‘Mark me, one of these days the black wolf will fetch you, and I will let it.’

  Mother’s words still rang in Lucian’s ears since she’d spat them at supper last eve. Yet, he and his twin, Leon, bolted through the back garden, keeping low behind the hedgerows and rosebushes as the morning sunbeams wove through the trees in what the old women in town still called ‘witch’s weave’.

  He knew that stealing out before breakfast would likely earn them both an earful or, mayhap even worse, a heavy whipping. But too many strange things had been happening of late, and he needed them out of his mind, if only for a little while.

  Most of all, Lucian wanted to forget all about the coming visit of the King’s Clerk. Because if the Clerk of the Signet, or anyone in Leeds, discovered what Lucian could do—what his tricks caused—he’d either be hauled to the gallows or hang from a tree in the market square.

  So the twelve-year-old lads ran, crouching low behind hedgerows and skipping between rose bushes, slipping into the path that led toward the riverbank. In a couple of heartbeats, they crossed the estate’s garden, dashed over the old wooden bridge spanning a narrow branch of the river Aire, scrambled down a gentle slope, and plunged their hands into the cold stream, grins tugging at their mouths—mischief managed.

  Soon enough, a faint sound caught Lucian’s keen ears, and he dashed after a tiny frog that had hopped onto a wet stone under the bridge.

  It slipped from his grasp more than once, but after a few tries he managed to catch the little jumper. Grinning, he ran back toward Leon, sending mud and water splashing along the bank.

  He held the frog out for Leon to see, its throat swelling as it gave another thin croak for help.

  ‘That’s close enough,’ said Leon, stepping back. ‘I don’t like touching it. Too slick.’

  Lucian lifted the squirming frog as if to set it atop Leon’s head.

  ‘Go on now, have a try. You might coax a croak out of it.’ He said just as a sharp warmth climbed his spine and surged into his fingertips and a faint green glow lit his hands. The frog—small as a plum a moment ago—swelled fast, puffing up like a pig’s bladder left too long in the sun.

  ‘One of your tricks again, isn’t it?’ said Leon, stumbling back.

  ‘I reckon so. I–I can’t stop it.’ Lucian’s heart hammered—he had to stretch his fingers to keep hold of the frog. ‘I think it’ll burst…’

  He took a shaky step toward Leon.

  ‘Keep it off me. That thing’s near the size of a loaf. Just fling it back. Over there. By the shallows. Go on, then.’

  Dragonflies darted over the water as Lucian crouched low by the rushes—fingertips still glowing—and tipped the kicking frog gently in with a grimace. It bobbed once, too bloated to swim, legs flailing in every direction as it spun slowly.

  Lucian couldn’t help but marvel at what his tricks had done and how good it had felt when his hands glowed—though he’d sooner not admit it. He braced a hand on his knee as the world lurched sideways for a moment. Whenever his tricks flared on their own like that, they left him feeling dizzy and shaky afterwards.

  He glanced back at Leon.

  ‘Let’s keep it close. Mayhap it’ll go back to normal soon enough.’

  His twin nodded but didn’t move. He didn’t look afeard. His jaw hung slack as he watched the kicking frog spin in place, and yet his eyes kept flicking to Lucian’s hands.

  There was that familiar wonder in his eyes, the same look he wore whenever they stumbled on a new adventure or when Uncle Fletcher set off on one of his daft tales.

  Would Leon still call him strange?

  Touched?

  Or even, Cursed?

  Still… how could Leon not be bothered by the strange things Lucian’s tricks could do and yet be wary of touching a little frog?

  Well. Not so little now.

  Little or not, that frog could ruin him. The thought of being torn away for good from Mother and Father, and from his brothers and sisters, fretted Lucian most of all, if anyone ever learned what he could do. And what would Auntie Browne say, if word reached her? She’d set him to prayers for hours on end, sure enough.

  His whole life was at the Daiwik estate, and he loved it—the crooked roofline, the soot-blackened chimneys, and the steady rush of the River Aire in the distance, winding past their fields. His home—a three-storey house—sat just right on the western edge of Leeds, far enough to spare them the worst of the town’s stink, but not so far they’d lose half a day fetching flour.

  Lucian stood up—too quick—tiny black spots skimming the edge of his sight. He wiped his hands on his breeches so Leon would not mark the faint sheen. His fingers found Father’s ‘practical’ gift, the leather pouch belted at his waist.

  Still there. Good.

  Leon’s had been a new satchel, and just like Lucian, he carried it everywhere. Father said they might need them at His Majesty’s academy, though Lucian half-suspected Father had chosen those more to tell his twins apart than for any real use. Not even the star-shaped birthmark on their cheeks could do that.

  ‘Luce!’ said Leon, pointing. ‘Tadpoles. There, look.’

  Lucian shook his head to clear the rest of the dizziness and edged closer, careful not to ripple the water and send the fat frog off. Tiny black dots flickered there, as if they’d come to greet their round fellow. Lucian cupped his hands and scooped one up, the small creature wriggling in his palm.

  Leon leaned in, shoving him a little.

  ‘D’you think we could slip one in Tess’s wash pitcher? She’d screech loud enough to rouse half the parish.’

  Lucian’s smile widened.

  ‘You’d get a scream out of Tess, no doubt. But I reckon Mother and Auntie’d have our ears for it.’ He shook his head. ‘Nay. Poor thing wouldn’t last an hour out of the stream. They belong to the river.’

  The chill of it, and Leon’s shoves at his shoulder, eased the knot in Lucian’s chest—if only for a little while. He let the tadpole slip back into the water, eyes flicking to the poor creature wedged between the reeds—as round and bloated as ever.

  ‘It still looks a bit too puffed, doesn’t it?’

  Leon shrugged and jabbed a finger toward the woods.

  ‘Come on. Let’s see if we can find some berries.’

  ‘Nay. It’ll take too long,’ said Lucian, stepping sideways along the bank to keep the tadpoles in view. He sat on a fallen log at the river’s edge and fished a stub of charcoal and a folded scrap of paper from his pouch. Animals fascinated him, and he liked to fill pages with small creatures—tadpoles, caterpillars, beetles.

  One day he’d make a proper book.

  ‘Come on, it’s nothing. We’ll be back before Ma even marks we’re gone.’

  ‘You said the same yesterday, and we still got caught.’ Lucian smoothed the page over his knee and started drawing the curve of the tadpole’s tail. ‘Mother near gave us a whipping.’

  ‘Aye, but she didn’t, did she? She never does, not truly.’

  ‘Still. We keep chancing it. Best we stick to the bank this time.’ Lucian blew gently on the scrap of paper to clear the loose dust.

  ‘Fine. You great ninny.’ Leon dropped down beside the log and leaned over to see the sketch. ‘I like that one. Made it look true, you have.’

  Lucian tucked the scrap and the charcoal back into the pouch with care. Leon looked a touch cast down, or mayhap only bored, and Lucian couldn’t bear to leave him so.

  ‘We could go down to the shallows where we found that newt, aye? Less chance of anyone spotting us.’

  Leon sprang up at once, grinning. ‘To the other side of the bank, then?’

  ‘Though…’ Lucian pressed a hand to his side. ‘My ribs won’t thank me for another steep climb.’

  ‘Come off it, Luce. The slope’s gentler on the other side.’

  ‘We still have to climb that one.’ Lucian jabbed a finger back the way they’d come. ‘I’d sooner not have you twist an ankle, or I’ll leave you lying here—oh, no. Look!’

  The current had caught the fat frog and carried it downstream.

  Leon snorted and cried out, ‘Let’s see how far it goes,’ and tore down the riverbank.

  Lucian went after him, catching him up in a heartbeat. He gave his twin a hearty shove, and with a yelp, Leon crashed onto the muddy bank, his arms flailing. Water and muck sprayed everywhere. He looked like some farm lad’s scarecrow—sprawled in the mud, blond hair matted, soaked to his bones. Lucian burst into laughter, his chest buzzing again with that warm feeling, but he just ignored it.

  ‘I’ll be even with you,’ said Leon, leering.

  ‘I’d like to see it.’

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  A loud shout came from the bridge. His sister, Lettice, leaned over the rail, her red hair tumbling as she peered at them.

  ‘Tiny tweensies. Ma’s after you.’ she pointed toward the river. ‘What’s that bobbing in the water?’

  The frog, as big as a child’s head, spun on the current. Lucian tried not to look guilty.

  ‘Nothing!’ He shouted out and the dizziness pinched harder behind his eyes.

  ‘Nothing but a great fat frog we caught,’ Leon called up, wiping mud off his hands. ‘It’s going downstream now.’

  ‘Mm. Looked queer from up here. Is Lucian up to his tricks again?’

  ‘We’re only paddling, Tess,’ Leon said. ‘Go on back or you’ll have to kiss that frog.’

  ‘You’re the ones as ought to be back. Auntie’ll have you praying in the cellar for that—mark me.’ She waved and skipped away across the bridge. Leon pulled a face and Lucian gave a low groan. His hope of slipping back into the house unseen was gone.

  ‘No need to hurry now. We’re caught.’

  A flicker of movement near the trees caught Lucian’s eye, and he squinted at the line of leaves over the steep slope. At first it was nothing but a ripple in the shadows—a patch of dark where the leaves stirred. Then the darkness seemed to swell, gathering itself, and a pair of dull red coals blinked open within it. A low rumble, like distant thunder, shivered through the air.

  Lucian went very still. The hairs on his arms prickled.

  ‘What is it?’ Leon said.

  Lucian pointed towards the woods, unable to look away.

  ‘What?’ Leon squinted at the trees. ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘There is. A dark shape, just there in the shade.’

  ‘God’s wounds, Luce. Stop jesting.’

  Lucian grabbed Leon by the shoulders and turned him. His hands tingled, but he didn’t take his eyes off the shape.

  ‘There. Now do you see it?’

  ‘I… I can see… something…’ For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then the dark patch seemed to heave itself free of the trees, its shape sharpening. ‘What in God’s name is that?’

  ‘Looks like a black hound, doesn’t it? Only… far too big.’

  ‘It just… it came out of nowhere…’

  There was no mistaking it for a shadow now.

  A vast black beast stood on the slope, half-hidden by the leaves, its jet-black fur melding with the tree shadows. The hound snapped its head towards them and scented the air, its big, bright red eyes burning.

  Lucian and Leon stood as if rooted, watching it, and in that moment, just like a flash of lightning, Lucian understood what it wanted.

  The hound had come after his tricks. After him.

  As if answering his thoughts, the creature lowered itself. Its lips peeled back, rows of jagged white teeth showing. Its haunches bunched. One huge paw thudded on the ground, claws gouging the earth, as if it meant to charge.

  ‘Run!’ said Lucian, jerking Leon back so hard they near toppled.

  They ran until their legs burnt, then skidded to a halt beneath the bridge. Pressing themselves to one of the stout beams, the twins peered back towards the trees.

  The woods stood quiet and still. The great beast was gone. Gone as if it had never been there at all.

  ‘Where’s it gone?’ Lucian squinted. ‘The black hound… it just vanished.’

  ‘Look there… what’s that on the ground?’

  ‘A paw mark?’ Lucian leaned forward a fraction, not moving away from the beam. ‘It does look like one… and it’s huge, if we can spy it from here. How big was that hound?’

  ‘Big… proper big, that. Luce, let’s be off. I don’t like this, not a bit.’

  ‘Right. Best we’re away before it comes back.’

  Leon climbed the slope in a hurry. Lucian followed, trying to match his brother’s pace. They only slowed as they reached the wooden bridge, bare feet thudding along the cold planks, and both kept throwing nervous glances over their shoulders, checking that the hound hadn’t followed.

  Lucian shivered, wiping at a cold sweat from his temple, the warmth from before replaced by a wrong chill.

  Leon halted. ‘Are you well? You’re pale as chalk.’

  Lucian gripped the rail for a breath, eyes fixed on the wood’s edge. ‘I’m right enough… just winded from the climb, I reckon. My knees aren’t steady yet… D’you reckon… that hound’ll come after us, if we don’t make haste?’

  ‘Nay. It’s gone. Else it’d have had us already.’ Leon spat over the side and watched it vanish into the water. ‘I’d sooner face Ma’s temper than that thing in the woods. That weren’t like any dog. Something else, that.’

  Lucian only nodded. He couldn’t tell if the hound had meant him to understand that it had come for his tricks—or was it only in his head?

  Leon would reckon Lucian had gone daft if he knew what else Lucian had marked of late—things that oughtn’t be there at all—and now understanding the thoughts of that great brute as if his strange tricks weren’t trouble enough.

  None of it was normal. Leon’s nerves wouldn’t take it, not with everything already going wrong in the house. And that hound… that was something new. Lucian had no notion how to name it, only that the memory of it stuck in his mind.

  Best to ignore it—mayhap it’d go away. But he knew he was lying to himself.

  ‘Mayhap it’s a warning…’ said Lucian. ‘Or it was the Black Shuck. Doesn’t Uncle Fletcher say it’s a death omen? If you mark the Shuck…’

  ‘The Shuck’s just a tale, Luce. Rubbish. Great black dogs as come when folk are set for dying? Daft tales, they are.’

  ‘What else could it be, then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Just a great wolf?’

  ‘A wolf made of shadows?’

  ‘It weren’t made of shadows. Just a great black brute. That’s it. Best keep off the woods a bit. I’m not keen on meeting it again.’

  ‘Mayhap you’re right. Mother’d have us praying till nightfall if she knew.’ Lucian glanced back towards the three-storey house. ‘Look. Hearths are lit…’ He pointed to the pale wisps curling into the morning air. ‘We’re really caught.’

  ‘Aye. We could slip in and set ourselves to rights before Ma marks us—’

  ‘It won’t help. Tess has told her already—I’d lay coin on it. Mother might even take away our gifts.’

  ‘Nay. She’d never do that. We’ll be needing them in the academy. Ma wants us to go as much as Father does,’ said Leon, his hand holding the cord of his satchel. Then, he blurted out. ‘I can scarce believe it. No grammar school for us, and we’ll be home but two days of a month—two days.’

  Lucian nodded as a chill ran through him, making the hairs of his arm stand and he shivered. He looked down at his hands—not a glow this time but ice. A frost began to creep up his fingertips.

  Strange.

  He braced himself, hugging his arms tighter, trying to keep the cold from his fingers.

  ‘If they accept us… I hope they won’t. I’ve no liking for being away from home, or for folk staring over my shoulder.’

  ‘Don’t say that. Just mark me. Better than grammar school, it’ll be. Lads our age there—only our age—and we may play as much prison-bars as we please.’

  ‘I’d sooner stay about the grounds. Latin and long halls aren’t made for me.’

  ‘Leave off, Luce. Father won’t say nay to this new chartered school—never. Temple Newsam isn’t that far off. It won’t be half so dreadful as you’re making it.’

  ‘How would you know? We’ve never been there. I’m just glad I shan’t have to endure Lewis every day.’

  Leon slowed a step. ‘Did he… strike you again?’

  The cold swirling in Lucian tried to surge up, but he shoved it down with all he could—arms clamped round his ribcage, nails biting into his bruises.

  ‘Go on then, Luce. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s nothing. He’s jealous, that’s that. Vexed that Father gave us gifts.’

  Leon carried on talking, but his voice faded into the steady rush of the river behind them until it was nothing more than a buzzing in Lucian’s ears.

  Lucian was almost sure Lewis knew about his tricks. They’d started small and harmless, but by now they surged up on him so fast he couldn’t stop them—sudden cracks of sound, cups tipping over, or candlelight flaring on its own. Lewis’s keen gaze followed him.

  His older brother had never been kind to him, but of late he’d taken any chance he could to drive an elbow or a fist into Lucian’s ribs. The bruises still ached, yet it felt easier to say nothing than to see the alarm in Leon’s face.

  So every time something strange and unforeseen happened, Lucian would slip away—behind hedges, by the riverbank, under blankets.

  But at Temple Newsam, there’d be no slipping away. Only stone corridors, watchful masters, and the King’s clerk ready to decide whether he and Leon were worth His Majesty’s silver, the twenty pounds a year Father needed so badly.

  By now, the frost had almost reached Lucian’s wrists, and the cold inside him twisted again, as if it knew his thoughts. He shoved his hands under his armpits and turned a little towards the morning sun, rising behind the house.

  Could his tricks be witchcraft?

  He’d only heard of it in Sunday sermons and in maids’ gossip. He couldn’t be a witch—leastways he didn’t reckon so.

  Whatever his tricks were, they grew stronger. The next surge might betray him, and if anything queer came up while the King’s clerk was at their table, or later, when they were lodged at the Academy—it wouldn’t only be his own hide in danger. The clerk might snatch the offer back or drag him to the parish constable.

  Father’d be very disappointed.

  To Lucian, Father spoke of the Northern Mathematical Academy with a kind of fearful pride, as if the King’s letter were all that stood between the Daiwiks’ wool mill and ruin. He needed to get a hold of his tricks, and fast, before the clerk’s visit, before he and Leon were dragged off to Temple Newsam.

  ‘Lucian! Are you listening? Stop—stop it, before someone sees!’

  ‘Stop what?’ Lucian said. They stood under the shade of an apple tree just by the garden gate. Leon looked pale, pointing at the ground.

  A trail of frost ran across the meadow, thick and white, stretching all the way to the distant bridge.

  ‘Hurry, Luce,’ Leon hissed. ‘Be rid of it. I’ll keep watch.’

  Leon was right to fret. Frost had no place on a warm summer morning. It’d raise questions Lucian couldn’t answer. A sense of being watched set his skin prickling. He cast a brief look towards the kitchen. No one stood there.

  He lifted a hand and willed it away, but nothing happened. Not even a flicker. The cold wouldn’t leave him, and the frost-set trail stayed where it was. Lucian closed his eyes, searching for that strange warmth that rose in him whenever he was happy or pleased, and it answered straightway.

  A cosy blanket of warmth wrapped around him, brushing his neck and collar and shoving the cold aside. It felt so good that a soft gasp escaped him. He had to remember how to do that again.

  Lucian opened his eyes in time to see the frost wither into mist, leaving the blades beneath them flattened and colourless. A heartbeat later, a faint smoke began to rise from them, their tips curling in on themselves. Leon grabbed Lucian’s arm and shoved it down. The smouldering died out all at once. With it, the faint bluish glimmer flickering at his fingertips blinked out and the warmth vanished too—but for the first time he wished it’d stayed.

  Lucian’s vision dipped at the sides, as though he’d stood too fast, and he grabbed the gatepost—shaking.

  ‘Hoy! What was that?’ A shout came from overhead, and Lucian’s stomach dropped. Lewis swung down from a thick branch of the nearest tree, landing like a cat on the damp earth, face pale with disbelief, curly red hair stuck up wildly. His gaze flicked from Lucian’s hands to the faint scar of greyed grass winding across the field.

  ‘Knew you were touched.’ Lewis rushed forward and slammed Lucian into the garden gate. Pain jolted down his side. The stink of sour ale hit his nose. ‘Tell me true—are you Old Nick’s get?’

  Lucian blinked hard, eyes watering. Leon pushed himself between them and stood square in front of his twin.

  ‘Leave off, Lewie. ’Twas but a trick. It’s gone now.’

  Lewis snorted. With a quick hook of his boot, he knocked Leon straight onto the ground.

  ‘Stay out, you coward.’ Lewis yanked Lucian’s shirt close, and a sharp pull went through his ribs.

  ‘Hell-bred’s spawn, you are. How did you do it, then? How’d you make the Crown’s clerk favour you?’

  Lucian didn’t know what to say. Lewis’s face was bright red.

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘I—I didn’t do anything.’

  Lewis let go only to spit at Lucian’s feet. Coughing, Lucian flattened himself to the gate.

  ‘A black bargain’s, that’s what it was. Don’t bother denying it.’

  ‘I didn’t. It weren’t me.’ Lewis’s hand struck out, a sharp slap across Lucian’s cheek. His hands came up without thinking—more startled than hurt and hot, unwanted tears slid down his face.

  ‘Lads?’ Mother’s voice carried from the kitchen. ‘What mischief’s this now?’

  Lewis straightened. ‘Nothing, Ma. Only a bit o’ horse-play.’

  ‘That’ll do, then. Inside—all of you. Auntie needs hands on the grain sacks before the heat’s up.’

  ‘Yes, Ma. We’ll be right in.’ Lewis waited just long enough for her figure to enter the kitchen, then drove a fist into Lucian’s side.

  ‘Breathe a word—either of you—and I’ll have Father and half of Leeds know what you are. I’ll drag you to gaol myself and watch ’em hang you up. See if I don’t.’ He leaned in and whispered. ‘Imagine what Constable'd do to someone touched like you.’

  He cast a brief look over the grey grass and strode off—leaving Leon in the mud and Lucian shaking by the gate.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Leon asked, pushing himself up.

  Lucian scrubbed the tears from his cheeks and ran, not waiting for Leon to follow. Lewis’s words hurt worse than his jabs. He had finally seen his tricks. Now he knew. If he told anyone, that’d be the end of it. Even a whisper of witchcraft was enough to put a lad in the gaol.

  As Lucian neared the kitchen, the warm smell of baked loaves and salted bacon drifted out through the open door, and his stomach gave a loud growl in spite of him.

  Leon caught up with him just as Mother stepped into the doorway, eyes narrowing as they approached. Lucian cursed his own foolishness and marked it in his mind never to steal out so early again. If he said anything now besides ‘sorry, Mother’, she’d have them on their knees in the dark cellar with a psalm before they tasted a crumb. Nothing was worth that.

  ‘I cannot fathom it. Just look at the state of you two. Pray God spares you, for I shan’t.’

  Thank you for reading this chapter! I’d love your thoughts on the following (you can answer as many or as few as you like):

  1. After this chapter alone, how do you feel about Lucian as a main character (e.g. likeable, frustrating, intriguing, too passive, etc.)?

  2. Which scene or moment worked as the hook for you—the point where you most wanted to keep reading? Why did you choose that particular scene or moment?

  3. Did any scene feel slow, confusing, or unnecessary, or did you ever feel lost about who was where or doing what? Please mention specific spots if so.

  4. How did the interactions within the Daiwik family land for you (between the twins, parents, and siblings)? Did any character feel especially vivid—or flat?

  5. Were the strange/possibly magical elements and hints of danger clear enough to feel intriguing without being confusing?