By the time the Crown coach arrived, Lucian and Leon stood ready and fed, their magus straps on—but invisible to their kin. Seven on the clock, and Lucian had never been more exhausted, his eyes burning in the cold morning air. Leon stood at his side so delighted and keen he couldn’t keep still—unaware of any of what Lucian had gone through in the clearing.

  Lucian couldn’t settle on whether he ought to tell Leon any of it, and the easiest way was to keep it close. He wasn’t about to reveal Mother’s and Lawrie’s secrets to anyone—leastways not about Shade, nor the corrupt magus. How could he explain to anyone that he was hearing the thoughts of monsters? First the black hound, now the fox… He was going mad, he was.

  If he could truly trust Sage Li, he’d tell her of the attack and perhaps of the fox-boggart too.

  Lewis and Lawrie had already gone to the mill, and Father hadn’t arrived from York yet. Mother pulled Lucian into a hug and whispered in his ear, ‘Remember what I told you, son.’ Then she pressed a small purse of coins into his hand for little costs.

  Aunt Browne came briskly and gave them a small sack filled with bites.

  ‘For the little hunger,’ she muttered, and hugged them hard enough to near crack a rib.

  Lukey shifted strangely on his feet and gave them both pats on the shoulders. ‘I hope to see you lads again soon.’

  Tess and Lyddie hugged them too. Tess was plainly upset as she said, ‘I haven’t forgotten. I’ll have my violets.’ Lucian only nodded—his nerves still twitched, and his head still reeled.

  Oswald—the tenuis magus—loaded the lads’ trunks at the back of the coach. Inside sat another lad already. He glanced up when they climbed in—blond hair combed back, a round-set face—then looked away again, moving aside to make room.

  Mr Allerton sat beside him—the junior clerk was to accompany them to Temple Newsam, and Sage Hewitt would receive them there. Lucian kept his eyes from the clerk’s face as best he could.

  Sage Li’s mirror rested secure under the twins’ bed. If Mr Allerton could sniff out magic, he’d surely find it. Lucian didn’t want to make it easier for him, and before he could set his thoughts in order, the wheels jolted and they were off.

  ‘Good morrow,’ said Leon, leaning forward, ‘I’m Leon Daiwik. That’s Lucian. We’re twins. You’re a magus like us, then?’

  ‘Aye.’ The lad’s voice was deep and unhurried. ‘Alan Cooper.’

  ‘Cooper?’ Leon brightened. ‘Like barrel-making trade?’

  ‘Aye. Not my family, though. Wayfarer magi from York. I reckon you lads know what Wayfarer means?’

  Lucian and Leon nodded. Alan didn’t seem keen on talking, not beyond what he had to and he stared back at the window. He was already dressed as a magus should—leather strap in place, a white vest and coat that sat close to his frame. What would folk in York think of him if they saw him like this?

  Leon seemed eager to talk. ‘Alan—have you heard what happened in York, have you?’

  ‘I—I have,’ he said simply and turned to the clerk. ‘How far’s Temple Newsam from here?’

  ‘Not long,’ Mr Allerton said.

  But Lucian thought it would be the longest ride of his life.

  *

  This time the coach pulled up short by the hedge-garden entrance, and the lads leapt down into the warming morning air. Other lads, and two or three lasses, ran about the paths—talking loud or jesting.

  ‘Your belongings will be brought up to you; I will take you to the entrance.’ Mr Allerton turned his eyes to the coachman. ‘Wait here.’

  Alan hurried after him, a slight frown on his face.

  ‘He’s a cheerful one, that,’ Leon muttered as they trailed after them.

  ‘He’s sad,’ Lucian said. ‘Something bad’s happened to him. I can feel it.’

  Leon shot him a look. ‘How d’you know? The lad’s only spoke two words.’

  ‘Marked him wiping at his eyes now and then.’

  ‘Mayhap it’s the summer wheeze, like Lukey.’

  ‘Nay.’ Lucian squinted at Alan’s back as the hedges swallowed him. ‘Mayhap he knew the Birches too, or he lived close. Mayhap he was right there when the wolffiend attack happened.’

  Leon frowned as they stepped into the green tunnel—the hedge arched over the path like a living roof. ‘D’you reckon he’s been bitten?’

  Lucian shook his head. ‘It’s not fear that’s in him. It’s a kind of sadness—like when Uncle Fletcher lost his wife. I reckon Alan’s lost someone close to him.’

  ‘Since when can you tell all that?’

  ‘It just started now—only from him though. And plain enough.’

  Leon glanced sideways at him. ‘Can you see what I’m feeling now?’

  ‘Never could. A closed book, you are—and daft enough besides.’

  At the far end, they reached the secluded corner where the paths formed a tight square and the hedges rose higher than a man. There it stood, clear as day: the light-waterwheel portal. Beside it waited a fair man beaming at them—dressed in sober clerical fashion, with a dark wool coat and felt hat and flanked by two girls.

  Lucian and Leon shared a quick grin, near smirking at each other as they marked Sage Hewitt—looking like a respectable man in service of God. No one could ever suspect that man had any hand in something as feared as magic.

  ‘Welcome, welcome, novices,’ Hewitt said brightly. ‘Right on time.’ He turned to Mr Allerton. ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Very well. We’re complete now, we are. The novices from Yorkshire coming in from this pathway.’

  He began to count them with a finger.

  ‘Let’s see. These are Eliza and Mair Hartley.’ He indicated the fair-haired girls, also dressed in simple Nullkin clothes. ‘Cousins. From Hull.’

  The plumper one with long curls stared at Leon and giggled. Leon went pink as a berry.

  ‘And this is Alan Cooper. Wayfarer family from York.’ Hewitt’s tone softened a touch. ‘I’m so sorry, lad—I heard the news this morning. Hope your father’s well.’

  Alan gave a curt nod and looked down. Lucian knew it. Something’s happened to him.

  ‘And these,’ Hewitt continued, ‘are Lucian and Leon Daiwik. Twins. From Leeds.’ He lifted his wand. ‘Illud Murus Alveare.’ A pinkish light touched the leaves. The hedge shivered, then rippled like water. ‘We must hurry now. Not safe to linger.’

  Mr Allerton took a step forward. ‘You Daiwik childs. I have a message from my Master. Your father is alive and well on his way back to Leeds.’ The man turned and walked away—not another word uttered.

  ‘Strange, that one is,’ said one of the girls.

  Sage Hewitt didn’t comment and said softly, ‘move along now.’

  No one spoke, and they passed through the bamboo corridor fast enough. Within minutes, they’d crossed the Wellarcus and stepped into Grovewell.

  The sun rose pale in the sky. The paved streets of bronze stone were empty. The very first shopfront Lucian had seen on the first visit was shut fast, the sandglasses gone from the window. A new notice had been pinned there:

  Leon blurted, ‘What happened? Why’s everything so empty?’

  Sage Hewitt’s jaw tightened. ‘Can’t speak on it, lad. The Twirl Post’s just round the curve—come on, you lot. Keep close.’

  They crossed at a brisk walk to keep up with him, their footsteps loud in the quiet. Just beyond a very tall green building, a small square opened into view—deserted. In the centre stood seven coaches in a neat line, horseless and without any wheels.

  They looked like royal waggons made entirely of dark metal, each with two silver wings flanking the sides, the panels etched over with runes. When Sage Hewitt approached the nearest, its lantern lit, casting a green glow—like a dancing flame trapped behind glass. The roofline carried ornate gold scrollwork. Set into the door was a round emblem: a tree with a vast canopy and roots, worked in raised metal, and by its roots a golden circle pressed flat into the panel like a coin.

  ‘Spelltags out. One at a time,’ Sage Hewitt said. He tapped the golden circle with two fingers. ‘Place your spelltags here—grovewell’s emblem. Hold for a breath to pay for the ride—then you may enter.’

  Up close, the dark plates, framed with fine gold edging, were so polished they threw back their faces in the early light. Lucian ran a hand along the rail, half-expecting it to spark or do something else it had no right to do—but nothing happened. Only that familiar buzz—the same one he felt coming from Sage Li’s mirror.

  ‘How in heaven’s name do they move without horses?’ asked Leon

  The plump girl eyed him and giggled again.

  ‘Clever question, lad. Usually, one only tells it where to go. It’ll twirl you through the air to your destination. The lantern changes colour depending on which part of the Well one’s bound for—green means we’re bound for the Primordium.’

  The fair-haired girl with the cropped hair frowned up at the coach. ‘Won’t we get dizzy if it keeps turning, sir?’

  ‘Also clever, lass.’ Sage Hewitt lifted a finger. ‘When it lifts off, it twirls quick in the air only once to set its course—that’s why wellers call ’em twirls. Then it flies straight.’

  ‘We can’t all fit inside of it, can we?’ Lucian said, frowning into the carriage.

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  ‘You’ll see.’ Sage Hewitt opened the door. ‘In with you lot.’

  Lucian climbed in after Leon. The wooden seat felt strangely soft beneath him, as if padded. Alan dropped onto the bench opposite, eyes fixed on the square outside, saying nothing. Yet there was room enough for all of them—six novices—and the two rows of seats were as long as church pews, broad enough to sit, stretch, or even lie flat.

  Leon looked at Lucian, wonder in his eyes. ‘I love magic.’

  Lucian couldn’t help but nod.

  When Sage Hewitt climbed in and shut the door, the twirl coach rose with a jolt and all of them were pressed against their seats. It spun once in place with sharp halts and shot up. For a blink, Lucian’s stomach seemed to stay behind—then the coach levelled and swept onwards, smooth as if it were running on rails made of air.

  A sharp lurch came soon after as they dipped from the skies, and as they slowed, Lucian felt as if he were floating in place, weightless and wrong.

  When they landed, Alan let out a breath.

  ‘Can’t believe we’re already here—that went fast, it did.’

  ‘Too quick,’ said the cropped-haired girl. ‘Mair’s going to be sick.’

  ‘Take a moment, lass,’ Hewitt said, not unkind. ‘It’ll pass soon.’

  Mair was the first to climb out—pale as milk with a greenish cast to her cheeks. Eliza hurried after her. Lucian got out and gawped around. They stood on a grand square. A sign hung in the air—Primordium Twirl Post. Another dozen carriages shot down from the sky and a few rose up, coming and going so quick it made his eyes ache to follow.

  The square was filled—novices and their kin spread out everywhere, some as old as Lawrie, most dressed in magus attire with travelling cloaks in various colours. Some—like Mair—were hunched over to the side, hands braced on their knees. A cluster of Sages moved amongst them, hats sharp and pointed, voices low—some carried staves, others books; here and there Lucian could see a wand.

  Leon let out a sharp oath and Lucian turned on the spot—his brother was standing there, gawping at something. When Lucian followed his stare, his mouth fell open.

  Before them lay a risen moat, and three bridges arched over it: one gold, one silver, and one bronze. Beyond and inside of it, in the heart of a forest, rose a great white tower, and surrounding it stood six smaller towers, each a different colour and crowned with a canopy-like roof of green leaves as big as horses.

  For a moment nobody spoke. Heads turned slowly. All of them simply… stared.

  ‘Welcome, lasses and lads—welcome to the Primordium of Grovewell,’ Sage Hewitt said. ‘Let’s make way for the others. First-term novices go over the golden bridge—move along now.’

  They followed the sage. The golden bridge was broad enough for three to walk abreast; below, the waters were a deep blue and rushed hard, and here and there a fin—or something else Lucian didn’t know the name of—cut through the surface and vanished.

  The breeze was warm and carried a clean scent of earth and water. No foul, clinging stink like Leeds.

  It took them about as long to cross as it did to walk from their house down to the branch of the River Aire that ran behind the estate—yet everything here felt twice as wide, twice as high. Lucian felt tiny. The sheer cleanliness of it made him feel dirty, as if the dust of Leeds sat in his skin.

  Now he understood what Merrick meant—nullkins were really dirty.

  A shout made them look as they reached the other side. Standing there were Jonas, Sage Li, and a woman Lucian didn’t know.

  ‘Novices,’ said Hewitt, ‘follow me for a moment, please.’

  Jonas came straight to them, wearing white robes and carrying Sage Hewitt’s present—the leather magus strap round his waist. Sage Hewitt went off to speak with the women.

  ‘Glad to see you lot,’ Jonas said, shaking their hands. ‘You’ll be able to dress yourselves proper soon enough.’ Then his eyes flicked over their shoulders. ‘Hi—I’m Jonas. Are you all from Leeds?’

  ‘Nay. Mair and I are from Hull,’ said Eliza. ‘Cousins, we are—born Nullkin, we were.’

  ‘Aye, me too,’ Jonas said with a small smile. He looked at Alan.

  ‘Alan Cooper,’ he said. ‘Wayfarer from York.’

  ‘Oh—’ Jonas’ face fell a little. ‘I—I’ve heard— I’m so—’

  ‘You lot,’ Hewitt said behind them. ‘This is Sage Jiang Li. She’s head of the Pyralux Fons—if trouble comes up, you can count on her to sort it.’ Sage Li gave a little bow, and Lucian felt his face warm at once. Her almond-shaped eyes made him feel strangely at ease. ‘And this is Judith Wyre—owner of Wyre’s Seals & Spelltags.’ Lucian blinked with a start. It was her. Judith—it really was, but she looked completely different. Her dark hair fell on one side of her shoulder, a white hat and white gown framing her shape and a small Bible on her hands. ‘Any spelltag you’ll need, she’s most like to have it.’

  Judith smiled as she looked them over.

  ‘Daiwiks,’ her smile broadened, nodding at their birthmarks. ‘Glad to finally see you again, big lads you’ve become. How’s your Auntie doing?’

  ‘Very well, miss,’ Lucian said.

  ‘She misses you. Been worried sick, she has.’ said Leon.

  ‘Good soul, that one. But I can’t make meself known, so it is.’

  ‘We hurry now, yes?’ Sage Li said. ‘It about time, and these lot must change. They clothes are not proper.’

  ‘Aye. Come along, lads—there’s a room for it,’ Sage Hewitt said, and set them off towards a smaller structure just outside one of the towers. Mair and Eliza went with Sage Li.

  An arched doorway stood there, but no door. Sage Hewitt tipped his wand to the sill and the opening slid sideways as if it were a curtain being pulled. Inside were mirrors, chamber pots, and tubs for bathing. Other lads moved about, hauling off travel-worn clothes, pulling on robes, combing their hair.

  ‘Give me your magus straps, lads.’ Sage Hewitt laid them on the floor and waved his wand.

  The lads’ trunks and school materials sprang out of the straps, swelling back to their proper size.

  ‘Now then—no dawdling. Get your magus attire on, and the brownies’ll see to the trunks. Term starts in the Atrium Magicae, where Grovewell’s Wellsages’ll present themselves—important work, that. So come on, you lot—get a move on now.’

  *

  Soon enough they stood in a vast chamber of white marble, and it had no door at all—only a wide opening to the forest behind them, where the three bridges lay. The Atrium Magicae gave Lucian a queer sense of vulnerability, as if any soul could step in without so much as knocking.

  The Atrium rose high above their heads in a great dome that held soft light like water in a basin, pale and steady. In the centre stood one very tall pine, its trunk as broad as the Daiwiks’ house, its canopy spread so high it formed the ceiling itself—a green vault of needles and boughs. Just before the tree sat a curved table with five high chairs, and on each chair a Grovewell emblem shone faintly.

  Lucian stood with Leon and Jonas. In front of them were Alan, Eliza, and Mair. Other novices in white robes gathered all round, all about their age, shifting and staring and trying to look as if they belonged. Behind them, on curved benches, older novices sat in robes already dyed into pale shades of green, blue, yellow, red, purple, and maroon.

  The Sages—every one of them except Sage Li—wore sharp, pointy hats in bright colours. They stood on either side of the table, still as posts—sharp eyes moving over the novices. Lucian couldn’t shake the feeling they’d stepped into some sort of ceremony.

  A stir ran through the novices as two figures came across the gaping threshold.

  A man—older than any magistrate Lucian had ever seen—walked in with a short staff in his left hand, yet he moved steady enough. His long white hair lay smooth as winter-combed straw. His robe was a clear crimson with silver linings, and he wore a hat of the same colour, pointed but not foolish-looking. The magus smiled and waved as he passed amongst the novices.

  Behind him came a creature that made Lucian gawp. He’d never seen an animal so beautiful and so terrifying all at once. It looked like one of them beasts from the Royal Arms books—the King’s lions—only this was not any lion he’d ever pictured. As tall as the man, its head was crowned with a mane thick and crimson. Silvery wings lay pressed behind its back, and three furry tails swung slow and heavy. It had two shining green eyes and two great canines jutted from beneath its lips. Its fur was as pale as snow.

  As it passed, novices jolted and shifted away, hands flying up to mouths.

  ‘Is that a lion?’ Leon breathed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lucian whispered back. ‘I’ve never seen one up close.’

  ‘Nay—a fera magicae, that,’ Jonas murmured, leaning in so Alan and the girls could hear him too. ‘A Luxleo, I reckon it’s called. And that man’s chief of the Wellsages in Grovewell’s Concordium. The Wellsages also teach.’

  The elderly magus walked straight through the curved table as if it were smoke, then turned to face them.

  ‘Novices—there you are—finally. And finally with you all, one more term in the Primordium of Grovewell has come, and I’m still alive to see it. I’m Archsage Arin Sorrell, Pyralux Fons, and I’ll steer you through my Cantor Turns—incantations, enchantments, and charms.’ As he spoke, the Luxleo stretched and lay down before the table, huddling into a bundled heap—just like a great cat settling by a hearth. ‘So—welcome. Try not to look so stricken—it makes me feel older than I am, and I’ve only had a little over a hundred years to get used to my own face, mind you.’

  Jonas and Leon laughed.

  ‘He’s a bit daft, isn’t he?’ said Lucian, grinning.

  ‘He’s a jester. Always trying to make people laugh, even on serious matters. Barlow doesn’t like him at all.’

  ‘I can lay a coin that he doesn’t.’

  The archsage raised a hand and the noise died out.

  ‘To those of you who’ve come from outside the Wells—be most welcome. If you misplace your wits, do try to find ’em again before supper. I’m too old to miss a warm meal—one of them will be my last soon enough, see?’ Some laughed; others looked at him with doubt in their eyes. The Archsage’s gaze moved across them, calm, as if he were speaking to his own children.

  ‘And for all—a reminder that patience is necessary to learn our ways. Leave behind them old, crusted notions you’ve hauled in on your boots. Defer to your Sage in any question or doubt. Magic can be daring—but you’re in good hands. Mine are mostly steady—most days, mind—provided nobody startles me before I’ve had my broth…’

  He raised his staff.

  ‘Now, let’s see the other ancient corpses that still lingers in these halls.’ He pointed it to the empty chair on his side. ‘Wellsage Linnea Barlow, Silvalis Fons—the reason your roofs don’t fall in.’ Lucian craned to see over the other novices. There sat an elderly woman, frail as wind, her hair silvery grey. She looked around and seemed a bit confused.

  ‘Linnea, Linnea? Ey… From biblical times that one, won’t hear proper, so please, clap louder, won’t you?’

  All the novices in the chamber clapped and stomped—some of them shouting—and the Luxleon placed a paw over its ear. The old wellsage smiled more broadly and lifted a hand in a faint wave—a ring with a black gem caught the light.

  ‘There. Now.’ Sorell’s voice boomed happily again as he turned to his other side. ‘Wellsage Bakari Mwando, Telluros Fons—if you hear a crack in the dark, it’s either the stone settling or Mwando sneaking up on you. One never knows.’ A tall, broad old man appeared at Sorell’s side, skin as dark as night. He carried a wooden staff tipped with a green gem. His maroon robes were cut in a fashion strange to Lucian, and his hat was not pointed at all but round. He didn’t smile but waved with an amused expression. ‘He’s gentle enough—unless you’re foolish to lie to his face—I’m glad we don’t share a Turns anymore.’

  Mwando rolled his eyes but grinned all the same.

  ‘And lastly—Wellsage Maira Veylon, Umbrael Fons.’ A woman appeared on the seat beside Mwando—the youngest of them, it seemed—wearing a dress as dark as marble, its seams adorned with deep patterns. ‘Sneak that one—she’ll smile at you like you’re welcome, and then she’ll vanish your courage and clean out your bones. But mischief is her friend.’

  She gave a little bow—a great necklace shaped like a serpent hung around her long neck.

  ‘Now,’ Jonas whispered to them as more applause rose. ‘that’s the best part. The guardian of the Primordium—the most handsome man you’ll ever meet,’ Jonas said, and colour crept into his cheeks.

  The chamber fell silent.

  ‘Mind your manners now because the one who is coming is far less forgiving than I am, and I’ve had a century to practise it,’ Archsage Sorrell said, voice steady, ‘is our own guardian—the soul and spirit of the Primordium

  Lucian had to put a hand over his eyes—he was the only one who did—because the pine tree flared as bright as the sun, its light gathering just in front of the Luxleo, thickening and shaping itself into the outline of a very tall man. As the shape grew more defined, the glare dimmed—only it never dulled enough, and Lucian had to squint.

  The man wore a white blindfold. His chin was sharp, and long silver hair framed his face. A cloak of long white and gold feathers fell over his shoulders, and his robes were made of a strange reflective cloth that caught the light like water did—so that Lucian had to blink hard.

  Aurevir gave a small bow to both sides of the aisle but didn’t speak. He stood there, hands folded before him, veiled gaze turning as though he could see the room all the same.

  ‘Can he see?’ Lucian said.

  ‘Some say he can’t; some say he can,’ Jonas murmured back. ‘He’s magic through and through—a divine being, some say.’

  When Aurevir finally spoke, his voice didn’t sound more like a hymn on a sunday sermon.

  ‘This night we keep Lammas, and you, novices, take your first true step into term. And for those of you starting, you shall be set within your Fons. No two magi are the same—yet none stands above another.’

  Someone behind Lucian snickered. He glanced back and saw Merrick two rows behind him. Merrick shot him a hard glare. Lucian looked away.

  Aurevir continued.

  ‘...a Pyralux thirsts, and a Nymbranis answers; a Nymbranis chills, and a Pyralux gives warmth. So it is with you. You shall be set apart by togetherness, and you shall learn to lean upon one another—to uphold one another. This night you will learn which elements will heed your call and which will colour your robes as you pass through the veil of holy fire. Let heaven judge you well, and let your hands witness your doings. All are welcome beneath my roof, yet mark this well—evil is not born; it is made. Should you nurse such leanings, you shall be judged by my own hand.’

  He went silent, turned and started petting the Luxleo as if it were a dog.

  Wellsage Mwando thrust his staff at Archsage Sorrell, who had dozed off.

  ‘What? Oh, Ah! Aye. Thank you, Aurevir, for your wise words. I haven’t heard half of it—too early in the morning for speeches that grand. But in any case, those of you who are still awake enough, I must tell you this. Novices—new and old—you are free to roam the grounds of the Primordium, or Grovewell itself. We’ll gather again this evening for the Electio Fontium ceremony, and afterwards the Lammas celebration and supper. Keep yourselves whole, keep yourselves civil—and if you do something daft, at least do it where as many eyes can see you; a laugh’s always welcome in the Wells.’ Then he sang a little, ‘Bold you well, aye. All Wellers—bode you well enough. Aye.’