The house was too quiet. The scent of lavender and rosemary hung heavy in the warm air. A faint grey light crept in through the dormer windows, their shutters set wide. Lucian pushed himself up, and his elbow, bound in strips of cloth, answered with a sharp sting. A thin quilt covered his legs, and a wooden crucifix and a leather-bound Bible rested neat beside him.

  Mother had been here.

  ‘Leon?’ he croaked.

  No answer came.

  On the little table by his bed stood a bowl of water, his pouch, a bundle of fresh cloth strips, a cup, and a small oil lamp burning low. He took up the cup, tasted the bitter-steeped herbs, and drained it all the same.

  Chamomile draught. Mother’s usual physic for fever. She must’ve sat with him, praying and fretting whilst he tossed.

  The memory of what had happened came rushing back, and his stomach turned. He’d hurt Mother—he’d lost hold of himself, and his magic had flared with it. Mr Barlow’s threats, and Father risking his life in York, had driven him there. Yet there had been something else too, something he could not quite catch hold of—someone, close enough to breathe at his ear, whispering words to him.

  Lucian shook his head, trying to drag the memory forward, but it would not come.

  He looked round again, checking the darker corners of the room, half-expecting something—or someone—to be watching him. But he was alone.

  Even so, his fingers groped for his pouch. He needed protection. He needed his golden spelltag. He tipped the contents into his lap, one by one—his copybook, Father’s penknife, a charcoal stub, and Mr Birch’s sketch—but the Primordium letter was gone, and so was the magus strap.

  Strange.

  He cast about the room, and cold ran down his spine when he saw the letter, together with the strap, tucked just beneath the Bible.

  Mother must’ve taken them. Did she read it? Was she a magus as well? Did she know of Grovewell, or of magic at all?

  He slid the letter back into the strap, then stuffed everything that belonged to him after it, hands clumsy with haste.

  Lucian swung his legs from the bed and groaned. His bladder felt fit to burst. If he did not reach the night pot, he’d wet the bed like a little lad. He crossed to the corner and hooked the pot nearer with his toes.

  The patter of water in the earthenware sounded far too loud in the hush.

  He glanced towards the dormer window. Beyond lay the estate grounds, washed in the pale silver light that came just before dawn.

  He’d slept through the whole day and night, then.

  His free hand closed round the windowsill as he steadied himself. A movement below caught his eye—someone on the path toward the bridge, alone. He pushed the pot back to its place and leaned out, squinting at the shape.

  He recognised her right away by the way she held herself and her careful pace.

  What was she doing out before the break of dawn? She never ventured across the grounds alone, not even in the summer. Yet there she was, heading straight for the woods.

  Leon must’ve told her something.

  Lucian began to pace, bare feet tapping on the boards. Mother had seen what his tricks could do—the parlour covered in broken shards—but she had no notion of the black hound, the foul thing as tall as the trees. It might come upon her. It might already be waiting. Not only it, but the presence about the grounds too, and the other creatures lurking where the light thinned.

  Mother was in danger.

  He must stop her.

  ‘Blast it!’ Lucian hissed, snatching up a candle stub and the small tinderbox, then tucking them into his pouch.

  He went for the boots—but stopped. Better not. They’d clatter and wake the house. He made for the door and slipped into the narrow hall as quietly as he could. Down the service stair he went, careful on the turns, then along the passage to the linen closet. From there he crept through the servants’ stair to the scullery, eased the outer door, slid out, and ran.

  Down the path. Towards the river Aire.

  By now Mother would be near the slope—or already over it. If he reached the bridge fast enough, he might call to her and turn her back. It was still too dark to see well, but he held the twists of the path clear in his mind, as if he’d walked it in a dream.

  As the bridge came into view, so did her figure—just for a second—before it vanished beneath the trees.

  ‘Mother!’ Lucian cried, skidding to a halt, but the river roared at his side and she was already gone, swallowed by the woods.

  He sprinted, legs aching, lungs burning, but he ran on.

  At the very line where grass gave way to undergrowth, a strange tingling ran through him, like walking into a high cornfield. He jerked back. The tingling stopped. He stepped forward and it came back.

  He raised a hand. His fingers met no solid thing, yet something was there—a soft pressure in the air, brushing his skin as if it were testing him.

  Lucian frowned. He could not turn back now.

  The sensation fell away the moment he crossed fully in. The trees rustled softly overhead. The path ahead lay empty—Mother must already be well within. As he walked, the woods seemed to draw in about him, trunks crowding close, branches knitting above so that the thin morning light scarcely touched the ground.

  Lucian dropped into a crouch behind a tangle of gorse and bramble as another flicker of movement drew his eyes.

  There she was.

  Mother knelt before a great Scots pine, one hand resting on a thick root, the other setting small things on the earth before it. Her lips moved in a low murmur, too soft for him to catch.

  The sight of her there—alone in that shadowed place—sent a fresh unease through him. He glanced round. No sign of the hound.

  He drew breath to call her—but stopped himself. If she was working some physic, or saying a prayer, he might spoil it.

  Her murmur never rose above the whispering of the trees. When the first sunlight slipped into the clearing and touched her, she rose, brushed her skirts down, and walked away, leaving behind whatever she’d laid upon the ground.

  Lucian stayed low until her figure had quite faded, then crept from his hiding place and into the clearing.

  The pine towered over him. At its base, arranged in a neat ring, lay several small objects. He knelt and leaned closer.

  White, round stones. Sprigs of herb. A little heap of ash. Fresh mushrooms. Fragile butterfly wings laid out like petals, so thin they looked ready to lift on the least breath.

  He reached for one of the stones.

  The instant his fingers brushed it, something struck him hard, as if he’d been shoved by an unseen hand. It hurled him backwards. He hit the grassy ground with a thud that knocked the breath clean from him.

  Lucian pushed himself up, blinking, rubbing his wrapped elbow where it flared with pain. Then he stared—hardly daring to breathe—as a faint prickle ran along his fingertips.

  This time it was fast. Clear.

  One hand went warm, as if it’d been held over a flame. The other turned cold, frost seeming to creep along his nails. Both glowed strong, pressing out from beneath his skin so fiercely he thought he could see his bones lit through.

  He closed his hands slowly into fists.

  Everything stopped—the glow snuffed out at once.

  ‘I can—I can hold it…’ he whispered.

  That small triumph lasted only a heartbeat.

  A surge of power jolted through him without warning, bursting from his chest like a thunderclap—harder, heavier than the strike that’d thrown him when he touched Mother’s trinkets. It dragged him backwards by the blow, and when he finally sat up—his hands were glowing again. Both of them.

  What was going on? His magic had never spilt out of him like this—it was not tricks anymore. It was raw, untamed, unpredictable, bursting out of him as if it had a mind of its own.

  How could he hold this? How could he manage to keep it tamed enough that he would not hurt anyone else?

  Lucian took a deep breath and shook his hands, as if the glow might snuff out like a candle in the wind. But as if offended, the ground beneath him shuddered. He toppled forward, palms catching the earth. The moment his glowing hands met the grass, something answered.

  A ripple raced out from his fingers, like lightning striking soil.

  Nearby flowers bloomed—petals flashing with colour, swelling twice their proper size. The grass around him sprang up, lengthening until it brushed his elbows. The trees at the edge of the clearing swayed hard, as though a storm had found them—branches whipping, dust and leaves falling like rain. Then fog rolled across the clearing, thick and sudden, flowing from where his hands touched the ground—everything happening at once, all in the blink of an eye.

  Lucian sat back quick and harsh, elbows braced on his knees, hands lifted level with his eyes, his breath coming too fast.

  ‘Stop,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Please—stop.’

  The magic streamed through him like a river—but he did not feel dizzy, and his sight did not spot and swim. Still, it did not feel like his. It felt as if someone else were guiding it, drawing it out of him whether he wished it or not. Like one of them puppets on strings—his body still his own, but his magic pulled and played.

  The fog swirled, building into a wall of mist. The very air pressed heavy, buzzing like a swarm. And through the mist came a sound—hustling—something moving in the bushes, from the same direction he’d been hiding when he watched Mother.

  It was padding, sniffing, zigzagging closer.

  A shape shifted in the fog, like a small dog taking form as it drew near. Lucian froze. It moved low to the ground, nose sweeping the air, and for an instant his stomach turned cold.

  But it was not the black hound.

  It was but a small fox—clear enough when it broke the wall of swirling mist. Its coat looked dark and coarse, its big ears framing its long snout, and its eyes were two black pits that reflected nothing.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Lucian had seen foxes in the fields near the River Aire, and once he’d watched one slip a trap with a clever twist of its body. This was not that. Half its fur was dark as soot, the other half glinted with an odd silvery sheen, and the longer he stared, the less certain he was of its shape.

  The black fox stood still as it marked him, head tilted, as if saying,

  Lucian blinked at it. Could he understand it?

  He should’ve run—away from it—there and then. Instead, he found himself stretching out a glowing hand towards it, as if to pet it. And the fox, too, crept closer, nose twitching. He did not feel afeared; he felt—at home. Like the fox was a close friend he’d simply forgotten.

  When it touched his fingers, the coldness of its snout sent a jolt through him and the light vanished.

  Slowly, the wind dropped. The mist thinned until the trees stood clear again.

  The fox turned away, padding to Mother’s laid items. It sniffed at them, nudging stones and wings with its snout. Nothing happened to it—the fox was not thrown back like Lucian had been.

  Why? What was that fox, really?

  It curled under the shadow of a low, thick branch, its eyes never leaving him.

  The meaning was plain in them.

  Relief loosened Lucian’s shoulders. He drew a deep breath, got to his feet—and froze again.

  Up ahead, on a thick bough that stretched over the clearing, stood a tall figure—a magus, no mistaking it. Cloaked in an old-fashioned travelling cloak, maroon and ragged at the hem, their face hidden in shadow. Their presence struck Lucian like a memory he did not want.

  The hairs on his neck prickled as the cloaked magus raised a hand and beckoned. The clearing seemed to lose its noise.

  No bird called. No leaf stirred. Not a breath of wind passed through the canopy above.

  Lucian’s body locked, heart thrashing against his ribs. He knew who that was—the same one Hewitt and Mr Barlow had warned him about, the one casting curses and hexes about the estate.

  The corrupt one—the blood-and-bone magus.

  From nothing, the figure moved their hand—fingers closing in the air—and a long black staff appeared in their gloved grip. Longer than they were, with a hard gleam along its length, and at its top a gem, sharp as a spear point.

  They aimed it downward.

  The gem flared—too bright to look on—and a circle of light formed around it. With a crack like a split log, the thick branch above the fox gave way.

  It crashed down. Splinters flew. Lucian stumbled back, throwing up his arms against the debris.

  When he looked again, the black fox was caught beneath the fallen bark. It writhed, its body twisting in a way that turned Lucian’s stomach, and it let out faint barks—broken, shrill, and wrong.

  He gazed about him—the trees, the path, the sky—but the dark figure was gone. Vanished as though it had never stood there.

  Only the fox remained, pinned beneath the branch, its cry scraping raw through the clearing. Lucian stood frozen, torn between terror and the sharp stab of pity. He could not leave it crushed there.

  ‘It’s all right’ he said, and took a step forward.

  The black, depthless fox’s eyes found his again. Even hurt, it gave off a kind of force that made the hairs along Lucian’s neck stand on end.

  ‘I’ll help you, aye?’ His voice came out low, steadier than he felt. 'Be still.'

  It pressed once against the timber, then sagged, still making that thin cry—which Lucian understood to mean, ‘

  Lucian placed both hands on the branch and tried to heave it up. It was too heavy. It did not budge an inch. The fox let out another shrill cry.

  Lucian stared at it, then down at his hands.

  He nodded—not sure he truly understood, yet he had to try something. He closed his eyes, searching for that warmth inside him, that place his tricks used to come from when they were only tricks. Words came into his head, clear as day—words that felt familiar enough, as if he’d always known them, only never had cause to say them aloud.

  ‘Levo corpus,’ he heard his lips say.

  Latin—A spell?

  His hands answered the words at once—his palms glowing where they touched the timber. That familiar warmth, the same he’d felt when he melted frost on the grass, rushed through him and held him close, like Mother’s hugs when he was small. A wind rose round the clearing, and the great branch began to lift, slow and heavy, groaning as it came free.

  Then it swung clear off—shooting across the clearing—and thudded upright into the soil like an arrow driven into a target.

  The creature—now free—sprang in a blur and landed on top of Lucian.

  But it was not a fox anymore.

  Its shape rippled—long limbs, fur darkened to a gleam like wet coal. When it turned its head to sniff at him, a mouthful of black teeth gaped, and large black claws pinned him hard into the earth. The weight of it stole his breath.

  the words came, not to his ears, but straight into his head.

  Lucian forced out, his voice tight.

  It cocked its monstrous head—teeth too sharp and long to fit inside its mouth. Its foreclaws sank deeper into the damp ground, and for a sliver of a second, Lucian thought it would slash him open for it.

  it said in his head.

  The weight on his chest loosened.

  In the next breath, the small black fox was there again, watching him with curious, depthless eyes. It leaned in and licked his face.

  Lucian sucked in air and sat up, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ he said, voice unsteady. ‘I’m Lucian.’

  The fox leapt from his lap and stood a moment, looking at him as if fixing his face on its mind. Words rose in Lucian’s mind—jagged, strange, yet plain enough to grasp.

  . Strange lad—the friend of it.’

  Then it slipped away and vanished into the undergrowth.

  *

  Lucian crouched low behind the hedge, eyes fixed on the kitchen window. It clattered open and he dropped lower still. Too much movement inside. He made it this far without being seen. If anyone glanced out, they’d spy him in an instant. Since Barlow’s arrival, Mother had cut short the servants’ summer rest each morning. He’d have to slip past them.

  The unexpected meeting with the cloaked figure and shade in that clearing had taken too long. But there was still time. If he could get in by the scullery door or the back door, he might creep along the servants’ passage to the buttery, reach the attic, and be under his quilt before Mother finished mixing her draughts.

  But as soon as he edged forward, animated voices came. Lucian pressed himself deeper into the hedge. Through the leaves, he made out three figures coming up from the farmyard towards the back door.

  Lawrie came first—tall, flushed, a blunted rapier swinging easy from his hand. Lewis sauntered at his side, grinning like a fool, red curls stuck damp to his brow with sweat. Behind them trudged Elliot Alden, the lad from the neighbouring estate whom Tess fancied—his face slick, his chest heaving, his practice blade dragging along at his side.

  ‘You near had me with that last feint,’ Lawrie said.

  Lewis barked a laugh. ‘Aye. Only ’cause Elliot stepped in my way. Else that blade’d be in the dirt with you under it.’

  ‘Your guard’s a muddle, Lewie,’ Elliot said. ‘You set your foot too soon. Any man could read you.’

  ‘Bah. Hard to keep my stance when Lawrie’s hopping about in front of me. Any road, I’ve wits, haven’t I? That’s more than either of you.’ He swung round to Lawrie. ‘And you go easier on Elliot than you do on me, own it.’

  ‘You jest,’ Lawrie said. ‘Quick wits will not help you if you are flat on your back. Tomorrow we could ask Mr Pritchard for a proper lesson in feints.’

  ‘Cannot come soon enough.’ Lewis’s tone turned offhand. ‘I hope Mother stops fretting over Lucian soon. She’s been in a state, she has.’

  ‘Is he still poorly?’ Elliot asked.

  Lewis snorted. ‘There’s always something amiss with him. Always. Keeps Mother up all night worrying. Ages in bed with a fever. And truth be told, I’m glad of the peace. We’ve some quiet for once.’

  Lucian’s heart gave a jolt. Ages? So that must be why Mother had gone to the woods. She must have been driven to it. Laying offerings to whatever it was that she was trying to summon wasn't like her at all. But… what of Grovewell? Had he missed the royal coach? Leon wasn’t in the room. Has he gone to the Primordium without him?

  ‘Mind your tongue,’ Lawrie snapped.

  Lewis shrugged. ‘Can’t tell me I’m wrong, can you? Mother won’t send for the apothecary. Nor the priest. She’s hiding something, I’d swear. She’s worn to the bone over him. I overheard Martha whispering to Cook—something funny happened in the parlour after a visit of that clerk. Then Lucian falls ill.’

  ‘You jest,’ Elliot said, resting his rapier on the wall. ‘What on earth could have happened to make him sick?’

  ‘Nathing at all. Don’t listen to Lewie, El, he likes to bark. In any case, if Father sends Lukey to Oxford for his probation, it’ll cost us dear. We can’t spare coin for every physic in Leeds and Mother knows that. I just hope Lucian get well soon enough—or we will lose the coin from the crown.’

  ‘With coin or nothing—Lucian’s a bigger trouble than you know—because of him, Mother almost died.’ Lucian’s whole body went cold as ice.

  ‘Lewis! Hold your tongue.’ Lawrie set his rapier down with a thud and advanced on Lewis. ‘I will not hear another word in spite of Lucian. Keep on, and you will answer for it.’

  Lewis flung his rapier at Lawrie’s feet with a huff and shoved through the back door.

  The old cold stirred deep inside Lucian. He blinked fast and scrubbed a hand hard across his eyes, thinking bitterly.

  Why does Lewis hate me so?

  ‘Sorry you had to hear that,’ Lawrie said quietly. Lucian started. For a moment he thought Lawrie had found him, but his brother was still turned to Elliot. ‘Lewie isn’t easy most days. Bad temper, that one.’

  Elliot hesitated, then stepped closer to Lawrie. His voice dropped to a murmur Lucian couldn’t catch. Whatever he said made Lawrie’s shoulders go tight. Lawrie pushed him back a little—not in anger, more in warning. Both lads cast quick glances about.

  Lawrie jerked his chin toward the scullery. ‘In with you,’ he said shortly. Elliot slipped inside with quick, quiet steps.

  Strange.

  But Lucian shoved it from his mind. He had no time for puzzles now.

  He waited until the scullery door thudded shut behind Lawrie, then darted from the hedge, shot up the path, and slid through the half-open back door into the hallway. He steadied the latch with careful fingers so it wouldn’t snap.

  The hall lay empty.

  From the dining room, Aunt Browne’s voice floated out clear: ‘Set them berries by the washstand, Meggie.’

  Footsteps followed.

  Lucian pressed his back flat to the panelling. The garden door behind him was lost now—if he opened it, the sunlight would betray him. His only chance lay through the scullery. If he must risk someone, he’d sooner face Lawrie than Auntie a hundred times over. And if he kept himself small and silent, Lawrie and Elliot might not even see him.

  He crept along the shadowed wall and slipped into the dim scullery just as Auntie’s footsteps grew louder—

  —and then he stopped dead.

  Lawrie and Elliot stood locked together, arms about one another, faces far too close, leaning hard against the garden door. Their lips pressed together, their eyes shut. Lucian was about to turn to run when Lawrie’s eyes opened for a second and he broke away with a sharp gasp. Elliot’s colour drained.

  ‘Leon? We—we were only—only trying something.’ Lawrie stammered. ‘Please. Say nothing of this. Please.’

  Heat rushed to Lucian’s face and he gave a short, jerky nod, turned on his heel, and bolted.

  ‘No—Leon, wait!’

  *

  By the time Lucian found himself back in the attic, his whole body shook. He pulled the door to, shoved his magus strap beneath his pillow, and looked for Leon’s piece of paper—the last square was still empty. Today was the day the royal coach would come and take them away, to take them to Gorvewell. He slid back into bed, dragging the quilt over his face.

  Lawrie had taken him for Leon. He must think that he—Lucian—still lay abed, sweating out his fever.

  What Lucian had seen in the scullery tolled in his mind, loud as the bells of St John’s at evensong. Men weren’t meant to kiss. He’d heard it before, even if he never gave it much thought. If Mother found out… or worse, Father. Lawrie might be ruined—and the whole family with him.

  Lucian didn’t truly understand why it was counted wrong. The kiss itself had harmed no one. Yet he knew well enough what happened to folk who were different—different like he was.

  In a place like Leeds, townsfolk didn’t need proof. Rumour was meal enough for them. They feared anything that didn’t fit their notion of the world. Most of all, the priests. Miss a sermon, and by morning they were at the door, asking after your sins.

  When he was a little lad, Lucian had refused to stir beyond the house, ashamed of the mark on his cheek. The Daiwiks drew looks wherever they went—Lewis, Tess, and Father most of all, with their flame-red hair and freckled noses. Over the years Lucian had heard every whisper: fairy-blooded, ungodly, marked. The townfolk didn’t need another reason to gossip about them. He’d never seen Lawrie afeard. But Lucian knew that feeling better than most.

  Lucian thought bitterly.

  Even so, Lawrie didn’t have unnatural wild forces fighting for dominion inside him. Or did he? If Lawrie ever learnt what Lucian’s tricks truly were—what then? Would he tell someone?

  Just as the first golden sunbeams crept in long bands across the attic boards, the familiar groan of the attic stair rose outside the room. Lucian peered out from under the covers when the latch lifted with a small scrape and the door eased open.

  Mother stepped in, a pewter jug cradled in her arm. She stopped short when she saw his eyes open.

  ‘Lucian— You’re awake,’ she said and crossed the room in a rush, sloshing water across the floor. She set the jug on the little table, sank beside the bed as though her legs had given way and laid her hand soft upon his brow—fingers cold as ice—shaking slightly.

  ‘Still a touch warm… and damp with sweat.’ A faint line drew between her brows. ‘I was so worried—I couldn’t bear to lose you too. How do you feel, love?’

  ‘I’m well enough, Mother,’ Lucian said, pushing himself up. Lucian didn’t know who she had lost, but he hadn’t seen his mother like this before. Her plight made water gather in his eyes and he blinked hard. ‘Sorry… Ma. I—I didn’t mean for any of it.’

  ‘I know. I know, love. I—I just—I worried, that’s all.’ She managed to give him a little smile.

  ‘What’s this for?’ he pointed to his bandaged elbow.

  ‘You gave us a fright,’ she said softly. ‘You fainted in the parlour. Hit your head. Elbow swelled near as big as an apple. Mr Barlow carried you up here and said they’d take you to Temple Newsam House in any state—good physicians there, see? I spent the nights here, and Leon stayed in with Lawrie.’

  ‘Did Mr Barlow get rid of the shards?’ asked Lucian, and without thinking, he let out, 'I couldn’t hold it, Ma. It spilled out of me and…’

  ‘Shards?’ said Mother and she placed a hand to his forehead again, then to his cheek. ‘What shards, love?’

  ‘The windows, the mirror… I–I broke them all.’

  ‘You must have dreamt it. Your fever had you tossing and turning, talking in your sleep. Your aunt wished to fetch Dr Ashcroft, but I told her no. I knew this wasn’t something physic could mend.’

  ‘It was not?’ Lucian asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘When the time comes, we’ll speak on it proper.’ She took his hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Till then, you must take care. Especially whilst you’re at that school. Whenever something stirs in you—if you feel put out or wrong in yourself—you must step aside. Take a moment. Leave the room if you must and just breathe—say a little prayer. Can you promise me that?’

  Lucian nodded—She knows. Mother truly knows.

  Her face softened into a small smile.

  ‘Well then. That’s settled. Now you’ll be needing food before the coach arrives. Get yourself dressed and come down, love.’ She slipped out, letting the door close with a quiet click.