For a long moment, Lucian could only stare—like Leon, his eyes wide and shining. The hush in the parlour pressed against his ears until they rang, as if the room itself had swallowed every sound.

  Mr Barlow rose from his chair and turned to Mr Allerton. ‘Go. Wipe the lads’ traces and take stock. See who that was—impale them if you must.’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ said Mr Allerton and left the room.

  Master Hewitt drew a slender rod of dark wood from his coat and pointed it at the parlour door—the latch lifted of its own accord, and the panel slammed shut with a dull thud. Both men turned to Lucian and Leon with small, sympathetic smiles that didn’t sit right on their faces.

  Lucian’s voice came too loud in the dead quiet. ‘W-what is this?’

  ‘I have merely held your household fast in the moment,’ said Barlow in an easy tone, as calmly as if he spoke of the weather. ‘Only those within your estate, mind. An old spell of mine. It serves when one requires quiet.’

  Leon lurched to his feet so abruptly his chair toppled and crashed onto the flags. His chest heaved, as though he’d run all the way from the river.

  ‘Now then, Leon—be easy, lad,’ Master Hewitt said. ‘You’ve nowt to fear.’

  Leon sprang for the door, slammed into it, and tried to wrench it open with rough, breathless grunts.

  Lucian ran to his brother’s side. The cold that lived somewhere deep in him surged up before he could smother it, and a pale light gathered along his fingers—thin as frost, bright as milk.

  Lord help him, not now.

  ‘The lads are too far gone,’ said Barlow, and he glanced at Master Hewitt. ‘Do it.’

  The fair man drew a small mirror from his pocket, no bigger than a man’s hand. He set it flat upon his palm, tapped its surface with the tip of the rod, and murmured words Lucian didn’t catch.

  The mirror shattered without a sound, bursting into tiny shards that leapt and skittered across the floor. Then the air itself—just like the mirror—shuddered and split, as if a clean sheet of glass had been struck hard in the middle. Only it was not glass. It was the very space around them.

  The walls broke apart into a thousand reflections—chairs, windows, floor—everything splintering and spinning round them in a bright, sickening whirl. Lucian’s stomach lurched. A sharp tug caught at his middle, as if some unseen hand had hooked him and yanked, and the floor fell away.

  He snatched at Leon’s sleeve for balance, fingers locking tight. Leon lost his balance almost falling backwards, and Lucian clung to him as if his grip alone could keep them from being torn apart.

  Then, as sudden as it had begun, it all went still.

  They were no longer in the parlour.

  They stood in a circular chamber, its walls black marble, polished so smooth they gave back a faint gleam. Two tall arched windows stood open to a pale, skyless grey light—yet no sound came in from without, not even a breath of wind.

  Master Hewitt pointed the rod towards a round oak table in the centre of the room. A green candle appeared upon it, as if dropped from the air. With another slight wave, its wick caught straightaway, the flame burning with a faint greenish cast. A thin smoke rose from it, carrying a scent like wet earth after rain.

  The fretful buzzing in Lucian’s head seemed to dissolve. He glanced at Leon—he didn’t look afraid any longer; instead, wonder sparked in his eyes again, the same look he wore by the riverbank.

  ‘Pray, sit,’ Mr Barlow said, as he and Hewitt moved to the upholstered chairs about the table. Mr Barlow settled first, and his small book floated close at his shoulder—a slender thread of greenish light wound round his fingers. ‘I’ll explain what I may.’

  ‘Where have you taken us?’ said Lucian, standing as if nailed to the floor. Leon’s hand on his arm shook.

  ‘We’re still in your house, lad, only set a little aside from it,’ Hewitt said. ‘Think of a soap bubble hung in the air. We’re within the bubble. All else lies without.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Lucian. ‘Let us go. Now.’ Leon’s grip tightened and the light flickering along Lucian’s fingers burst in a sharp flash.

  Master Hewitt lifted his wrist in a small, quick motion. The tip of the rod seemed to split into fine threads of light; they wound round Lucian’s wrists like cords, and the glow in his hands faded. The cold inside him drew back, leaving him shaky and hollow. Master Hewitt had checked his tricks—just like that.

  ‘Curious,’ said Barlow, watching Lucian close. ‘It runs stronger than I supposed—swift to answer, untamed, and driven by feeling alone. It struck at your glamour, born of pure instinct. Dangerous, for a boy who must keep himself hidden—most of all under the Secrecy Law.’

  ‘Aye. Formidable case, this one is,’ said Hewitt. ‘I’ve not seen a power like his in a while. Given he’s the seventh of a seventh, there’s still much to be discovered. Those surges may well be the fruit of it… Aye—and no wonder, then, that he’s being marked and sought.’

  ‘What?’ Lucian said. ‘Who are you?’

  Mr Barlow leaned in.

  ‘We are who we said we were, lad—yet we have come to offer you both an apprenticeship in our art. We are not speaking of His Majesty’s Northern Mathematical Academy, mind. In plainer words: you are Magi, as we are, and you are to be taught the craft—what you call magic—within Grovewell’s Primordium.’

  ‘You’re jesting.’ Lucian’s words slipped out before he could stop them. ‘You’ve gone mad.’

  ‘By God’s grace, lad, mind your tongue. We are still your elders,’ Barlow snapped. ‘Sit yourselves and let us explain.’

  Lucian hesitated. Questions churned in his mind like a river in flood, and these men might have the answers he sought. Very slowly, he took a step forward. But Leon’s grip on his arm held him fast.

  ‘I reckon it’s all right, Leon,’ he muttered, not taking his eyes off the two men. ‘We’ve nowhere to run to. We may as well hear them out. Mayhap they know what my tricks are.’

  Leon gave a tight nod, and together they sat.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Lucian said. ‘Is the King’s academy a school of magic?’

  ‘The King’s academy is but the outward face of the Primordium,’ Mr Barlow said. ‘The true school of our craft. Ordinary folk go to the great house in Temple Newsam—you lads, however, shall go elsewhere.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Grovewell. You see, in the Nullkin world, where none of this is known, I serve as Clerk of the Signet to His Majesty. In our world, the hidden world, I am a litoralis magus. I stand as a bridge between the two. I am charged with seeking lads such as you and bringing you, under a harmless pretence, to the Well nearest your home.’

  ‘What are Wells?...’ Leon blurted, then added, ‘...Sir.’

  ‘Hidden cities, where most magi dwell. Five Wells across England. Grovewell is where Sage Hewitt, here, teaches.’

  ‘Aye. To your father, I’m known as a royal surveyor. A Master. In truth, I’m a Sage of Grovewell—the Well nearest Leeds—though none of your folk could ever tell where it lies. It’s cloaked by spellwork, mind.’

  ‘Sir… what is it you teach?’ Lucian asked.

  ‘Among other things, runic writing.’

  The sage pushed his coat sleeve back. Dark marks ran along his forearms. They put Lucian in mind of branded stock—only, the man’s marks shifted, as if the lines were alive under the skin. Faint gleams crept from them and the movement made Lucian’s head go light for a beat.

  ‘Runes, lads. Old writing left upon the earth by beings of immense power.’

  ‘Do we have to mark ourselves as well?’ asked Leon, a tinge of disgust in his tone.

  ‘They’re not for every magus, lad.’ The fair man adjusted his cuffs, and the measuring rod gleamed in his hand. ‘Highly unpredictable when marked on flesh. Mine are another case.’

  ‘What d’you use that rod for, sir?’ said Lucian, pointing to the piece of wood in Sage Hewitt’s hand.

  ‘This? That’s no rod, lad. A relic, this is. A wand. Keeps my casting steady. Each magus has one, and no two relics are alike. Bespoke to their owners, see?’

  Mr Barlow gestured to the glowing book opened on the table.

  ‘And this is my relic, handed down in my line for many generations. It will not reveal its secrets for anyone but me.’

  Lucian and Leon exchanged a look.

  ‘I mean no offence, sirs,’ Leon stammered, ‘but I reckon you must have made a mistake. There’s none of that in us.’

  ‘I think otherwise,’ said Barlow, his voice carrying a touch of impatience. ‘Whether you accept it or not, you both bear the gift of casting spells, conjuring illusions, and other such matters. You belong to our world. The world of magicraft.’

  ‘My tricks,’ Lucian said, eyes fixed on the Sage’s face, unsure if all this was really happening. ‘Are they—are they magic?’

  ‘What you call “tricks” are, in truth, spells, lad. It’s your will showing through, and your power with it.’

  Lucian lifted his hands, staring at the fine, gleaming cords wrapped round his wrists. These men dealt with the same sort of power that the priests at sermons warned all to dread. Forbidden, that was. And Mother always said magic and witchcraft brought nothing but trouble.

  ‘Does that make me—make us, magi—ill-touched, then? Cursed? Hell-marked?’

  ‘Lord help us, you’ve listened too closely to the fire-breathers in the pulpit,’ Barlow said, irritation roughening his voice. ‘“Witch” is a word we do not use. It is taken for an oath. Magic and its mysteries are held as a gift of God’s making, not an infernal craft. Oftentimes it runs through bloodlines, from one generation to the next, though of late it appears where none expect it. That’s your case.’

  Sage Hewitt leaned forward. ‘Even inside the Wells, we attend Sunday Sermons, say grace, and read the scripture, lads.’

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Lucian met his brother’s troubled eyes. Leon just shrugged.

  ‘But. Why? Why can’t I keep hold of it, then?’ Lucian gave voice to what had troubled him for weeks. ‘Why does it burst out of me?’

  ‘Spellcraft’s not so easily learned out of a book,’ Hewitt said. ‘It’s a force that must be tamed and governed, right enough. Casting a spell unguided by a relic or relying solely on a sudden surge of will and feeling is dangerous. Taking hold like a strong drink, stripping away your soul till you’re a hollow vessel—memories gone, a creature driven by instinct alone. Mastery’s hard, aye. Takes a good seven years just to learn the bare beginnings of the craft, and most stop there.’

  ‘Begging pardon, Sage Hewitt,’ Leon burst out, ‘but I still reckon you must be mistaken. I’m just a plain lad. Luce—Lucian’s the one with the tricks here. I’m not ill-made like him.’

  Mr Barlow’s brows lifted at once, and so did Sage Hewitt’s. Leon’s words hit Lucian like one of Lewis’s punches to the side—quick, sharp, and stupidly sore, worse for coming from his twin.

  ‘Ill-made?’ Lucian echoed. ‘You truly think that of me?’

  Leon’s eyes widened, and he looked outright alarmed.

  ‘Nay! Nay—Luce—I'm sorry. I did not mean it so. Truly.’ His words tumbled over each other. ‘I only meant… I’ve never made—’ He broke off and looked down at his hands, fingers spread as if he might find the proof there. ‘…I’ve never made magic.’

  Leon kept his eyes low and didn’t say anything else. Lucian’s gaze fixed on the candle’s greenish flame until it blurred.

  ‘It’s true enough,’ he said quietly. ‘Leon has never done anything like my tricks. He’s just a plain lad.’

  Mr Barlow turned a page in his pocketbook and ran a finger lightly down a column of cramped writing. Lucian and Leon half rose, craning to see, then dropped back when the two men looked up together.

  ‘We keep a registry of those we seek,’ Barlow said. ‘Some weeks ago you cast a revelation charm. You’re a magus too, Leonard.’

  ‘I can’t be. I don’t know how to make magic.’

  ‘Sometimes the art shows itself strongest when your blood’s up—when feelings run high and wills set hard. ’Specially as you’re coming into your years. Happens a deal with novices like you,’ said Hewitt, and something in Lucian clicked. Mayhap that was why it kept slipping out of him whenever he was afeard, or angry, or even too happy for his own good.

  ‘You’ve been casting spells, lads—wild ones—without knowing it since May.’

  ‘That’s when my… tricks started. On our birthday. The first of May. I made wild roses bloom—the whole briar shrub was thick with them. Leon saw it too, and…’ Lucian faltered.

  He could tell them the rest.

  He could say Tess had been there, close enough to see every petal force itself out.

  He could say how she had stared, how Lucian’s world had turned sharp and wrong all at once—the dizziness, the heat behind his eyes, the way Tess and Leon’s stares had pinned him as if he’d been a stranger.

  But… Nay. Best not to.

  ‘…and we ran back into the house,’ he finished, keeping his eyes off Leon and pretending not to mark his brother’s frowns.

  ‘That is precisely why you need training. To master your power.’ Barlow said sharply. A faint sheen of sweat showed along his brow, even though the room was cool. ‘It is of the greatest importance that you come to the Primordium—and that you keep your true nature close, even from your family.’

  ‘Why? Why keep it a secret from our family?’ Lucian asked. The thought of hiding all of this from them seemed impossible—they all lived in one house after all—and three of his six siblings had already seen his tricks.

  ‘Because, if you reveal the truth,’ Barlow said, his gaze darkening, ‘you will break the secrecy laws of our kind. You both would be taken for a danger by magi and nullkins alike, and each side would seek to silence you. Fear of what is strange and unknown fed the witch trials. If you do not come willingly, I will have no choice but to remove you both, as though you had never been.’

  Lucian stared at the Clerk.

  Remove them?

  That sounded like a threat—plain as day. The thought of what Mr Barlow would do if he knew Tess and Lewis had already seen Lucian’s magic spill out of him was terrifying.

  Sage Hewitt’s grave voice shook Lucian out of his fretful thoughts.

  ‘I fear it mayn’t be wise to refuse our summons, lads. I’m not saying it to frighten you. I’m saying it because your magic, Lucian… it’s peculiar, even among our own.’

  ‘Sage Hewitt is right. It came as a quiet surprise that you, Lucian, are a seventh child of a seventh child. Our records are limited. Either the line has been poorly kept, or someone has hidden the fact and clouded it by magical means.’

  ‘But why? What’s so special about being a seventh?’

  ‘Because it changes what magic you might carry. As the seventh of a seventh, you can have abilities that don’t follow the usual rules—abilities which most magi don’t possess. The Vitae Memoriae, kept in the Elderwell Archive, records only a small handful. Folk like you are rare enough. Folk like you born with magic… rarer still.’

  ‘In magic there’s power in the number seven, lads. We reckon it comes from God, His number that. So Lucian, understanding what type of abilities you have, lad, is essential. The frost-scar on the grass, that bloated frog… those are small surges, but climbing, they are.’

  Lucian’s stomach tightened at the list, each of his mishaps laid out neat as ledgers. The sage watched him.

  ‘Don’t fret, lad. Before we came in, we stopped time around us, and we put everything back to rights—the grass is green again, and the frog’s back to its normal size. No harm done.’

  ‘But how?’ he asked. ‘How did you even know it was me?’

  ‘A magus always leaves a presence behind, they do. A mark, mind—stronger still after casting. You can’t see it, but it hangs about. Some magi can conceal their mark, aye, but it takes a highly skilled hand to cloak it clean and even then, there are means to reveal it. We’ve marked Lucian’s plain enough. Though Leon’s... is scarce.’

  Leon dropped his gaze to his hands. He’d never done anything strange, never made anything happen the way Lucian’s tricks did. That was true enough. Mayhap he was no magus at all. Still, Lucian found it hard to feel sorry for him now. At least, Leon wasn’t ill-made—like he thought Lucian was.

  ‘Mr Allerton—my guardian—can discern magical presences from a great distance,’ Barlow said. ‘Even when the power is scarce more than a trace.’

  ‘Clear enough, it is, that you two are magi, lads. Lucian’s presence lingered too strong about your household, and it tangled with the rest of your kin. Though we don’t yet understand why.’

  ‘At first, we thought that your birthmarks might bind you, some shared tether of the art,’ said Barlow. ‘Rare cases and little understood—your birthmarks are what they seem: only marks.’

  ‘Aye. It was troublesome to sort out who bore the gift,’ Hewitt added. ‘There’s another’s presence lingering about the grounds. So we tested, careful as we could, those with the strongest leanings. None of your family showed talent for the art—save you two.’

  ‘Another’s presence?’ echoed Lucian, frowning at the Sage. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  Sage Hewitt hesitated, as if choosing his next words with care.

  ‘Lads, heed me. There’s a force—an evil presence—spreading through your estate, unknown but dark all the same. We’ve marked it since May, about the same time your gift began to stir. Mr Allerton is, even now, taking its measure.’

  The hairs at the back of his neck prickled. That unfamiliar presence in the parlour had pressed down on him from all sides, thick as fog, then gone as quickly as it came.

  Was that presence the same force Sage Hewitt spoke of?

  ‘We came to Temple Newsam earlier than expected because of it,’ Mr Barlow cut in. ‘It is growing swift in power—drawing creatures that have no right to be abroad among Nullkins.’

  ‘What do you mean by creatures, sir?’ Lucian asked, polite enough—already dreading the answer. Leon shot him a quick glance.

  ‘Like… great black hounds?’ he said.

  ‘Nay, lads—no common creatures, mind,’ Hewitt said, and there was an urgency in his tone. ‘Magical ones—made of spirit, shade, or fire. Things that feed on magic… on despair… on suffering. Some are dangerous—aye. Most are harmless enough, mere mischief-makers, see? But either way, they’re coming on Leeds from every corner—lurking in the woods, in the river waters, in the shadows. Seeking whatever force ‘s gathering here, upon your estate.’

  ‘That is true enough,’ Mr Barlow said, gravely. ‘Allerton and I shall remain in Leeds as long as we must, using the academy and the wool trade as our cover.’

  ‘Even with the measures we’re taking, lads,’ Hewitt said, his tone darker still, ‘it’d be wise for both of you to keep from wandering alone at night—out in the fields, and most of all the woods round Leeds. There’ve been sightings… Best keep your name and household clear of town talk, lest the Crown turns harder on you than our compelling spellwork can mend.’

  ‘The Crown’s interest in our wool is false?’ Leon asked.

  ‘Not wholly,’ said Barlow. ‘Whitehall has great need of good wool. I merely turned their eye toward yours... The Crown’s agreement shall stand, in any case. You and your family have nothing to lose.’

  Leon shot an alarmed look at Lucian—the black hound.

  Lucian gave the smallest shake of his head in warning—he wasn’t about to tell these men what he’d marked, not with Mr Barlow’s threats hanging over them. The black hound alone was trouble enough. Admitting he’d heard the hound’s thoughts would be worse and might drag Leon down with him.

  Better to be clever.

  Better to keep close.

  Leon didn’t seem to take the hint. His mouth opened, ready to speak, and Lucian cut in before Leon’s words could betray them.

  ‘What are we to do, if one of them beasts comes after us?’

  ‘Nothing. We ensured protection for you and yours,’ said Barlow. ‘The nullkin title “Clerk of the Signet” is not given to any magus. As a litoralis magus, I am bound to set such things in order in both worlds. With a little spellwork, I saw to it that the Crown had cause to send me your way. A Clerk does not commonly look over a merchant’s mill and choose apprentices for the King.’

  ‘Now.’ Mr Barlow rose to his feet and looked down at them. ‘Will you lads accept our summons?’

  ‘Do you really think I’m a magus?’ Leon said.

  ‘A better question would be…’ said Barlow. ‘Would you like to be one?’

  ‘I—I reckon I would. So I accept? I accept it… I do. Sirs.’

  Mr Barlow nodded in approval and Sage Hewitt beamed.

  They turned to Lucian.

  The struggles he’d been having with his tricks… that much, at least, made a cruel sort of sense now. They weren’t harmless trifles after all—they were magic, real magic.

  Magicraft.

  That was the only part he could hold for truth.

  Everything else these men had said was steeped in deceit—the academy, the wool deal, the fine talk of scholarships.

  ‘Secrecy and lies,’ thought Lucian bitterly. That was what men like them were best at, and Lucian wanted no part of it. Yet another thought would not leave him alone. If they could truly teach him to keep a hold on what spilt out of him… if he could stop Lewis with his will instead of scrambling for Father’s penknife when the blows came… if he could use his tricks to put a protection, a ward, between his family and whatever that “evil presence” was—then there was a thin thread of hope there, stubborn as twine.

  But. Did he even have a choice? Lucian glanced at the men, and their eagerness for his confirmation made it plain enough that he didn't. They had already made up their minds. If he refused, they’d remove Lucian.

  Whatever that really means, Lucian wasn’t keen on finding out.

  He nodded from his chair.

  ‘Aye. Me too.’

  Sage Hewitt’s face broke into a broad smile. He reached inside his coat and drew out two folded letters—thick, cream-coloured paper, each sealed with dark golden wax stamped with a sigil Lucian didn’t know.

  ‘Here, then. Lucian’s. And Leonard’s. Within you’ll find your acceptance to Grovewell’s Primordium, a list of your school materials, and a golden spelltag. We use spelltags for trade, and with that one you may pay for what you need in Grovewell.’

  Lucian took his. It felt heavier than it looked, with his name—Lucian Daiwik—written neat upon it. He had half a mind to break the seal there and then.

  ‘Nay, you can’t open them yet,’ said Hewitt. ‘They’re locked, enchanted, mind, and only you lads can break the seal. Wait until we’re heading to Temple Newsam. The enchantment will break of its own accord. I’ll respond to any questions once you’ve read what’s inside.’

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ said Lucian as he put the sealed letter carefully in his pouch.

  ‘From here on, you may address me as Sage Hewitt. But outside Grovewell, it must be “Master”, right enough.’

  Sage Hewitt set out the little broken mirror again and placed it upon the table.

  ‘The official warrant from the Crown—the one your parents will sign—will be spell-touched,’ said Barlow, clenching his jaw. ‘They shall not press you with questions about school. Term starts on the first of August, and lessons on the first Monday of August.’ A shade of red rose in his face. ‘James, we must make haste. I cannot hold much longer.’

  ‘Our time’s spent, lads. When we go back, it’ll be as though we’d never left our seats. I’ll lay a small charm over your family’s memories to ease their minds. The morning will seem a little muddled to them, nowt more.’

  Sage Hewitt gave the glass a sharp tap and the world cracked again.

  The chamber, the table, the chairs shattered into a whirl of shards and reflections, but this time the splinters of light were drawn back, sucked into the mirror as though it were drinking them in.

  ‘Is Mr Allerton a magus as well?’ Lucian shouted over the harsh twirling rush of broken light.

  Sage Hewitt’s mouth twitched. ‘Nay, lad. He’s not as other men. Somewhat else, one might say.’

  The instant Lucian had found himself back in his chair at the parlour, Sage Hewitt’s enchanted cords around his wrists had vanished. Father’s voice had flowed on in mid-sentence, as though no mirror, no magi, and no shattering whirl of shards and light had ever been.

  ‘…and the last shipment went safe to the Low Countries, Mr Barlow, without a bale spoilt…’

  A knock at the door startled Lucian. Auntie dipped a small curtsey as she entered and spoke formally.

  ‘Gentlemen, mistress, the morning meal is set.’

  ‘Ah, thank you, Eddie,’ said Mother. ‘Gentlemen, if it please you, will you join us in the dining room? The rest of our family are already seated.’

  Mr Barlow inclined his head.

  ‘I shall not refuse your hospitality, Mistress Daiwik. We have ridden hard from York.’

  Lucian’s jaw dropped as his eyes fell over the table. The long oak board ran almost the full length of the room, a clean cloth smoothed tight over it. Along its centre lay the fare normally kept for Sunday feasts—warm loaves, butter, bacon, and spiced wine.

  Tess, Lyddie, Lukey, and Lewis stood by the side window—straight and pale. Father guided the King’s men towards the upper end of the table and gave Mr Barlow his usual seat. Soon all of them settled, and there was the soft clink of pewter and the quiet scrape of ladles. The warm scent of spiced wine drifted up, mingling with the sharper smell of ale.

  As they ate, Mr Barlow, Mr Allerton and Sage Hewitt had calmly discussed trade, roads, and river tolls with Father and Lawrie, while both of them sat blinking and rubbing their eyes as if they had drunk too much ale. Mother, however, was alert and Lucian found her eyes lingering on him more often than usual.

  None of them mention anything strange or out of the ordinary. The only proof it had truly happened lay crammed in the pouch at his belt: a heavy sealed letter.

  Questions for Beta Readers on Chapter 4:

  1. How does the magical reveal make you feel—excited or confused? What pulls you in most?

  2. Does Lucian's internal conflict (fear of "tricks" vs. hope for control) feel real and relatable?

  3. How tense is the secrecy explanation—does the threat to his family raise the stakes effectively, or does it feel over-the-top or not as much of a stake?

  4. Leon's reaction to his own magic: Does it come across as too sudden or surprise - have you seen the breadcrumbs of it in the last chapters?

  5. Overall hook: After this chapter, are you eager for the academy visit and "evil force" hints, or does the pacing drag anywhere?

  Characters so far

  -

  1. Lucian (Luce) Daiwik

  2. Leonard (Leon) Daiwik

  3. Lettice (Tess) Daiwik

  4. Lewis (Lewie) Daiwik

  5. Eleanor Daiwik

  -

  6. Aunt Edith Browne

  4. Lydia (Lyddie) Daiwik

  8. Luke (Lukey) Daiwik

  9. Lawrance (Lawrie) Daiwik

  10. Thomas Daiwik

  -

  11. Mr Bartholomew Barlow

  12. Mr Allerton

  13. Sage James Hewitt