow spoke truth, then? These magi folk, or townfolk, they’ll hunt us if we break the secrecy laws?’

  ‘Would you rather chance it? Barlow threatened us. That’s what that was. A threat. He doesn’t care about us. Seeing that hound, knowing what it wanted… that might be reason enough for him. Nay. Best we keep quiet. Heads down, for now.’

  ‘Mayhap you’re right. If I only could do a bit of it. A trick. Just once...’

  ‘You know what?’ said Lucian, standing up. ‘I’m not going to spend my last days in the estate shut in this room.’ He marched towards the door and opened it. He looked back at Leon. ‘Are you coming or not?’

  *

  Lucian and Leon sat under the furthest apple tree in the back garden, tucked behind the hedge, for more than an hour—no one came looking till now. Reverend Ainsworth must have arrived.

  Leon let out a laugh first, and Lucian couldn’t help but follow, the sound too loud in the stillness as he pictured the Reverend’s face when he found them gone. Hours upon hours of Latin, and lessons on how to mind their tongues and manners under the watchful eyes of the King’s men—missed, clean missed.

  Only… if the Reverend knew where they were really going…

  Lucian knelt in the grass, his copybook open on his knee, sketching the long legs of a nearby grasshopper. Across from him, Leon sat cross-legged, brow furrowed, glaring at a small stone. He lifted his hands and waved them about like a street juggler.

  The grasshopper sprang away and Lucian groaned.

  ‘I was about to finish it.’ He looked up at Leon. ‘What’s you playing at’

  ‘Trying to make it jump, I am,’ Leon grunted. ‘Maybe if I had a relic like Barlow’s or Hewitt’s, it’d move proper.’

  ‘Mayhap,’ Lucian said. He slid his little paper book carefully into his pouch, tucking it beside the Primordium letter and the penknife so the corners would not crumple.

  ‘Ey, Luce, can you do it?’ said Leon, eyes bright. ‘Go on—give it a try, will you? There’s no one about.’

  Lucian hesitated. His gaze swept the garden—the kitchen wall, the hedge, the empty path. Only a couple of hens scratched and pecked near the trees. No one in sight.

  ‘It… actually sounds rather good fun,’ he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. ‘All right, then.’

  If he could light the candle—and he’d managed it more than once by now—he’d manage to make that little pebble move. He pointed a finger at the stone and fixed his thoughts on it, willing it to move, just a little.

  Nothing.

  He tried again, two fingers pointing. But it didn’t move. On the third attempt, a gentle heatwave passed through him. The stone gave a faint twitch, scraped over the grass, and lifted, wobbling in the air above Leon’s knee.

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  ‘Look at that!’ Leon sprang up with a shout of laughter, hopping from foot to foot. ‘You’ve got it, Luce!’

  The hens scattered with startled clucks, wings half-spread, as if someone had stepped into the garden after them. The hairs at the back of Lucian’s neck rose. Something unseen was drawing near.

  Lucian sprang to his feet. The floating stone dipped once, then flew straight upwards—fast as a flung sling-bullet—and vanished into the bright sky.

  ‘Why’d you do that?’ Leon cried, staring after it. ‘Now I want to see where it’s gone!’

  ‘I… I didn’t. Something’s coming. The presence! It’s coming.’

  ‘What? Where?’ Leon edged back until his shoulder pressed into Lucian’s.

  Lucian’s eyes went wide—as if a thin veil was peeled back. He looked over the hedge, across the garden, and up to the house. There, just by one of the chimneys, a circle—like a soap bubble—hovered in the air.

  Lucian tensed, ready to bolt for the hedgerow—when loud footsteps pattered along the side of the manor.

  ‘It’s only Tess,’ said Leon, letting out a breath as their sister burst into view, cheeks flushed, her red shawl slipped crooked down one arm. Lucian looked up again—the hovering sphere was gone.

  ‘Knew you lads were here,’ Tess panted. ‘Royal carriage… coming up the lane. Ma’s in a state. Says you’re to meet her in the parlour. Go on now. Hurry, hurry.’

  Lucian and Leon snatched up their practical gifts and dashed for the kitchen door. They squeezed past Martha as she walked into the back garden, brows drawn but her eyes weren’t fixed on them but far away in the sky as though looking for something she’d lost.

  Auntie Browne caught them on the back stair and all but herded them into the passage chamber. She dragged cleaner shirts and better doublets from the chest, tugging at collars and sleeves until they sat straight.

  *

  When they entered the parlour, Mr Barlow and Mr Allerton were already there with Mother and Lawrie. The room smelt strongly of spiced wine and ale—two cups and a half-emptied jug sat on the sideboard.

  Mr Barlow drew a folded piece of parchment from his coat. Its tail was sealed with a heavy lump of dark red wax, stamped deep with the King’s arms.

  ‘This is the official warrant for the lads. It arrived this very morning from London,’ he said, and his smile had no warmth in it.

  Lucian’s stomach dropped clean away. It was official now—set in ink and wax—nowhere to run, like Hewitt’s marble chamber.

  No doors.

  No escape.

  ‘Will you call upon Mr Daiwik? He must set his hand to it.’

  ‘We are terribly sorry… Mr Barlow… but… Fa…’ Lawrie’s voice faltered into silence. He and Mother stood frozen.

  Lucian’s gaze snapped to Barlow’s hand. The magus’s palm lay open over his pocketbook—greenish threads of light trailed from the page to his skin, weaving and unweaving like Mother’s knitting yarn.

  ‘Lads—before we speak with your father. Sage Hewitt has spoken well of you, and I am glad to say you will be a welcome fit for the Primordium,’ Mr Barlow said, then his tone changed. ‘And I’ve brought word meant for your ears alone, young novices. At the last new moon, the Concordium of Grovewell granted me leave—conditional—to raise wards about Leeds, to set the town apart from the woods. It took us, and a coven of ward-magi, three nights running to finish the casting. Leeds is safe—for now.’

  His gaze moved between them, and his mouth tightened into a frown.

  ‘Well. There is one more thing. The dark force is still present about your grounds. It is set to do you and yours harm. That much is plain.’

  ‘Leeds is safe, but we’re not, then?’ Lucian said, the words thick with anger.

  ‘You are. You are,’ Barlow said with a wave of his hand. ‘I know you lads must be frightened, but there’s naught to fret over. We’ve marked only small hexes—little harm in them, if any, save some misfortune stretched over days—cast across the grounds of your estate. We’ll be rid of them soon enough.’

  ‘The hens!’ Leon said, too loud. ‘They’re not laying eggs anymore—they’re laying stones. Is it because of these hexes? I thought it might’ve been Lucian’s tricks.’

  ‘Aye.’ said Lucian. ‘At first I thought it too. But I haven’t been near the coop in weeks.’

  ‘I see,’ Barlow put in simply.

  ‘It weren’t me!’ said Lucian. He couldn’t bear the weight of that look—like he had done it on purpose, like he had crept out in the night and laid a curse with his own hands to harm his own family. ‘I didn’t feel sick, dizzy, nor tired. None of the signs my tricks leave after.’

  ‘Aye. It is most unlikely your surges could cast a hex,’ He held his palm towards them, and the pocketbook floated above it. ‘You are casting through your own life force, not through a proper channel—like my relic here—to guide the magic. That’s why your surges leave a mark on you and wear you thin. An imbalance of sorts.’

  ‘When will we get a relic, sir?’ said Leon, politely.

  ‘Soon enough. Nonetheless, I have also drafted a ‘ in response to the recent manifestations, foreign influence, and their proximity to the nullkins at your estate. This force presents an unacceptable risk of breach to the Secrecy Law itself.’

  Behind Mr Barlow, Mr Allerton moved. He stepped out of the shadowed edge of the room, still very pale and sickly, as if the air itself wore him down.

  ‘To assure your safety, I shall accompany you on the royal coach to Temple Newsam and back.’

  Mr Barlow’s smile returned, smooth as if nothing were amiss.

  ‘So. How are you lads feeling?’

  ‘Fine, sir,’ Leon said. ‘I— Sir. Only… I’m not sure I belong…’

  ‘Not to worry. Not to worry. You were named for it, boy. You are a magus. And you, Master Lucian?’

  Lucian’s reaction came faster than the thought.

  ‘I do not want to go,’ his voice was firm, and he held Mr Barlow’s gaze without blinking. ‘Not to Temple Newsam. Not to Grovewell. Better I stay here and hide my tricks.’

  Mr Allerton took a deep breath, inflating like a frog about to croak and stepped toward Lucian, but Mr Barlow stopped him.

  ‘No. Not necessary. Listen to me, lad.’ Barlow’s voice lost what little softness it had. ‘If you are not on that coach, I will have no choice. You shall be held a criminal under magi law—locked away for good. I will see to it that no one in Leeds remembers you ever walked these streets. Not your father. Not your mother. Not even Leon.’

  Lucian only nodded—but a fury he’d never felt before overtook him—and he marked, clear as day, how much he hated the man.

  ‘Very well. I warned you of the secrecy of our world. Take heed, and make your peace with the thought of leaving, for leave you must.’ He straightened. ‘Now. I must see to it that your father and your mother set their hands to the warrant, so the takes effect.’

  Lucian and Leon exchanged a troubled look and Barlow frowned at them.

  ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Barlow,’ said Leon. ‘Lawrie tried to tell you, but I’m afraid Father won’t be joining us. He’s away in business for the next couple of days, see?’

  ‘What? Away whilst we are settling terms for the mill? Where has your father gone?’

  ‘He’s…’ Lucian began—there was no way round it. He had to tell the truth. ‘He went to York with Uncle Fletcher, sir.’

  The man’s face went as pale as parchment. ‘To York? Why?’

  Leon’s voice came rough, as if he had to force it out.

  ‘Mr Birch’s warehouse… it was attacked. He was a family friend, and Father had business with him. He’s gone to learn more—see if there’s something worth salvaging.’

  Mr Barlow’s brows drew close together. He turned to Mr Allerton.

  ‘Go now—warn Jiang,’ he said, urgency cutting through his cold voice. ‘She is somewhere on the grounds. I need passage to Grovewell at once, through her alehouse. You will go to York and find their father. Make sure he is safe.’

  ‘Right away, Master,’ Mr Allerton said—and he was gone through the door.

  ‘Sir? What’s going on?’ Lucian said. ‘Is our father in danger?’

  Mr Barlow looked down at them for a moment, and something in his face tightened.

  ‘There is trouble down York,’ he said. ‘Some days since—on the last full-moon night. The attack was not natural. Cursed magi—an ancient bone curse we thought driven from this country for centuries. It is back, and it has taken five magi with it. This curse is passed by blood—bitten, scratched, or bled upon. Corrupt magic that is.’

  ‘What?’ Lucian said. ‘Uncle told us it were burglars with hounds.’

  Leon’s voice came thin—he looked afeared. ‘There were paw and claw marks and patches of fur all about. Big bites on poor Mr and Mrs Birch. How could magi do that?’

  Mr Barlow looked even more troubled.

  ‘Well, lad. If you must know—this bone curse is lethal to any. Once had, it is never rid of. It changes a body, turns it into a beast. They lose their minds—and they may turn on their own kin if the change comes when they’re too close. The scholar’s term is “lycanthropy”. Folk call it werewolf—or, for those less learned in these ways, wolffiend.’

  ‘But… Father—He went there only two nights ago and—’ Leon couldn’t continue. Tears spilt hard down his cheeks.

  Lucian’s hands were shaking. Father had gone to the very place those cursed magi had been.

  ‘Father has gone where the attack happened,’ Lucian said, glaring up at the clerk. ‘What happens if he’s attacked too? Could he become a wolffiend?’ His fingertips began to glow, faint as embers under ash. ‘There’s something you’re not telling us. What is it?’

  ‘I—’ Barlow drew a breath, as if choosing what would hurt least. ‘This curse can only be borne by our folk—magi. Nullkin like your father… they die, lad. Once bitten. They cannot survive it.’

  ‘What?’ Lucian breathed.

  ‘Nay—It can’t be,’ Leon choked, and his tears came harder now.

  ‘Calm yourselves, lads,’ Barlow said, the edge in his voice turning sharp. ‘There is nothing to fret over yet. The change comes with the full moon—from dusk till daybreak. The next full moon is still days off. Your father may well be as safe as we are.’

  Something hot tore through Lucian’s chest—rage so sharp it made his whole body tremble—not only his hands.

  ‘How could you let such a thing happen?’ Lucian spat. ‘I thought you were a liaison for Nullkin safety. Isn’t it your place to stop this?’

  ‘Lad, calm yourself. I—’

  ‘Folk died!’ Lucian’s voice cracked with it and a sudden light gust of wind tore through the parlour. ‘Good folk. Houses ruined. And where were you—Clerk of the Signet?’

  ‘Lucian, please don’t,’ Leon said, catching at him—trying to hold him back.

  Lucian shoved him hard by the shoulders. Leon stumbled, heel skidding on the floorboards.

  ‘They’re dead. Dead and gone

  ‘Lucian. Calm down. Listen to—’

  ‘Nay! I won’t!’

  Then it happened. The presence was back—stronger and thicker than Lucian had ever felt before. It rushed over them, not only about the room, but it seeped into Lucian as if through blood and bone.

  A whisper slid along his ear, too close to be air.

  The voice sounded distant and worn thin, yet it sent heat and cold surging up Lucian’s spine, twisting through him like forked lightning across a grey sky. A flash of blinding light burst from him like a struck flint.

  Sound came rushing back all at once. Mr Barlow was flung backwards, and the leaded panes in the casement windows shivered, then split in a dozen sharp lines, each crack racing the next. The looking-glass above the sideboard spiderwebbed from its centre with a loud, cruel snap. On the table, two drinking glasses jumped where they stood and shattered, bright splinters skittering across the wood. Glass across the room gave way—small shards dropping and skimming across skin.

  Leon flinched back with a strangled sound. ‘Luce—!’

  Lucian heard Mother gasp, and his stomach lurched. The room went quiet in an instant—the air felt thick, as if they’d been plunged under water. But Lucian’s ears still rang.

  Mr Barlow looked about, caught off balance. His pocketbook lay shut on the floor beside him; the green threads that had been there were gone back into its pages. Lucian marked it well enough—his outburst had broken the man’s time spell.

  Mother’s eyes moved quickly between the twins and Barlow.

  ‘What happened?’ she cried.

  Lawrie blinked, as if he’d only lost his place for a heartbeat—then his face drained. ‘Mother, you’re hurt. Bleeding, you are.’

  Lucian looked. A small shard of glass stuck out of her forehead.

  The parlour door burst open. Auntie and Martha stood there.

  ‘Merciful God,’ Auntie gasped.

  ‘What in God’s name is this?’ Martha said.

  Lucian barely heard them. His knees softened. He sagged where he stood and dropped to the floor as a faint giggle sounded—distant, yet somehow right beside him. A whisper followed, brushing his ear.

  What? Who’s that?

  ‘Lucian? Lucian!’ came the shouts, far off.

  Everything around him fell away into silence as his vision blurred—then went dark.