Date: 2018-05-13T18:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Young Adult
Description: Isabella Rubén is a traitor - at twelve years old. Disgraced, abandoned by her friends and shunned by her family, Isabella is sent into exile with scant hope of returning to her former home. Her destination, Kirkhaven Hall; a stone mansion miles from civilisation, inhabited only by a pair of older exiles. Existence as she knew it is over. But as she tries to settle into Kirkhaven Hall, and a life far from the one she enjoyed before her fall from grace, she discovers that the hall has secrets. Intruders on the grounds, ghostly shadows moving at night ... ... and a plot that may destroy everythi
Publisher: CreateSpace Publishing

The Family Shame

(The Zero Enigma IV)

Christopher G. Nuttall

Book One: The Zero Blessing

Book Two: The Zero Curse

Book Three: The Zero Equation

Book Four: The Family Shame
http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
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Cover by Brad Fraunfelter
www.BFillustration.com

All Comments and Reviews Welcome!

Cover Blurb

Isabella Rubén is a traitor - at twelve years old.

Disgraced, abandoned by her friends and shunned by her family, Isabella is sent into exile with scant hope of returning to her former home. Her destination, Kirkhaven Hall; a stone mansion miles from civilisation, inhabited only by a pair of older exiles. Existence as she knew it is over.

But as she tries to settle into Kirkhaven Hall, and a life far from the one she enjoyed before her fall from grace, she discovers that the hall has secrets. Intruders on the grounds, ghostly shadows moving at night …

… and a plot that may destroy everything she once held dear.

Dedication

To my sons, Eric and John.

Dear Reader,

This story may require some explanation.

I was midway through writing The Zero Curse when it crossed my mind that I could write a handful of stand-alone stories set in the Zero universe. A number of ideas occurred to me, some of which I plotted out at once, but I had to put them aside while I finished the first trilogy. I was, in fact, writing The Zero Equation when it occurred to me that I could hang an entire story on Isabella Rubén, allowing me to show that she was a more complex character than she might have appeared and, perhaps more importantly, allowing me to explore different aspects of the universe. The story in front of you is the result.

If this is your first foray into the Zero universe, all you need to know is that twelve-year-old Isabella Rubén - manipulated by Stregheria Aguirre - betrayed her family to outside forces and, after the crisis was concluded, was summarily sentenced to exile. The story opens with her in a carriage, driving away from the only home she’s known …

… And making her way into an uncertain future.

As always, I welcome comments, feedback, and reviews.

Christopher Nuttall

Edinburgh, 2018

Prologue I

If I had known that it would be the last time Akin and I would talk to each other, at least as semi-equals, I like to think I would have handled it better. But I didn’t.

My brother and I had never really been close, although - as fraternal twins - we had been expected to look out for each other from a very early age. Perhaps we would have been closer, perhaps, if things had been different. But Akin had the sheer luck to be born male, into a house that steadfastly refused to allow a female to rise to the very highest rank. He, son of the Patriarch, was groomed to become Patriarch himself someday; me, daughter of the Patriarch, was denied a chance at power in my own right. And House Rubén - our house - was the sole Great House that kept the old traditions. All the other Great Houses had left them behind long ago.

It was unfair! Akin had no interest in power; indeed, he had no interest in anything beyond forging. He didn’t want to create a patronage network, let alone inherit the network of family and clients that our ancestors had built up over the years. I, on the other hand, did want it. I wanted to wield power, I wanted to be in control, I wanted to have everyone hanging on my every word … I wanted to make my family proud of me. And I couldn’t hope to reach the highest levels, no matter how much magic I mastered or how many clients I brought into the family network. My fate had been set by an accident of birth.

I’d made a fool of myself, those first few months at Jude’s. And yet … I couldn’t see how I could have done anything else.

I believed in the family. I wanted to run the family. And so I’d set out to do everything an up-and-coming family member should do. I’d made friends and allies with the scions of powerful families, I’d identified a number of promising clients for later cultivation … and, as I had to share a dorm with Caitlyn Aguirre, I’d done everything in my power to prove she truly had no magic. And I had been right. She did have no magic. But she had a different gift, one that made her more important than me. My patronage networks evaporated like morning mist, while she started to build a network of her own. Of course she was trying to build a network of her own! It was what was expected of her.

And Akin was her friend.

It tore at me, more than I cared to admit. I’d have understood if Caitlyn - Cat - was almost anyone else, but her? My rival? The one who’d made a fool of me? How could they be friends? Our families were bitter enemies. We’d been feuding for hundreds of years. There could be only one dominant house, after all, and it was going to be us. And there Akin was, befriending the daughter of a rival house … and staying with her, even after the kidnapping. It could not be tolerated. Father had told him to stay away from her. Why didn’t he listen to Father?

My brother and I didn’t look that much alike, for all that we were twins. We both had the blonde hair and blue eyes that seemed to be dominant in House Rubén, but I was tall and willowy while Akin was shorter and more muscular. He’d been forging practically since he could walk, immersing himself in the art while I’d followed a more general field of study. He had me beat when it came to forging - I admit that, willingly - but I had the edge in charms, defence and potions. I’d paid special attention to potions. Father was a Potions Master.

The House War was in its infancy when I finally managed to get Akin alone. It wasn’t easy. There were places he could go that I couldn’t follow, places where I wouldn’t go … and places where too many eyes were watching. Jude’s was supposed to be neutral, but everyone knew that it was just a matter of time before angry muttering and the occasional hex turned into something nastier. Akin might not be interested in politics, but politics were interested in him. He could hardly turn around without running into someone who wanted to befriend him … for political reasons, of course. I’d had the same problem until recently. But I hadn’t considered it to be a problem.

Akin watched me patiently as I erected a set of privacy wards around the study room. I wanted him to help, even though I didn’t really trust him to do it properly. Technically, no one was supposed to use scrying magic within the school, but I suspected that rule was about to be broken too. I’d heard whispers about upperclassmen stockpiling weapons and spells that were borderline dark …

… Although, if there was one thing I’d learnt in my twelve years, it was that rumours simply couldn’t be trusted.

“You were told not to spend any more time with her,” I said, curtly. “Why are you still even giving her the time of day?”

Akin’s eyes narrowed. “This … this … is about Cat?”

“Caitlyn Aguirre, Daughter of Lord and Lady Aguirre,” I said, fighting down a flicker of anger. “And they are our family’s enemies.”

“Cat isn’t a bad person,” Akin said. “She saved my life.”

“After endangering it in the first place,” I said. I’d listened very carefully to Akin’s story, after they’d made their escape from the Eternal City. Father hadn’t tried to stop me from eavesdropping on the conversation. “She should never have let herself be lured into that trap!”

Akin glared at me. “And you have never done anything stupid in your life?”

I glared back at him, feeling a surge of sudden jealousy. My brother didn’t want power - and it had been dropped in his lap. Cat didn’t have power - and she was suddenly the most important person in the world. They’d both lucked into importance, while I - no matter how hard I worked - could never catch up. Father would cheerfully hand his empire over to Akin without a second thought. But not to his daughter.

“There is a House War on,” I said. I was pressing close to the line - there were things I could never tell anyone, even my twin - but it had to be said. “Our family and hers are at war. And what happens if we lose?”

My eyes narrowed. “Or are you expecting her to intercede for us if we lose?”

Akin half-rose. “Isabella …”

“Why?” It was incomprehensible to me. “Why are you and her even friends?”

Akin settled back in his chair. “Because she’s a decent person? Because we share interests? Because I happen to like her? Because our families are feuding over something that happened hundreds of years ago …”

“Our families are rivals because only one of us can rule the city,” I told him, sharply. “And even if she is a nice person, her family is not.”

“That doesn’t mean we should hate them,” Akin said, quietly. “Why can’t you give her a chance?”

I glared. “Like the chance that was never given to me?”

“And if you had been born without magic,” Akin asked, “what would have happened to you?”

That was a good point. I decided to ignore it.

“The Patriarch has ordered you to stop talking to her,” I said, instead. “This is the end!”

Akin’s face darkened. For a moment, I thought he was going to hex me. Instead, he stood and stormed out of the study, slamming the door behind him. I glared at the closed door, cursing my brother under his breath. I wished I could have told him everything, but I’d given my word. Some secrets had to be kept until the time was right. In hindsight, I should have told him …

I was right. It was the end of a great many things.

Prologue II

It was a truth often acknowledged, Lord Carioca Rubén thought grimly, that House Rubén was the oldest Great House in Shallot. House Rubén could trace its lineage all the way back to the Senatorial Families of the Eternal City, a claim that none of the other Great Houses could make. Indeed, House Rubén was also the only Great House to cling to the customs and traditions of a long-vanished world that had, as far as the rest of the city was concerned, outlived their usefulness long ago. He’d seen it, once, as proof that they were different, as proof that they were born to eventually take supreme power.

Now, the traditions were a noose around his neck.

He stood in the centre of the Chamber of Judgement, his hands clasped behind his back as the arbiters took their places. Their faces were concealed behind black cloaks and powerful wards, their identities hidden even from the Patriarch himself. They would be men, of course, considering their House, but beyond that …? Carioca understood the logic behind the tradition - he would have tried to bribe or threaten the arbiters, if he knew who they were - and at one point he would have supported it. Now … he would gladly throw tradition out the window if it would save his daughter’s life. He’d been very lucky that Isabella simply hadn’t been executed on the spot.

“We have discussed the matter of Isabella Rubén at great length,” the lead arbiter said. His voice was muffled by the wards. No one, not even the other arbiters, would know who he was. A friend, an enemy … or merely someone who’d lost confidence in Carioca’s leadership? “It is beyond doubt that she committed treason, against both the family and the kingdom itself. And that she acted without direction from a senior member of our family.”

Carioca felt his heart clench. Isabella wouldn’t have been expected to defy a senior member of the family, if he’d ordered her to follow his instructions. She was twelve. She wasn’t expected to make decisions for herself. If she had even a flimsy excuse to blame her actions on someone older, wiser and more powerful than herself …

“Worse, she chose to ally herself with Stregheria Aguirre,” the arbiter continued. “It is impossible to believe that she thought she was acting in the best interests of the family, or even that she was trying to secure the family’s future in the event of Crown Prince Henry’s coup suceeding. Isabella would have claimed power over the remainder of the Great Houses, assuming Stregheria Aguirre actually honoured her side of the agreement, but there would be little left to rule. House Rubén would be left broken in the wake of the coup.”

And the House War, Carioca thought. Stregheria Aguirre had laid her plans well. She’d played Isabella like a puppet. And, because she was an Aguirre, there was no way Isabella could be forgiven for allying with her. House Aguirre had been the enemy. She thought she had no choice.

He winced, inwardly. Any father whose child turned against the family was a failure as a parent. That much was undeniable. How much of what had happened was his fault? Perhaps, if he’d been a stricter or a more attentive parent, Isabella would never have looked elsewhere for validation. Perhaps, if he’d fought for her right to succeed him as Patriarch, she wouldn’t have felt she needed to step outside the family line for power. Isabella was his daughter. How could she not be ambitious? But even he could not overturn centuries of tradition. He hadn’t even realised he needed to try until it was too late.

“If Isabella was a grown woman, she would have been executed by now,” the arbiter stated, flatly, confirming Carioca’s previous beliefs. “Treason is a serious offense. The king has already executed a number of Crown Prince Henry’s supporters, even members of the highest nobility. As it is, considering her age, we have decided to be merciful.”

Carioca wasn’t relieved. Mercy was a word with many meanings. Isabella was too young to be executed, perhaps, but there was no way she could be saved from punishment. He’d been lucky to escape being summarily stripped of his title himself. If he hadn’t been a war hero, if Caitlyn Aguirre hadn’t made her proposal to end the House War - and the endless feud - he might have lost everything. As it was, there was no guarantee that his son would be able to succeed him. The family council might choose to elect someone else in his place.

And the king will be demanding some punishment, he thought, grimly. Too many noblemen - and army officers - had backed Crown Prince Henry’s bid for the throne. It had been sheer luck that the original plan had had to be replaced at short notice. He cannot let a known traitor get away with it.

“Isabella will be sent into exile,” the arbiter informed him. “We have decided that Kirkhaven Hall will make a suitable home for her until we see fit to recall her from exile.”

“I protest,” Carioca said, immediately. “Kirkhaven Hall is no place for a young girl.”

“She will not be alone,” the arbiter said.

“But there will be no one of her age there,” Carioca said. He was all too aware that he was coming close to pleading. “She will …”

“She is being punished,” the arbiter said. “A few years in exile will teach her a lesson and satisfy the king. Should she comport herself in a manner that suggests she has learnt something from the experience, she will eventually be allowed to return to the city.”

But what she did will never be forgotten, Carioca thought, glumly. Too many people knew the truth for it to be forgotten, even if he bribed or threatened people into silence. House Rubén had enemies. They’d drag the matter up every time they needed to weaken the family’s reputation still further. Isabella will never live it down.

He stared into the arbiter’s hooded face and knew there was no point in arguing. The family demanded its pound of flesh. Isabella had betrayed them, a crime that could never be forgiven. Scheming to become Patriarch was one thing, but actually planning to ruin the entire family was quite another. There were few worse crimes. Carioca’s enemies might take pleasure in putting a knife in his back, while he was weak, but even his allies would agree that Isabella needed to be punished. Sending her into exile, cutting her off from the friends and family she’d need to make a name for herself, was harsh. Her future prospects would be utterly ruined.

As if they weren’t anyway, Carioca thought. Who would want her to marry into their family now?

“Isabella will leave tomorrow morning,” the arbiter said, firmly. “You will not be permitted to talk to her before her departure, nor will you or your inner family write to her without the family council’s approval. Should you attempt to contact her secretly, her exile may be extended and your own position will be subject to examination.”

Carioca gritted his teeth, wondering - again - who was under the hood. One of his enemies, definitely. The list was a depressingly long one. He’d stood on too many toes during his rise to power. And now that he was weak, someone had decided to have a go at him. If he didn’t try to contact Isabella, his fitness as a father - and Patriarch - would be called into question. But if he did try to contact his daughter, his enemies would have all the excuse they needed to strip him of his position. He could not win.

“I understand,” he said.

Isabella would not have an easy time of it. Kirkhaven Hall was in the highlands, right on the border with Galashiels. There were only a couple of people living there, both of whom had been sent into exile themselves years ago. Isabella would have books, of course, and plenty of room to practice her magic, but her education would suffer. And she would be unable to build the circle of patronage that any young person needed to make something of themselves in adult life. She would be alone, in a very real sense, for the rest of her life.

But at least she will be alive, he told himself. And, one day, she will return to us.

But he knew that day would be a very long time in coming.

Chapter One

It was cold. Bitterly cold.

I muttered a heating incantation under my breath, although I knew it was useless. The bracelet the armsman had forced upon me, before we left the hall five days ago, kept me from performing even the simplest of spells. I could no more warm myself than I could look out of the shuttered windows, let alone cast a spell that might get me out of the carriage. The clothes I wore were too thin, the charms woven into the fabric nowhere near powerful enough to turn back the cold. I was going to freeze.

The carriage rattled, reminding me that we were a long way from the King’s Roads - and Shallot. I hadn’t seen much of the countryside - the armsman had kept the shutters down for most of the trip - but it was clear that we were travelling well into the hinterlands. The family estate, a mere fifty miles from Shallot, could be reached in a day on horseback, if one was prepared to ride hard. I didn’t think the carriage could move as fast as a horse, but still … we’d been travelling for a very long time.

I looked down at the cuff, feeling a bitter surge of helplessness. My life was over. My life was over, and it was never going to end. The Arbiters had made it clear that I was going into exile, that I would not be allowed to return to Shallot for years, if at all. I was an exile, at twelve years old, and it was all my own stupid fault. There was no one else to blame for my fall from grace. They’d made that clear to me too.

I should never have listened to that witch, I thought. I’d been told, more than once, that I should inform my father if an adult from a rival Great House tried to make contact with me. I hadn’t listened. I’d been hurting and depressed and Stregheria Aguirre had told me what I wanted to hear. If I hadn’t listened to her …

But I had listened to her, I had allowed her to talk me into treason against my family - against the entire city - and I was lucky to be alive. The Arbiters had told me that too, as if I didn’t know that already. If I’d been an adult, I would have been beheaded. But I couldn’t help thinking, as I stared at the carriage’s wooden walls - it was little more than a box on wheels - that I hadn’t really been lucky at all. I would have died quickly, then it would have been over. Now, my life would be turned into an object lesson for young children, a grim reminder of what not to do. I’d laughed at some of the stories of older family who’d transgressed and faced punishment. It wasn’t so funny now that the boot was on the other foot.

I leaned back against the wooden wall and closed my eyes, trying to sleep. There was little else to do. The Arbiters had let me pack a few books - and a handful of possessions - but the armsman had put my trunks under the carriage, rather than letting me have anything in the passenger compartment itself. He wanted to make me miserable, I thought. Two weeks ago, I’d been one of the highest-ranking children in the family. Servants had jumped at my commands. Now, I was just an exile. My name had probably been struck from the family rolls. Mother was probably going around telling everyone that she had only ever had one child. My mother and I had never been particularly close, but the thought still hurt.

Not that anyone will believe her, I thought. And no one will ever let Mother and Father forget what I did either.

I scowled at the thought as I tried to concentrate on a meditation routine. People had been sent into exile before, but none of them - as far as I knew - had betrayed the family quite as spectacularly as I. The young men and women who had committed some indiscretion that was only spoken about in whispers would be welcomed back, after a decent interval. They might never regain their former prominence, but at least they would be part of the family again. I, on the other hand …

They’ll never forget what you did, a little voice whispered at the back of my mind. And they’ll never let you go home.

A surge of anger ran through me. My magic shuddered to life, pressing against the bracelet … then faded back into nothingness. I slumped, cursing the bracelet and its designer in words I’d never dared use in front of my parents. My magic was useless as long as I wore the wretched cuff. Had Caitlyn designed it? Or Akin? My brother had been quick to side with the Aguirre spawn, even though she was powerless. He’d liked her, I thought, long before her true nature became clear. He certainly hadn’t spoken out for me at the hearing. He’d been too busy with something else.

And now his sister is powerless, I thought, numbly. I might have been young, but I’d had power. I could walk the streets in perfect safety, trusting in my magic to protect me. But now I was defenceless, as helpless as a newborn babe. An unbidden thought forced itself into my mind: Is this how Cat feels all the time?

My thoughts mocked me. I didn’t want to think about Caitlyn right now. It’s not fair. It’s not fair …

I must have fallen asleep, or slipped into a meditative trance, because I thought I saw and heard people surrounding me. Cat, speaking to me as though I was a friend; Akin, his face pinched and wan; a young boy with chocolate skin smiling at me … and a Hangchowese girl with almond eyes and an enchanting smile. I had to be dreaming, I thought. My family didn’t know any Hangchowese girls, not socially. House Griffin was the only family with any Hangchowese blood and they were a minor house, barely able to pay their debts. People had been predicting their demise for years.

The girl was saying something to me. I turned my head, trying to hear, but her words just slipped away. They were words of wisdom, I thought, yet … they existed only at the corner of my mind. Maybe I was just imagining it. I was half-asleep …

A crashing sound echoed through the carriage. I jerked awake, looking from side to side. The shutters had opened, revealing a desolate wasteland. I stood, trying to ignore the increasingly urgent sounds from my stomach, and peered through the window, looking out onto a different world. We appeared to be in a valley, following a river as it poured down from the distant snow-capped mountains. The land appeared to be nothing but scraggly grass and stones. I could see flecks of white on nearby hills, small copses of trees everywhere … I couldn’t see any sign of human life. The only sign that anyone had ever been in the valley was the road. A handful of birds flew through the air, some of them following us for a few moments before looping away into the sky. I felt a flicker of envy for their freedom. I wanted to fly too.

Cat flew, a treacherous part of my mind whispered. You could have flown too, if you’d befriended her instead of tormenting her.

The carriage shuddered, again. The shutters slammed closed. I sighed and sat back on the bench, closing my eyes. The armsman was tormenting me, I was sure, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d managed to get under my skin. Maybe I’d been horrid to him, when I’d been a little girl. Or maybe he was just making my new position as the family’s latest exile clear.

I must have fallen asleep again, for the next thing I knew was the carriage lurching to a halt and someone banging on the door. I jerked upright, hastily pulling my golden blonde hair into a rough braid. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Not, I supposed, that it mattered. A girl my age who went outside without braided hair would face the most astringent criticism from the Grande Dames of High Society, but in my case there was so much else to criticize. I smoothed my green dress with my hands, then stood and tapped on the door. It opened a moment later.

The coldness hit me like a physical blow. I’d thought it was cold inside the carriage, but outside … it was practically freezing. Water droplets hung in the air as if they were suspended, splashing against my body as I peered out the door. Technically, the armsman should have provided steps - or helped me down to the ground - but he made no move to do either. I took a breath and jumped down, landing in a muddy puddle. Cold water started to seep into my boots. I glared at the armsman, daring him to laugh, then looked around. The estate - if indeed we were on an estate - was wreathed in mist. I stared, fascinated. I’d never seen mist - real mist - before. Visibility was down to a handful of metres. I thought I could see trees in the distance, but it was impossible to be sure. The world was silent, as if time itself had stopped. It felt, just for a moment, as though I were still dreaming.

A hand touched my shoulder. I jumped, then remembered the armsman. He motioned for me to walk around the carriage. I sighed, staring at his glamoured face in the hopes he’d think I could see through the spell, then did as I was told. The horses whinnied unhappily as I passed. Horses normally liked me, but I suspected they knew I was in disgrace. Or maybe they were just bonded to the armsman. They could have picked up their master’s feelings about me.

I sucked in my breath as the mansion came into view. It was a boxy stone structure, built to last; the walls were covered with gargoyles and carved with protective runes. There were six floors, I thought, judging by the windows. And yet, there was something shabby about the building. The runes looked faded, the gargoyles looked as though they’d been in the wars and a number of windows had been boarded up. The grassy lawn outside the door, what little I could see in the mist, looked unkempt, the grass fighting for dominance with a handful of wilder strains. Mother would have fired everyone involved with maintaining the lawn, I thought. She had always insisted the Great Houses had to look good, whatever the cost. It didn’t look as if whoever was responsible for the mansion cared one jot about appearance.

“Your new home,” the armsman said.

He snapped his fingers, casting a spell with casual ease. I looked away, not wanting to watch as the trunks were levitated out of the carriage and floated up towards the door. The Arbiters hadn’t said when the cuff would be removed, if indeed it would be removed at all. I shuddered at the thought of being powerless for the rest of my life, unless I managed to think of a way to remove the cuff for myself. It would probably be locked by magic, I guessed; anyone could unlock it, as long as they could use magic. I felt an uneasy moment of sympathy for Caitlyn, despite everything she’d done to me. She must have spent most of her life feeling as helpless as I did now. And I’d mocked her for it.

“Stay here,” the armsman ordered.

He strode off, the trunks following him like obedient puppies. I stared after him for a long moment, then wrapped my arms around my chest. My dress was the height of fashion, but it was growing damper and colder by the second. I was uneasily aware of water pooling in my socks, no matter how much I squelched about. The ground was soft enough that the carriage seemed to be sinking into the mud. I wondered, nastily, if the armsman would be able to get it and the horses out when the time came for him to leave.

A gust of wind blew through the mist, bringing the promise of snow. I squeezed myself tighter, feeling water running down my back. Two weeks ago, I had been a little princess; my skin fair and unblemished, my dresses miniature versions of adult clothes, my hair perfectly coiffed by a small army of maids. Everyone had said I was a pretty girl, that I would grow up to be as stunning as my mother. Now, I was a straggly mess. My hair was threatening to come undone as it grew damp, but I was too cold to hold it in place. I wished, how I wished, that I’d thought to bring a coat! Even one of Great Aunt Gladys’s handmade jumpers would have been preferable. Ugly and lumpy they might have been, but at least they were warm.

The armsman returned, his boots squelching through the mud. “Come.”

I followed him, wondering just what was on the far side of the heavy wooden door. I’d been told I was going to a family estate, but which one? I hadn’t been told anything about it, save for the simple fact that it was a long way from Shallot. I’d researched a number of the family’s properties, back when I’d still had hopes of becoming the Heir Primus, but I didn’t recall any of them looking like this. I was mildly surprised the building hadn’t been sold off long ago. We have a reputation for keeping what is ours, but still … this mansion looked worthless.

The wards brushed over me as I stepped through the door and into a dark lobby. A flight of stairs led upwards, into the darkness; two wooden doors led further into the building. The only light came from a single crystal, hanging from the ceiling. Whoever was in charge of maintaining it clearly hadn’t bothered to renew the spells. It should have been bright, but instead it cast a dim and flickering light over the lobby. A pair of hunting trophies had been mounted on the walls: a dragon and a basilisk. I was relieved to note that the taxidermist had had the sense to remove the basilisk’s eyes. My trunks had been placed beside the stairs.

“Lady Isabella Rubén,” the armsman said, as if I was being announced at a ball. I don’t think I ever hated anyone so much as I hated him at that moment. He didn’t need to rub it in. “Disgraced.”

“Indeed,” a voice said.

Two people were standing by the stairs, watching me. I cringed inwardly, suddenly aware of just how terrible I looked. My clothes damp, my hair a mess … I felt my braid slowly start to come undone under their stares. I somehow managed to drop a curtsey, despite my wet dress, then put up my hands to fix the braid. I’d probably made a bad impression already.

I forced myself to make a show of lowering my eyes, while keeping an eye on them. One, an older man, looked frankly disinterested; the other, a woman who looked around ten to fifteen years older than me, looked as if she’d smelt something disgusting. She was tall and blonde, her hair bound up in a style that suggested she was married; she wore a brown dress that looked as though it was handmade. She would have been pretty, I thought, if she’d worn something more suitable and, perhaps, put a nicer expression on her lips. There was something oddly familiar about her patrician face, something that nagged at my mind until I placed it. She looked a lot like me.

She’s family, I thought. Almost everyone in my family has the same blonde hair. And she might be quite closely related to me.

“Ira Rubén and Morag Rubén,” the armsman said. He was enjoying himself a bit too much, I thought. “Please meet your new companion.”

Ira leaned forward. He was taller than I’d thought - there was something about him that made him look short - and he was old. His movements were slow and deliberate, his blond hair slowly turning grey … I’d automatically assumed that he and Morag were married, but it was starting to look as though there was a large age gap between them. The suit he wore was years out of date. And yet, his eyes were sharp, if disinterested. His face was dignified, with a neat little goatee; his hands were scarred, suggesting a series of accidents in a potions lab or a forge. He held a letter in one hand. I guessed it was the official orders from Shallot.

“Thank you,” Ira said. He took the wad of papers the armsman offered him without comment. “You may go now.”

The armsman blinked. “Senior, I …”

“You are not welcome here,” Ira told him, shortly. “Drive down to the town. They’ll have a place for you in the inn.”

I felt a flicker of amusement at the armsman’s agitation. No doubt he’d expected to be put up for the night. But Ira was chasing him out. It was a breach of etiquette, but not one the armsman could openly protest. I wondered if the townspeople really would have a place for him or if he’d have to sleep in the carriage. It was what he’d made me do. The bench had been bad enough for sitting, but worse for sleeping. I suspected I had bruises all over my body.

“Morag, take Isabella’s trunks to … I think the Blue Room,” Ira ordered, once the armsman had departed. “Put them in there, then come back to my office.”

“Yes, Senior,” Morag said. Her voice was hard, tinged with an accent I didn’t quite recognise. I didn’t think she was pleased to see me. But it was also clear that Ira was in charge. “I’ll make the bed up for her too.”

Ira nodded, then looked at me. “Welcome to Kirkhaven Hall,” he said. He turned away, heading to the nearest door. “Come with me.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

Chapter Two

Kirkhaven Hall smelt … musty.

And yet, it reminded me, in so many ways, of Rubén Hall. The walls were lined with wood panelling and illuminated by glowing crystals, a handful of portraits hung from the walls … I felt a pang of homesickness as I followed Ira down the long corridor. And yet, there were plenty of signs that I was a long way from home besides the smell. The corridor was in disrepair, patches on the walls showed where paintings and portraits had hung before being removed, the crystals were dimming and half the rooms we passed were empty. There should have been a small army of servants tending to the building, but I saw no one. The hall felt deserted. I found it more than a little creepy. But I was too numb to care.

Ira led me into a small office and motioned for me to sit in a chair while he lit a fire in the grate. I sat, silently glad to be out of the damp. My skin felt patchy and dry; I wanted - needed - a hot bath. Ira sat at his desk and started to go through the papers, reading them one by one. I forced myself to wait, despite increasingly loud grumbles from my stomach. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I’d last been allowed to eat, but it felt like hours. The armsman hadn’t stopped for food. He hadn’t even shoved food into my cage.

It was hard, so hard, to wait. I concentrated on looking around the office, noting the bookshelves - groaning under the weight of hundreds of books - and the handful of drawings someone had stuck to the walls. It looked as if someone had been drawing detailed sketches of human anatomy, ranging from an outline of a human skeleton to the innermost workings of the brain. I was a pretty fair sketcher myself - it was a skill we were encouraged to learn - but whoever had drawn the sketches was a real artist. I’d never seen anything like them outside a handful of textbooks, and even they hadn’t been quite so detailed.

My stomach rumbled, loudly. Too loudly. I found myself flushing with embarrassment as Ira looked up from one of the documents and lifted his eyebrows.

“I’m hungry,” I said. It sounded more like a whine than I wanted. “I … it’s been hours.”

Ira looked annoyed, as if I’d asked for something unreasonable, but plucked a bell off his belt and waved it in the air. There was no sound, as far as I could tell, yet the door opened two minutes later and Morag stepped into the room. Her eyes flickered over me, then came to rest on Ira. I had the feeling she definitely didn’t like me, even though I hadn’t seen her before. I hadn’t seen either of them before, let alone heard of them. Ira was old enough to be my grandfather, if not my great-grandfather. He might have stayed at Kirkhaven longer than I’d been alive.

“Fetch Isabella something to eat and drink,” Ira ordered. “And bring me a mug of tea.”

“Yes, Senior,” Morag said.

She shot me another look, then turned and hurried away. I watched her go, wondering what bee had got into her bonnet, then sat back and forced myself to wait. It felt like hours crawled past before Morag returned, carrying a tray of sandwiches, a glass of milk and a steaming mug of tea. Ira took his tea, dismissed Morag with a wave of his hand and motioned for me to eat. Normally, I would have turned my nose up at plain ham and cheese sandwiches, but right now I was ravenous. I ate so quickly that Mother would probably have reprimanded me for forgetting my table manners. And when I was done, I looked up to see Ira watching me with open amusement.

I felt myself flush, again. “Senior?”

“No matter,” Ira said. His voice sobered as he held up the first letter. “Do you know what this says?”

“No, Senior,” I said. A couple of the documents looked like school reports, although I hadn’t been at Jude’s long enough for an official report. They were normally handed out the week before the end of term, giving the parents a couple of months to hire tutors to bring the children up to spec. “I wasn’t told.”

“I suppose not,” Ira said. “You appear to be an exile. Like me.”

I blinked. “Like you?”

“Indeed,” Ira said.

I could have kicked myself. Of course Ira was an exile too. No one would stay here, hundreds of miles from civilisation, if they had any choice. Ira was an exile and Morag was his sole servant. I hadn’t seen anything to suggest that there were any other servants in the hall - or anyone else at all. My mother would have thrown a fit if there was a speck of dust on the windowsill, let alone the layers of dust and grime I’d seen as we’d walked to the office. Ira had been sent away from Shallot to keep him out of sight and mind. I couldn’t help feeling a flicker of kinship for the older man.

“Basically, you are to stay here until your banishment is rescinded,” Ira said. He sounded annoyed, although it didn’t seem to be directed at me. “That may be quite some time.”

“I know, Senior,” I said.

Ira snorted. “Morag will be preparing a room for you now. We’ll have a proper discussion about your … role … here tomorrow, when we are both refreshed and you’ve had a chance to change your clothes.”

I glanced down at my damp dress. Mother would have been horrified if she’d seen me walking through the hall in such a state. She’d have sent me to my rooms and told me not to come out until I was washed, scrubbed, dressed and my hair carefully styled to match the latest fashion. Ira didn’t seem to be too concerned about my appearance. I supposed it didn’t matter much to him. He wasn’t in that good a state either.

He returned his attention to the letter. I took advantage of the silence to study him more closely. He was older than I thought, I guessed. There was something about his slow, deliberate movements that suggested his rejuvenation spells were finally starting to wear down, even though his eyes were sharp and it was clear he was a powerful magician. I wondered, suddenly, if he knew my parents - or even my grandparents. I’d never heard of Ira Rubén. He must have been exiled years before I was born or the Grande Dames would still be wittering about him.

They’ll be wittering about me now, I thought, with a flash of bitterness. I didn’t want to think about what the length of his exile meant for mine. I wonder if Mother will ever be able to hold her head up in polite society again.

I coughed. “Do you know my parents?”

“I haven’t met them,” Ira said, tonelessly. “I’ve been away for quite some time.”

Ouch, I thought. Father was in his late forties. If Ira had never met him, even as a little boy, he had to have been in exile for fifty years or more. How long has he been here?

Ira cleared his throat. “We’ll discuss basic rules tomorrow,” he added, “but there is one rule you need to know now. You are not, whatever happens, to go onto the sixth floor.”

“The sixth floor?” I couldn’t help asking the obvious question. “What’s on the sixth floor?”

“My private rooms,” Ira said, curtly. His voice hardened. It was suddenly very easy to believe he was related to Grandfather. “You are not to go onto the sixth floor. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Senior,” I said. I didn’t want to know, but I had to ask. “What will happen if I do?”

Ira gave me a humourless smile. “I’ll let the wards have you,” he said. “You won’t enjoy it.”

I swallowed. Father had told me that there were rooms and suites in Rubén Hall that I was never to enter for any reason whatsoever. Some were workshops, where my father’s apprentices studied potions; some were private rooms for secret conferences. I’d disobeyed him a few times when I was younger, only to discover that the wards were quite effective at keeping me out. Father had made it clear, more than once, that I’d only brushed against the outer layers. The inner layers were far nastier.

“Yes, Senior,” I said. This was Ira’s territory. He was entitled to guard his privacy however he wished. I didn’t think that even Father, if he was still the Patriarch, could demand an inspection without consequence. “I won’t go up there.”

“See that you don’t,” Ira told me. His eyes bored into mine for a long moment. “Have you eaten enough?”

I looked at the empty tray and nodded. It would do, for the moment. I wasn’t quite sure what time it was, but it felt late. I simply hadn’t slept very well. My body was reminding me that I’d spent most of five days in an uncomfortable carriage, in an uncomfortable ride to Kirkhaven. I needed a bath and sleep, perhaps not in that order.

At least I can sleep in a proper bed, I told myself. That will be something.

Ira rang his bell again. Morag reappeared, almost at once. She must have been waiting outside the door. Mother’s maids did that, standing outside until they were summoned to attend their mistress. They’d always been willing to play games with a little girl, but the moment Mother called them they had to drop everything and run to her side. I felt a pang of homesickness that hurt, more than I cared to admit. I might be allowed to go home one day, if I was lucky, but I’d never be that carefree girl again.

Morag nodded to Ira. “Yes, Senior?”

“Take Bella to bed,” Ira said. “And …”

“Isabella,” I corrected, hastily. “Bella is … Bella is someone else.”

Morag’s expression became more pinched. “As you wish, young mistress,” she said, sardonically. “Isabella, come with me.”

I glanced at Ira, surprised. Mother would not have tolerated such churlishness from her servants, not even for a second. The maids had to be on their best behaviour at all times or they’d get the sack. Or worse, they’d be sent to tend to my elderly relatives instead. Mother was strict, with firm ideas of how things should be, but she wasn’t obnoxious. The elders, on the other hand, could be thoroughly unpleasant at times. I didn’t know the details, but one particular great-uncle had driven away a dozen maids until Father had a long … discussion … with him.

“Go,” Ira said. He waved a hand at the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I rose, dropped a curtsey and followed Morag to the door. The air outside felt colder, somehow, as we made our way up a flight of stairs. They were meant to be carpeted, I thought, but someone had removed half the carpet to reveal the wood beneath. I kept a wary eye on the floor, just in case I stepped on a nail. I’d had the sense to wear my outdoor shoes, but I didn’t know if they’d protect me from something sharp. It grew harder to see as we reached the fifth floor and started down the corridor. The light crystals were brightening and dimming, seemingly at random.

“My room is at the end of the corridor,” Morag said. I jumped. She’d been so quiet that I’d believed she wasn’t going to say anything. Her voice was sharp, as sharp as Mother had sounded when she’d caught me digging up her roses. I wanted to snap back at her, but I was too tired. “You are not to go inside without my permission.”

I nodded, wordlessly. Mother had made it clear that neither I nor Akin was to enter the servant quarters. I didn’t understand the reasoning, but she’d been blunt enough to convince me that some lines were best not crossed. Morag deserved what little privacy she could get, I assumed. She’d probably have more privacy at Kirkhaven Hall than I’d had at Rubén Hall, back in Shallot. There were far fewer prying eyes.

And no one bothered to say a word when she claimed a guest suite for herself, I thought, wryly. Servants normally stayed below stairs, on the ground floor. Ira probably didn’t care enough to object.

We stopped outside a blue door. Morag put her hand against the wood and muttered a charm, then pushed the door open. I followed her into the room, feeling cold. If I needed magic to open the door … I would be trapped, as long as I wore the cuff. Normally, I could go in and out of my rooms whenever I wanted. I’d set the wards to ensure I didn’t need passwords or charms to step through the door. But here … this wasn’t my room.

Yes, it is, my thoughts mocked. It is your room as long as you are living here.

The Blue Room was blue. Everything was blue, save for an oaken double-poster bed in the exact centre of the room. The blue walls looked cracked and faded, the blue bookshelf was empty, the blue wardrobe door was hanging open, the blue window shutters were firmly closed and locked … I rolled my eyes as I saw the blue door, leading into what I guessed was the bathroom. My trunks rested neatly against the far wall, waiting for me to open them. I realised, with a flicker of horror, that I couldn’t open them. The locking charms needed magic to open them.

Morag strode across the blue carpet and opened the far door. “There’s a bathtub in here,” she said, as I followed her. “You can use it in the morning, if you wish.”

I peered into the chamber. The bathroom was larger than I’d expected, but strikingly empty. A tub … and not much else. No toilet, no shower … not even soap and freshener. There weren’t even any taps on the bathtub. The sink looked as if it had been designed for a child of five, not a girl of twelve. It was tiny. The mirror was placed so low that I’d have to bend over to see my face. Someone Morag’s height would have to kneel down to use it.

Morag turned back into the bedroom. “You can put your clothes in the wardrobe, if you wish,” she said. She opened the broken door to reveal a handful of shelves and a clothing rail, tiny compared to the walk-in closet I’d had back home. “Or you can leave them in your trunk …”

I caught her arm. “Morag … where do I go to the toilet?”

Morag yanked her arm free. “There’s a chamberpot under the bed,” she said, briskly. “This place was built before indoor plumbing really became a thing. A few pipes were run through the house, but not enough to support anything larger than a sink. Make sure you empty the chamberpot every morning or you’ll regret it.”

“… Oh,” I said. No showers? I shuddered at the thought. My skin felt thoroughly unclean after five days in the carriage. I probably smelt terrible. The armsman hadn’t allowed me to do more than wash my face and hands. “I …”

Morag ignored me as she plucked the lantern off the wall and put it on the bedside table. “I assume you’ve used one of these before,” she said. “Tap once to turn off the light, tap twice to turn it back on again. Is there anything else you need before you go to bed?”

I glanced at the trunks. “Can you unlock the trunks?”

Morag lifted her eyebrows. I held up my arm to show her the cuff. Her lips smiled, just for a second, then she opened the first trunk. I dug through the clothes to find my nightgown - I tried to ignore her snort when she saw it - and put it on the bed. I’d have to unpack everything else tomorrow, if I wanted to wear something new. The trunk closed and locked again as Morag turned away, heading for the door. I was too tired to care.

“Sleep well,” Morag said. She didn’t bother to look back. “And good night.”

I undressed hastily, dropping my sodden dress and underclothes on the floor, then pulled the nightgown on and climbed into bed before it got too cold. The mattress felt hard, so hard that I had to roll over and over before I felt remotely comfortable. My duvet was thin, too thin. I had the feeling that whoever normally occupied the room, if anyone normally occupied the room, used magic to keep themselves warm. I knew a dozen spells that would turn the room into a furnace, none of which I could cast as long as I wore the cuff. Shaking my head, I reached for the lantern and tapped it once. The room plunged into darkness. No light filtered through the shutters. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep …

… And then I felt a presence in the room, a sense of something - or someone - peering down at me. Absolute terror gripped me, just for a second; I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even breathe. I hadn’t been so scared since the very first time someone had cast a freeze spell on me, back when I’d been learning magic. The presence moved closer and closer, as if it was right on top of me … I thought I could feel someone touching the back of my neck, icy cold hands brushing against my skin. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out as the presence faded back into the night …

… And, when I awoke the following morning, I was half-convinced I’d had a nightmare.

Chapter Three

When I awoke, I didn’t know where I was.

The room was dark and bitterly cold. The only light came from the shuttered windows, faint hints of sunlight peeping through the wood and telling me it was daylight. I pushed the duvet aside and reached for the lantern, tapping it twice. The room filled with an eerie radiance, revealing that I was alone. If there had been something in the room with me, last night, it had left no trace of its presence.

Just a nightmare, I told myself, although it had felt too real to be a nightmare. My family was supposed to have a talent for True Dreams, but there hadn’t been a genuine Dreamer born to us for centuries. Longer, perhaps. It was just a dream.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood as the remainder of the memories flooded back. I’d been sent into exile. I was at Kirkhaven Hall … home, for the next few years. I shivered, helplessly, as I made my way over to the shutters. The carpet felt cold and harsh under my feet, as if it hadn’t been cleaned for years. I rather suspected it hadn’t been cleaned at all. The shutters were closed and locked. I thought, for a moment, that they’d been sealed with magic before I figured out how to work the catch. It was a tiny achievement, but it left me feeling inordinately pleased for a long moment. I’d done something for myself.

The shutters creaked unhappily as I pushed them open and peered through the glass, looking out onto a scene of desolation. The grounds were odd, a mixture of overgrown grass and large patches of trees that seemed to be growing randomly; I could see a handful of cottages and other buildings in the distance and, beyond them, a stone wall. I guessed that was the edge of the grounds. The hills in the distance were covered in grass, I thought; there were patches of darker colours that might be something else. We seemed to be near the top of a valley: peering down, I saw a plume of smoke in the distance. Oddly, the sight made me feel better. We weren’t completely isolated out here.

I felt my tummy rumble and frowned. It was hard to be sure, but I guessed - from the position of the sun - that it was around ten o’clock. I didn’t know exactly when I’d arrived at the hall, or when I’d eaten, but it felt as though I hadn’t eaten for days. I walked into the bathroom, splashed some water on my face and inspected the bathtub. It was an odd design: no taps, no pipes … just a plughole at the bottom. I puzzled over it for a long moment, unsure quite what to do with it. Was I meant to take water from the sink and pour it into the bathtub? I didn’t even have a bucket!

My stomach rumbled, again. I’d need to find Morag and get her to find me something to eat, before I collapsed completely. And then I could worry about a wash. I started to cast a locater spell, then stopped myself when I remembered the cuff. I’d have to find her the old-fashioned way. Drawing my nightgown tightly around myself, I headed to the door and stepped out into the corridor. It was so bitterly cold that, just for a second, I was sure I’d fallen into a pool of icy water. The air felt as if it was turning to ice. I nearly retreated back inside my room before forcing myself to walk down the corridor. It grew colder, somehow, as I walked. My teeth were chattering helplessly by the time I reached Morag’s door and knocked, hard.

There was no answer for a long moment, long enough to make me wonder where she might be. Servants got up early, always. Morag might be downstairs, making breakfast, or … what else did servants do? They cleaned, but there was no evidence that anyone cleaned Kirkhaven Hall. Maybe Morag was slacking off. Or …

The door opened. Morag looked out, wearing a dressing gown that had been unfashionable when my parents had been children. Her blonde hair was hanging down around her shoulders, a grim reminder that mine didn’t look much better. It wasn’t as if there were any outsiders here - Ira and Morag were both family - but I still felt weirdly undressed when my hair wasn’t in braids. Morag glared at me, her expression so sharp that I couldn’t help recoiling. How dare she look at me like that?

Her voice wasn’t any better. “What do you want?”

I forced myself to stand upright. “I want breakfast,” I said. I sounded like Mother when she was in a vile mood. My voice rose sharply, growing loud and shrill. “I want food and a bath and …”

Morag slapped me, hard.

I stumbled back, more shocked than hurt. I would have fallen if I hadn’t bumped into the far wall. My parents had never laid a finger on me. My nursemaids and governesses and tutors would never have dared to touch me. No one had slapped me before … Cat had punched me, I supposed, but that was different. Cat wasn’t one of the family.

Morag stepped forward, her hard blue eyes boring into mine. I couldn’t look away. “If you talk to me like that again, you little brat, I will thrash you so hard you will not be sitting comfortably for a week! Do you understand me?”

“… Yes,” I managed.

“Yes, what?”

I swallowed, hard. Clearly, I’d made a mistake. Morag wasn’t a servant at all. She was one of the family, even if she was lesser family. “Yes, Senior.”

“Very good,” Morag said, mockingly. “I’m glad to know you can be polite after all.”

I slid down the wall until I landed on the floor, my cheek aching painfully. Morag watched me sit, then squatted down so she was facing me. “Listen very carefully.”

Her eyes held mine. “You have ruined your life. You will never be an upperclassman at Jude’s; you will never have the chance to be valedictorian. You will never be courted by a young man; your parents will never seek to find a suitable husband for you. You will never marry, you will never have children, you will never be allowed to wield any power in or outside the family. There will be no hope of employment, not when no one will want to risk the family’s displeasure by hiring you. Your life is over.”

I couldn’t help myself. I started to cry. Morag was right. I knew she was right. My life was over and it had nearly a hundred years to go. Ira had been at Kirkhaven Hall for over fifty years, hadn’t he? I might be there for just as long or even longer.

“You will be here for the next four years, at least,” Morag said, remorselessly. “And then? Well, I suppose you could marry the local pig-boy. He’s got a quarter-interest in the swine farm, I believe. Or you could change your name and walk over the border to Galashiels. I dare say you know enough magic to make a living there, if you were careful.”

I glared at her, hatefully, as I struggled to suppress my sobs. I knew she was right, but … I didn’t really want to believe her. I was trapped, held prisoner by the faint possibility that - one day - I would be allowed to return to Shallot. If I changed my name and walked away, I’d never be allowed to return home. I wouldn’t be Isabella Rubén any longer. No one would be interested in me unless I had a true talent for magic. And while I did have a lot of training, it wasn’t enough to match a graduate from Jude’s.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was apologising to her or my entire family. “I’m sorry for …”

I broke down into sobs, again. I’d held myself together, somehow, during the trip … but now, now I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I curled up into a ball and cried, helplessly. Morag rose, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to me. I dabbed my eyes as she looked away, silently grateful for the small mercy. How far had I fallen, already, that I was grateful for Morag giving me a semblance of privacy? I rubbed my cheek, wincing at the pain. Morag would never have dared slap me unless she’d been confident that Ira would support her. She could do anything to me, anything at all. I was helpless and trapped and at her mercy …

Concentrate, I told myself, recalling the first meditative exercises I’d been taught. Take a breath and calm yourself.

It was hard, so hard, to focus. There was no magic to make it easier. But I slowly brought my emotions under control. Morag turned back as I stood, her arms crossed under her ample chest. Her face was sharp, very tightly controlled. I couldn’t help thinking, again, that she looked very much like an older version of me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll ask Ira …”

Morag gave me the kind of look one would give to a particularly stupid child. “If you disturb the Master before he wakes, you’ll get much worse than a slap,” she said. She sounded rather more amused, I thought, than strictly necessary. “Wait here.”

She turned and walked back into her room, closing the door behind her. I waited, rubbing my cheek gingerly. The pain was slowly fading, but … I sighed. It would be a long time before I forgot the slap. Morag … I wasn’t sure what she was, but she was no servant. And I’d addressed her as one.

Morag opened the door, carrying a large dressing gown in one hand. “Put this on,” she ordered, shoving it at me. “And then come downstairs.”

I pulled the dressing gown on, feeling a tingle running across my skin as the charmed garment resized itself to fit my body. It might be strikingly unfashionable, but it was warmer than my nightgown, warm enough that I almost felt comfortable as I followed her down another flight of stairs. I hoped Morag had some spare clothes she didn’t mind lending me, I thought. The Arbiters hadn’t told me anything about where I was going. If I’d known, I would have made sure to pack warm clothes in trunks that didn’t need magic to open.

“These are the kitchens,” Morag said, as we reached the bottom of the stairs. The floor was hard stone, cold against my bare feet. “As you can see, they were designed for a much larger population.”

I looked around the giant chamber. It was very like the kitchens back home, but where Rubén Hall’s kitchens had thrummed with life these kitchens were dark and cold. There was no fire in the grate, no cooks boiling soup or roasting giant animals or … I shivered as I followed Morag over to a small workstation. A handful of heating elements were in use, it seemed, but the remainder had been demagicked long ago.

“You’ll find tools in the drawer there,” Morag said, pointing to an oversized chest of drawers with a wooden top. “If you use something, be sure and clean it afterwards in the sink before drying and replacing it. I will not be pleased if I have to search for something you’ve used, understand?”

“Yes, Senior,” I said, quietly.

Morag seemed pleased at my submission. “The cupboards all have powerful preservation spells, so anything kept inside them is safe to eat,” she told me. “If you finish something, let me know; I may have to obtain more from the town or somewhere further afield. I assume you’ve used a heating element before?”

“Yes, but …”

Morag picked up a firestarter and held it out to me. “You can cook whatever you want,” she added. “But …”

“I …” I saw a nasty glint in her eye, but forced myself to continue anyway. “I don’t know how to cook. And … and what do we do for meals here? And I …”

“You don’t know how to cook,” Morag repeated. “Dear me. What are they teaching little girls these days?”

I flushed. Morag wasn’t that much older than me. She had to know that senior family were taught magic, not domestic chores. Of course I didn’t know how to cook. Back home, I’d had servants to do the work. I’d only gone into the kitchen to beg treats from the cooks …

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble slicing up some bread to make a sandwich,” she added, after a moment. She pulled open a cupboard to reveal several loaves of bread and pots of jam. “You can find meat and cheese in the next section if you don’t like jam.”

Her lips quirked into a smile. “To answer your other question, the Master takes his meals at one o’clock and seven o’clock precisely. I put his food out for him at those times. If you wish to join him in the dining room, you may do so. If not, I’ll preserve something for you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Morag snorted. “I have breakfast myself when I get up in the mornings,” she added. “I’ll show you how to cook some basic meals for yourself, if you’re willing to learn.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said, sourly. I didn’t want to admit it, but … I had no choice. I had to learn to feed myself. “It will be my pleasure.”

“Hah,” Morag muttered. She cleared her throat. “And now you can fix yourself a sandwich.”

It should have been simple. It looked simple. But the bread was hard and cold and slicing it was harder than it looked. Morag watched, making the occasional sarcastic remark, as I cut myself a lump of bread and covered it with jam. It was too thick to eat easily too. Magic would have made it simple, I thought - I knew a pair of cutting spells - but Morag didn’t seem disposed to help. She wanted me to learn for myself.

“You’ll have plenty of time to eat more after lunch,” Morag told me, when I’d finished the makeshift sandwich and cleaned everything I’d used. “Right now, you can have a bath.”

I nodded. “Do you have any more clothes? I mean … clothes suitable for this weather?”

Morag laughed as she led me back up the stairs. “There are boxes upon boxes of clothes in the storerooms,” she said. “I think they were abandoned here years ago. Feel free to use whatever you like. Just remember you’ll have to wash it afterwards.”

“I don’t know how to wash clothes,” I admitted. “I do know the spells …”

“Talk to the Master about that,” Morag said. “He may decide to remove the cuff.”

I clung to the thought as we reached the fifth floor and walked into a smaller room. A handful of buckets rested against one wall, under a large iron tap that was covered in brown rust. It didn’t look very healthy, despite the runes carved into the metal. Morag snapped her fingers and the buckets started to move, lining up in front of the tap. She filled the first bucket, then muttered another charm under her breath. The bucket rose into the air and floated down the corridor to my room.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” I said. Morag was clearly a skilled magician. “What spells do you use?”

“We can discuss them later, if you like,” Morag said. She pulled a towel off a railing and passed it to me. “I had to reinvent some of them from old spellbooks. They’re not used so often these days.”

I nodded. Rubén Hall had water pipes that lead to just about every room in the building. I hadn’t needed to fetch my own water if I wanted a bath. Morag had probably reinvented the spells just to ensure she didn’t have to carry water either. The buckets weren’t that big, not compared to a full-sized bathtub. I supposed I should be glad Morag was helping. It wouldn’t have been easy to fill the bath without magic.

“I believe the Master wishes to speak with you after lunch,” Morag said, as we walked back to my room. “I suggest you spend the morning unpacking your trunks” - she unlocked them with a wave of her hand - “and then reading quietly.”

You suggest, I thought. I was fairly sure it was an order. Do I have a choice?

Morag cast a final spell on the water, heating it until steam started to rise in the cold air. “I’ll fetch you for lunch,” she said. “Until then, have fun.”

I watched her go, then peered at my face in the mirror. A nasty red mark was clearly visible on one cheek, even though the pain had nearly faded completely. It was a grim reminder that I was at her mercy. Ira might take off the cuff, if he decided I needed my magic, but I doubted I could challenge Morag. She clearly had enough magic to be formidable. Why hadn’t she simply left?

Shaking my head, I tested the water and then rapidly undressed. Morag had gone to a lot of trouble for me. It wouldn’t be a good idea to waste the water. And then …

I sighed as I climbed into the bath. Morag was right. Kirkhaven Hall was my home for the foreseeable future. Mother and Father might want to call me home after a few weeks, but the rest of the family would be adamantly opposed. It was time I accepted it.

And see what I can do here, I thought. There’d been a lot of books in Ira’s office. If nothing else, I will have plenty to read.

Chapter Four

Dinner with Ira and Morag was not, I was relieved to discover, as strictly formal as dinners with my parents. Ira didn’t seem inclined to thank the ancients for our family’s success, while Morag didn’t pay attention to which pieces of cutlery I used. Indeed, if there had been more people my age at the table, I might even have enjoyed the dinner. It felt more like a family picnic than a formal meal.

“This is very tasty,” I said, when I had finished the stew. I wasn’t lying. It had been very tasty.“Did you cook it yourself?”

“There’s no one else to cook here,” Morag said, stiffly. I had the feeling she wasn’t as complimented as I’d hoped. “I had to cook it.”

“Very good,” Ira said. He rose. “Isabella, if you will accompany me …?”

I glanced at Morag, who probably had to clear the table, then followed Ira through the door and down to his office. Light streamed through distant windows, yet the corridors didn’t look any cleaner in bright daylight than they’d had in the semi-darkness. I thought I saw a portrait of one of my ancestors, standing next to a woman who had her back to the artist, but Ira didn’t give me any time to make sure. He hurried me into his office and motioned me to sit down as he closed the door.

I sat, silently grateful that Morag had let me dig my clothes out of my trunks. The dress wasn’t particularly warm, but at least it wasn’t damp and smelly. And it was charmed to stay clean. I’d resolved to search the storerooms for something a little warmer to wear, but that would take time. Morag might not know where to start looking. I certainly didn’t know.

“I went through the letters,” Ira said, once he was sitting too. “They don’t paint a pretty picture.”

“No, Senior,” I said, looking down.

“I think you can call me Uncle,” Ira said. “I’m quite some distance from you on the family tree, but we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”

“I …” I stopped and started again. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Uncle Ira nodded, once. “Tell me what happened. In your own words.”

I took a long breath. “I made a mistake,” I said. “I trusted the wrong person.”

“A common mistake,” Ira said, dryly. “What happened?”

“I…” I swallowed, hard. “I committed treason.”

Uncle Ira cleared his throat, impatiently. “Details?”

I hesitated. There was no way to make me look anything other than - at best - a fool. I had been foolish and yet … the first decisions I’d made had been logical, I’d thought. Even in hindsight, it was hard to tell precisely where I’d gone wrong. And I didn’t want to think about it, either. I’d done something so stupid that I probably didn’t have any hope of going back home. Even marrying the pig-boy might be too much to hope for.

“I went to Jude’s, nine months ago,” I said. “My brother and I were supposed to look for clients, but … Akin wasn’t really interested. It was all up to me. They put me in a room with Caitlyn Aguirre, the Zero. She was an Aguirre, so I saw her as a rival. I thought she wouldn’t be much of a match for me.”

“A Zero,” Uncle Ira repeated.

“Yeah,” I said. I shook my head. “It turned out she could make Objects of Power.”

I expected him to be fascinated - Objects of Power had once been the greatest mystery in the world - but Uncle Ira showed no reaction. Instead, he just indicated for me to continue.

“I … I kept prodding at her until Scholar’s Rights were claimed,” I said, remembering the moment when she’d accused me of betraying her to the upperclassmen. As if! A sneak would become an instant pariah, even amongst her clients. Of course I’d had to challenge her. “I thought it would be an easy fight - I’d just turn her into a frog when she ran out of places to hide - but she had Objects of Power and … and she beat me. Everyone laughed at me. I … my clients deserted me so quickly that I was alone by the end of the day. Father was not pleased.”

“I imagine not,” Uncle Ira said. Hi face was expressionless. “And then?”

“A few months later, Stregheria Aguirre approached me,” I explained. There was no way to sweeten what had happened next. “She told me that … that she’d been excluded from power too, because she was a girl. I believed her. Father told me that I wouldn’t be the Heir Primus when I was ten, so … so why couldn’t it have happened to her?”

“I know Stregheria,” Uncle Ira said. “Knew her, rather. We were classmates.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” Uncle Ira said. “And then? What happened?”

“She promised me a position of power in Shallot - and the chance to succeed her - if I helped her to take over the city,” I admitted. “She didn’t tell me everything, not at the time, but … she told me enough to convince me that I’d have a chance to actually inherit power. And so I helped her take the school, only everything went wrong and Stregheria died and … and I got exiled out here.”

“Anything Stregheria told you should be treated with extreme caution,” Uncle Ira said. “She was a nasty little girl when we were both children and I dare say she didn’t get any better over the years. I can’t say I blame House Aguirre for keeping her as far from the levers of power as possible.”

“No, Uncle,” I said, with a heavy sigh. “That’s the story, more or less.”

“So it would seem,” Ira said. He looked at the stack of letters on his desk, then rested his hands on the table as he looked at me. “Your father was somewhat insistent that you were to continue your education here. However, I am quite busy with my work and I don’t have time to teach you properly. You do, however, have free access to the books on the lower floors and the workshops on the fourth floor. There’s a forgery and a potions lab, both of which are open to you. You may pursue a course of independent study, at least until you complete your practical studies for the remainder of the year.”

His lips twitched. “Your father was also kind enough to send along copies of the latest educational modules for the next two years. I’ll probably have to go through them first, but we should be able to organise a brief set of review sessions as you work your way through them.”

Ouch, I thought. Father was doing his best for me, but I’d heard stories about mail-order correspondence courses. A handful had been nothing more than scams. Father would have checked them first, surely.

I frowned as another thought occurred to me. “You want me to work in the potions lab alone? Without supervision?”

Uncle Ira nodded, shortly. “I expect you to be careful,” he said. “And I also expect you to inform me if you run short of anything. I’ll have to order new supplies from the nearest city if we run out, unfortunately. There are no herbal gardens here.”

“Because of the weather,” I guessed.

“Among other things,” Uncle Ira agreed. He met my eyes. “The labs are heavily warded, but I will not be pleased if you accidentally blow up the workshops. Putting them back in order, when I first got here, took more time than I wished.”

“I understand, Uncle,” I said. I lifted my hand to show him the cuff. “What should I do about this?”

“Brace yourself,” Uncle Ira said. He touched his finger to the cuff. “Now …”

The cuff fell off. I staggered, a moment later, as I was suddenly - terrifyingly - aware of the wards crawling over the building. They beat against my mind, thumping so loudly that I was almost overwhelmed. I hadn’t felt so unsettled back home, even though Father had worked the most complex spells possible into our walls. Ira’s wards weren’t entirely friendly, even to family. It took me several minutes to calm myself. Thankfully, Ira had keyed me into the wards already. I dreaded to think of what might happen if he hadn’t.

It was hard, but somehow I forced myself to look around the room. Spells - more unfriendly than friendly - were everywhere, attached to the portraits or drifting freely around the room. A handful were familiar, nothing more than basic protection wards, but others were a great deal more complex. I didn’t recognise half of them, yet I thought I knew what they did. Uncle Ira had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure his privacy. And I hadn’t even known they were there …

I shivered as I eyed the cuff on the ground. Was that how Caitlyn sees the world?

“That … wasn’t pleasant,” I muttered.

“No,” Uncle Ira agreed. He picked up the cuff and offered it to me. I jammed it in my pocket, certain I never wanted to see it again. “If someone decides to check on you, don’t tell them I took it off. They might use it against us.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Uncle Ira cleared his throat. “And seeing you’re stuck here with us for a few years, here are a few basic rules. I expect you to follow them. If you don’t … well, we’ll see.”

I nodded wordlessly, looking downcast.

“First, just in case you’ve forgotten, you are not to go up to the sixth floor,” Ira said. I tried not to look annoyed at the unsubtle suggestion I might have forgotten already. “Second, you have free run of the grounds, but you are not to go beyond the boundary wall without my explicit permission. The world outside is not safe for little girls.”

“I’m twelve,” I protested.

“And I’m a hundred and thirty years old,” Uncle Ira countered. “You have a lot to learn, even now, before you go wandering.”

He paused, waiting for me to say something, before continuing. “Third, you are not to disturb Morag or myself unless it is truly urgent. If it can wait, it can wait. Neither of us will be pleased at being disturbed. I’m a very busy man and she has work of her own to do.”

“I understand,” I said. I rubbed my cheek unconsciously. The mark had started to fade, but it was still visible. Uncle Ira had to have noticed it. I wondered, sourly, just what Morag had told him. She’d had plenty of time to tell him that I was a little brat who’d deserved far worse than a slap before I joined them for lunch. “What does she do all day?”

“Work,” Uncle Ira said, sharply. “Finally, you are not to talk to any of the ghosts.”

I blinked. “The ghosts?”

“There are supposed to be ghosts here,” Uncle Ira said. He sounded as if he didn’t quite believe himself. “If you should happen to see one, you are not to talk to it.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said, automatically. Ghosts? I’d heard stories - everyone had - but I’d never seen a real ghost. Most sightings took place far from civilised lands and the stories grew in the telling by the time they reached the cities. Akin hadn’t seen ghosts at the Eternal City and I’d have expected to see them there, if I’d expected to see them at all. “Ghosts?”

Uncle Ira shrugged. “If you see one, don’t talk to it.”

I nodded, keeping my thoughts to myself. Kirkhaven was quite a long way from civilisation, certainly far away enough for ghosts … if, of course, there were ghosts. I knew people who simply refused to believe in ghosts, even the handful of documented sightings. Did Uncle Ira believe in ghosts? Or was he simply winding me up?

“I won’t talk to them,” I said, although I was sure it wouldn’t matter. “Are there any other rules?”

“Not for the moment,” Uncle Ira said. He sounded oddly annoyed. “You’re too young and inexperienced to be helpful, but too old to be judged innocent and simply sent back home.”

“I can help,” I said, quickly. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get a potions mastery,” Uncle Ira said. “That would be quite helpful.”

I looked down at the carpeted floor, trying to hide my face. A potions mastery … I wasn’t going to get a mastery, not now. Magistra Loanda might have recommended me for further training, if I’d done well as a lowerclassmen, but that was water under the bridge now. There was no hope of finding a master willing to take me on, let alone convince the Potions Guild to certify me. Unless I changed my name and forged my certificates … Father might be able to do it, if he splashed out enough money, but it might not be enough. I simply didn’t have the grounding I’d need for a proper apprenticeship.

“I’ll work in the lab,” I promised. If Father had sent me a correspondence course, I could work my way through it. Maybe that would make things easier. “Or I could find some other way to make myself useful.”

“Perhaps,” Uncle Ira said.

He leaned back in his chair, a mannerism that reminded me of my father. “Tell me about Caitlyn Aguirre. What is she?”

I took a breath. Caitlyn Aguirre was the last person I wanted to talk about, save perhaps for her wretched Great Aunt. And yet, I could hardly refuse to answer his questions. I had no doubt he could force me to talk, if he wished. My magic was strong, but - now I could sense magic again - I knew he was stronger. He felt stronger than Father.

“She can’t do magic,” I said. “I … there was something about her that felt subtly wrong, somehow. She was utterly defenceless against the spells I cast on her. She was … she had no defences. And yet, the spells never lasted on her. I never saw her cast a single spell, but nothing I did to her lasted that long.”

“It sounds as though you weren’t very nice to her,” Uncle Ira observed.

I lowered my eyes. “I know.”

And now she’s practically going to be one of the family, I thought, with a sudden flare of savage anger. Akin and Cat were too young to marry, but I had no doubt their marriage would be arranged as soon as they both turned seventeen. Too much had happened for the elders of both families to let the happy couple take their time. She’ll be living in the hall while I’m stuck out here!

I could have kicked myself. If I’d been nicer to her, if I’d tried to befriend her, if I’d listened when she tried to befriend me, if I’d paid attention to my brother … I would never have been disgraced, let alone exiled. But instead, I’d let bitterness overcome me. Stregheria Aguirre hadn’t used any spell to make me help her. I’d believed her because I’d wanted to believe her. It had been the worst mistake of my life.

“I wasn’t nice to her,” I admitted, frankly. “And I was stupid.”

“Yes,” Uncle Ira agreed, dryly. “Being sent out here might actually be a stroke of luck.”

He shrugged and continued before I could muster a response. “She can’t use magic directly, but she can make Objects of Power?”

“Yes, Uncle.” I looked down at my pale hands. “I never saw her cast a single spell, not directly. I … she used spellcasters, but they were Objects of Power. I never saw her use a spellcaster made by anyone else.”

“Interesting,” Uncle Ira observed. “A Device of Power would channel magic, shaping it into a spell and casting it. But if she had no magic, the spellcaster would have nothing to draw on.”

“Her spellcasters were all Objects of Power,” I repeated. “They never seemed to run out of power.”

“Interesting,” Uncle said, again. “Very interesting indeed.”

He met my eyes. “Did you ever try to use a spellbinder on her?”

I shook my head. A spellbinder - a device that kept the spellform in place - might have worked on Cat, if I’d been able to find one. I wasn’t a good enough forger to make one for myself and asking someone else, even Akin, for a spellbinder would have earned me a great many questions I didn’t want to have to answer. Magister Tallyman would probably have given me a year’s detention for asking for a spellbinder, while Father … I dreaded to think what Father would do. Use the spellbinder on me, probably.

“I wonder what it would do,” Uncle Ira said. He sounded more interested in Cat than I would have preferred. “Curious, isn’t it? A girl without any magic can do something that has defeated a great many magicians.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said, sullenly.

Uncle Ira gave me a long look, then nodded to himself. “Cast a spell.”

I blinked. “What spell?”

“Any spell.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said.

I hesitated, trying to decide what spell to use, then cast a simple heating charm. The magic flared around me, shaped by my will. I felt warmer a moment later, although the air was cold. My bedroom would be a great deal better, I thought, now I could warm the air - and water - for myself. And I wouldn’t have to worry about finding new clothes.

Although I might have to, soon enough, I thought. My school uniform had been charmed to grow with me, if I was still allowed to wear it, but I’d start to grow out of my dresses and underclothes soon enough. Mother had told me I’d probably have a growth spurt when I hit thirteen. What do I do then?

“Very good,” Uncle Ira told me. “Now, why don’t you go inspect the workrooms? I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”

I smiled. Being able to practice magic again had made me feel a great deal better. “Yes, Uncle.”

Chapter Five

“Well,” I said to myself as I stepped into the potions lab, “if Magistra Loanda saw this we’d be in a lot of trouble.”

The thought amused me more than it should, I suspected. Uncle Ira might have cleaned the room, once upon a time, but it was now covered in dust and the remnants of potions experiments that had gone badly wrong. There were so many wards crawling over the stone that my senses felt oddly muffled the moment I closed the door behind me. The potions lab had clearly been designed to survive all kinds of accidents - the worktable was built of stone, not wood - and it was self-evident that there had been many accidents. I was used to seeing scorch marks on tables, but not on the ceiling!

It was a better potions lab than any I’d been allowed to use, with careful supervision, back home. One wall was covered in wooden - and heavily warded - bookshelves, groaning under the weight of dozens of books. Another was lined with shelves, all stocked with potions ingredients in glass jars and containers; a third was lined with chests of drawers, probably containing an extensive collection of tools. It would have been wonderful, I thought, if it had been clean. I’d have to clean it myself before I could use it.

I checked the next room - a sizable storage room, lined with more jars of potions ingredients than I’d seen anywhere outside Jude’s - and then sat down on the dusty seat. It was a wonderful potions lab, it really was, but I was going to clean and check everything myself before I used it. My tutors had told me how to inspect a lab, yet I’d always had someone else checking my work. Magistra Loanda had certainly never trusted any of us to clean her labs without checking everything we did afterwards.

Shaking my head, I stood and started to search the room for cleaning supplies. Professional potioneers kept their supplies close at hand, if my tutors were to be believed, but it took me several minutes to find the cloths, buckets and neutralisers I’d need to clean the workroom from top to bottom. I didn’t think any of the remnants of a dozen potions, lying on the workbench or splashed on the floor, were dangerous, but I’d have to be careful anyway. The last thing I wanted was an accident so far from help. I had no idea if either Morag or Ira had any healing training, but it didn’t matter. They might not realise that something was wrong until it was far too late.

I put the supplies by the door and then checked the remaining drawers. One of them was filled with notebooks, dated all the way back to 1935, fifty-eight years ago. There was an indecipherable name on the front covers, but when I opened a couple I discovered that the pages were completely blank. Whoever had purchased the notebooks hadn’t done more than write their name … I smiled in droll amusement. I’d never have been allowed to get away with that at Jude’s. I flicked through a couple of notebooks, just to make sure they were truly blank, then put them aside and searched for a pencil. They’d been stuffed behind the notebooks, hidden from casual view. I puzzled over it as I used a spell to sharpen them, then picked up the first notebook. Before I started to clean, before I did anything, I needed to know precisely what was in the lab.

It was boring work, I told myself as I started to list the jars of potions ingredients, but oddly fascinating. Magistra Loanda had forced me to catalogue her shelves during one particularly unpleasant detention, yet her stocks had all been common or garden potion ingredients. Firsties weren’t allowed to play with the really interesting ingredients until we knew what we were doing; here, common ingredients were mingled with jars that had to have come from halfway around the world. One jar was filled to the brim with a purplish substance that was marked Spider Blood, another held a handful of dead insects suspended in brine, a third held a human brain … I stared, wondering just what sort of potions required such ingredients. I’d been warned that anything that involved human blood was dangerous, but a brain?

Perhaps it’s designed to make the drinker smarter, I thought, as I moved to the next set of jars. There were potions that were supposed to provide the drinker with an intelligence boost, but they came with a price. Father had told me that it was better to develop my intelligence than risk losing everything though trying to take shortcuts. Or maybe it’s something truly dark.

I shook my head. It didn’t seem likely.

It was an eccentric collection, I decided, as I moved into the storeroom. Half the jars were almost or completely empty and some of the labels were faded, making it impossible to tell what was inside. I thought I could identify a couple, but the remainder were completely unrecognisable. Magistra Loanda would probably have told me to throw the jars out, if she saw them. Playing with potions ingredients was dangerous at the best of times, but messing around when you didn’t have the slightest idea what you were putting into the cauldron … I’d be lucky if I didn’t blow myself up. The potions lab was so heavily warded that I suspected no one would notice if I did.

I’m sure they’ll notice if I don’t go to dinner, I told myself, as I walked back to the desk and started to compile my notes into something reasonable. And then they’ll start looking for me.

A shiver ran down my spine. Morag had made it clear that she didn’t care about me, while Uncle Ira … I had the impression that he wasn’t particularly concerned about me either. It wasn’t right to expect the master of the house to drop everything and attend to me, but … I was going to be living with them for years. Uncle Ira should be doing something, surely? I wondered, as I finished cataloguing the shelves, just what he was doing on the sixth floor. If I went to see … I shook my head, dismissing the thought before it had a chance to form. He’d told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not to go up to the sixth floor. I really didn’t want to tangle with his wards.

I finished writing the list and looked down at it doubtfully. We had a dozen jars of pickled bat wings, for some reason, and only one jar of frogspawn. The supplies of common herbs were also quite low, ensuring that it would be difficult for me to brew a number of simple potions. That wouldn’t be too surprising, I supposed: there was normally a frog pond and an herbal garden attached to any serious sorcerer’s mansion. But here …? There was no herbal garden near the hall. I didn’t know if there was a pond, either.

I’ll have to catch them myself, I thought, and shuddered. I wasn’t particularly squeamish and catching and cutting up small animals - Father had made me do it again and again until I’d overcome any qualms I might have - but I’d never liked it. If there are any frogs here …

I sighed, then inspected the list. Uncle Ira would have to order a great many ingredients if he wanted me to practice my potions … and probably watch over my shoulder as I prepared the ingredients and brewed the potions. Some of the basic potions were very forgiving, to the point where the brewer could skip half the preparatory work and still brew an acceptable potion, but the more advanced brews would explode if you looked at them funny. I’d been told off, more than once, for not chopping my ingredients perfectly. Father had told me, time and time again, that shortcuts were dangerous and bad habits were best not developed …

My heart sank. Would I ever see my father again? I didn’t know. The Arbiters hadn’t said anything about writing letters, but … reading between the lines, there was a definite suggestion that anything I wrote to my father would be read by other eyes first. I wasn’t even sure if my parents could write to me. Or my brother, if he had time to write between studying and courting … my lips quirked in a bitter smile. Being betrothed so early, even if the betrothal was broken when he turned seventeen, was going to put a massive crimp in his social life.

I glared down at my hands, feeling hot tears prickling at the corner of my eyes. Morag had been right. I had ruined my life. There was no hope of a triumphant return to Shallot, no prospect of taking revenge on everyone who’d mocked me … I supposed I should be glad that I’d been kept isolated after Stregheria Aguirre’s death. At least I didn’t know who’d been telling everyone that she’d always known I was a bad seed. They’d have been saying it to my face if I’d gone out in public. I muttered a word that would have had Mother threatening to wash my mouth out with soap for knowing, let alone saying. I’d been lucky …

… Yet it didn’t feel like luck.

Bitterly, I picked up the notebooks and put them outside the lab, then filled the bucket with water, donned a pair of gloves and set to work. I scrubbed the workbench clean, carefully mopping away the water as it turned an ugly greenish-brown, then started to work on the stone floor. Whoever had used the lab must have had a fantastic series of explosions, I thought. The floor was scarred too. I worked hard to get rid of a dark mark before deciding it was impossible. The explosion must have been a big one.

Maybe that’s why Ira was sent out here, I thought, as I scraped up the water and dumped it into the second bucket. His experiments threatened to blow up the entire hall.

I splashed some neutraliser into the bucket, just in case one or more of the ingredients reacted badly with the hot water, then started to dust the shelves. There were so many layers of dust that I couldn’t help wondering if they’d been left in place since before Ira’s arrival, even though he’d told me he’d cleaned the lab. It was a shame that magic couldn’t be used to clean the chamber, but Magistra Loanda had cautioned us against using unnecessary magic in the potions laboratories. A flicker of magic could contaminate even the simplest potions ingredients, rendering them useless. I hoped the preservation spells on the jars had lasted however long they’d been resting on the shelves. They should have done - they were very simple spells - but I’d have to check that before I tried to use the contents. If I tried to use something that had decayed …

Someone cleared their throat, behind me. “Well,” Morag said. “You’re a pretty sight.”

I spun around. Morag was standing by the door, her pinched lips set in a sardonic smile. I stared at her, trying to calm my beating heart. That door had made a loud noise when I’d tried to open it. I should have heard her pushing the door open, let alone coming into the room. But I hadn’t heard a thing until she’d cleared her throat. My mind raced. An obscurification charm? Or was she simply very stealthy? Father had insisted I learn to move quietly too.

“It’s good to see you applying yourself,” Morag added, dryly. “But you do know how to clean your dresses, don’t you?”

I looked down at myself. The dress was damp and stained with the remnants of countless potions ingredients. My knees looked particularly bad. It was clear that I’d been on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. My hair felt damp too. I needed a shower … I kicked myself, sharply. There were showers near the potions labs at school for a reason, but I hadn’t even considered how I’d wash myself. I doubted Uncle Ira would be pleased if I trailed potions ingredients and water through the corridors …

“I know some spells, Senior,” I said, doubtfully.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought. I’d never had to wash my clothes after potions before. At home, the maids had taken care of them; at Jude’s, the staff had washed our clothes daily. The dresses had been charmed to allow them to be cleaned quickly, but I wasn’t sure what would happen if I tried. If the magic reacted badly with a stain that wasn’t as inert as I’d thought …

Morag took pity on me. “There’s a washroom just down the corridor,” she said, as she motioned for me to follow her out of the room. “But you’d better hurry. The Master is going to have dinner soon and you don’t want to keep him waiting.”

I nodded, gratefully, then stopped. “But what about my clothes?”

“You should probably have thought of that before you made a terrible mess of them,” Morag said, sarcastically. She pointed to the washroom as we walked down the corridor. “I’ll go find you something to wear. Put your clothes outside the room and we’ll try and clean them later.”

“Thank you, Senior,” I said.

“You’d better learn to master the spells yourself, young lady,” Morag told me, sharply. There was an oddly resentful tone in her voice. Clearly, she’d decided she’d been nice enough for one day. “I won’t be spending all my time running after you.”

“I know, Senior,” I said.

The washroom was primitive and smelt funny. There was no shower, merely a tap that produced cold water, a bucket and a towel that was covered in dust. I washed it first, dried it with a spell and then hastily washed myself as best as I could. I’d have to have a proper bath later, I told myself. And then … perhaps I should cut my hair. Mother hadn’t let me cut my hair since I’d turned ten, claiming that long hair was fashionable for teenage girls, but it wasn’t as if anyone would see me. I could shave my head if I wanted and no one would care.

I dried myself, pulled on the robe Morag had brought me, then made my way up to dinner. A stack of envelopes sat by my plate, numbered from one to twenty. Uncle Ira was already sitting at his chair, munching his way through a plate of sausages and mashed potato. It was a surprisingly crude dinner for an aristocrat, but it wasn’t as if he was entertaining. Morag appeared from another door and motioned for me to help myself as she sat down and produced a book from a pocket. I hesitated - reading at the table was practically a mortal sin, as far as Mother was concerned - and then opened the first envelope. It was the correspondence course Uncle Ira had mentioned to me.

The covering letter was surprisingly detailed, although I supposed that was a good thing. Father was a powerful magician. He wouldn’t have been fooled by a con artist trying to convince someone a long way from Jude’s that they were the greatest magician since Ambrosias. It was also blunt, warning me to work through the charms and potions in sequence as I needed to master the early principles before moving on to the more advanced work. The list of spells and potions included a number I’d mastered long ago, back before I’d gone to Jude’s, but I had a feeling I’d need to go through them anyway. There were so many charms worked into the list that I was sure one of them was designed to monitor my progress.

“We’ll review your work every Friday,” Uncle Ira said. I looked up. He’d cleaned his plate and was now looking at me with a thoughtful expression. “And I want to read your essays before you send them off.”

I frowned, then reread the instructions. Yes, I was expected to write essays and mail them off to someone who’d mark them … I rolled my eyes at the concept. It would be weeks, if I was lucky, before I heard back from the marker. Uncle Ira could give me much quicker feedback, if he wished. I hoped he would. If I studied hard, if I gained a qualification, I might have more options in the future. A mail-order qualification wouldn’t carry quite the same cachet as graduating from Jude’s, but it would be something.

“Yes, Uncle,” I said, slowly. “Ah … I went through the potions ingredients. I’m going to need some more.”

“Give me the list,” Uncle Ira said. “I’ll see what I can order.”

I bowed my head. “Yes, Uncle,” I said. I hesitated. “I … can I write a letter to my parents?”

Uncle Ira frowned. “You might do better not to remind the Family Council that you exist,” he said, sourly. “They might pass on the letter, they might not.”

“You are in exile,” Morag put in, looking up from her book. I couldn’t help noticing that it was charmed to hide the title. “Exiles don’t get to write home.”

I swallowed, hard. “But if I did write …”

“You could,” Uncle Ira said. He sounded strikingly unconcerned. “And I’ll forward it to Shallot. But you probably shouldn’t expect a response. Your parents may not even receive the letter.”

“I understand,” I said, bitterly. The Arbiters might simply file the letter away in the family archives, if they didn’t drop it in the nearest fire. “But at least I can write to them.”

“Yes,” Morag said, as Uncle Ira rose to his feet. “And now you can help me clear the table and wash the dishes. You can write to them later.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

Chapter Six

When I awoke, the following morning, my room was bright. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, warming the air. I looked up, blearily, then remembered that I’d left the shutters open when I’d gone to bed. I climbed out of bed, splashed water on my face and hurried over to the windows. The view hadn’t changed, save for a number of ominous-looking dark clouds in the distance. It looked as though it was going to rain.

I pulled on the dressing gown Morag had given me, then opened the door and stepped outside. The corridor still felt bitterly cold, so I muttered a heating charm as I made my way to the stairs and headed down. My footsteps seemed unnaturally loud as I walked downstairs, echoing oddly in the silence. Kirkhaven Hall was heavily warded - I could feel the wards at the back of my mind - but it was also oddly silent. Back home, the hall was never quiet; the corridors hummed with chatter and the sounds of people moving about their business. But here? It was so quiet that I could practically hear my heart beating as I walked into the kitchen and started looking for food. The clattering sound I made as I found a frying pan and put it on the stove was deafening. It was so loud that I cringed, expecting Morag to sweep into the kitchen wrapped in righteous anger.

It shouldn’t be hard to cook eggs, I thought, once I was sure the building was still as quiet as the grave. I found eggs in one of the cupboards and carefully cracked them into the frying pan, then clicked the firelighter to trigger the heating element. I should …

The mixture started to bubble almost at once. I swore out loud, cursing my own mistake as I searched for a spoon or something else I could use to stir. I’d never have made that mistake when brewing potions, but cooking seemed so much simpler. I found an iron stirrer and hastily started to stir, yet the mixture was already starting to burn. Half of it looked uncooked, the other half looked blackened … I wasn’t sure if it was safe to eat. I cursed again as I tried to stir the uncooked food so it touched the heat, just so I could salvage something from the disaster, but it just blackened too.

“I should make you eat that,” Morag said, as I lifted the pan off the stove. “In fact, I will make you eat it. Fetch yourself a plate.”

I tried not to jump, this time. She’d sneaked up on me again. I hadn’t heard her coming down the stairs, let alone entering the kitchen. She looked too amused to be angry, but I wasn’t fooled. Mother was at her worst when her voice got very quiet. Akin and I knew to duck when she started talking very quietly.

“I don’t know what went wrong, Senior,” I said, as I ladled the mixture onto a plate. “What happened?”

Morag stepped forward and eyed the eggs. “Well, for a start, you didn’t quite manage to keep the shell out of the mixture,” she said. Her lips thinned in disapproval. “The Master will not be pleased if you are so careless with your potions.”

“I know,” I said.

“And you should have added butter, milk and salt,” Morag added. “Don’t waste the salt, by the way. It’s quite expensive up here.”

“I didn’t know,” I said.

Morag gave me a sharp look. “I noticed,” she said. She jabbed a finger towards a bookshelf, hidden away at the back of the giant chamber. “There are cooking books there. I suggest you read a few of the basics before you start cooking anything more ambitious than toast and jam.”

I nodded, then took a bite of my eggs. They tasted unpleasant, alternatively burned and uncooked. Mother had made me eat a great many things I hadn’t liked, claiming they were the height of culinary excellence, but my eggs were the worst of all. The family cook had never presented Mother with anything so vile. Mother would probably have turned her into a slug if she had. Morag watched, silently, as I forced myself to eat. I’d eaten worse things, I told myself. Some of the potions I’d been forced to drink over the years had tasted worse.

“Perhaps next time, you should ask for advice,” Morag said, when I had finished. “Or simply take one of the recipes from the books and try it. Carefully.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said. My stomach was churning unpleasantly. “I … can I have some bread too?”

“That would be a good idea,” Morag said. She walked past me and removed a haunch of meat from one of the larger cupboards. “And possibly drink some water too. Or tea.”

I nodded as I put the kettle over the heating element. I could boil water, at least, without ruining it. Clearly, cooking was far more complex than I’d assumed. I’d never been taught even the basics of cooking - we had servants for that - but I was going to have to learn. And who knew what else I didn’t know? I was ignorant of my own ignorance. I put some tea leaves in the teapot, then a little more, and poured water into the pot. It smelt surprisingly strong.

Morag laughed, unkindly. “You don’t need more than two teaspoons of tealeaves in the pot,” she said. “Unless you happen to like your tea to be very strong.”

I poured myself a cup, splashed some milk into the liquid and grimaced at the taste. It was just a little too strong. I groaned, helplessly. I’d never had to make my own tea before I’d been sent into exile. How many other things didn’t I know?

“It’s fine,” I lied. “It’ll wake me up.”

“Hah,” Morag said. I could tell she knew I’d lied. “Why don’t you run along now and find something to do.”

I nodded, just as a low rumble echoed through the house. “What … what was that?”

“Thunder,” Morag said. She didn’t sound surprised. “A storm has just broken.”

She smiled, faintly. “Go explore the house or something,” she said. “And find those clothes you need. They’ll be somewhere on the third floor.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

She hadn’t been joking about the thunderstorm, I discovered when I looked out of the nearest window. The rain was coming down so hard that I could barely see anything, water splashing against the glass and running down to the ground. I tried to pick out the garden, but I couldn’t see anything. Shaking my head, I turned and walked up the stairs. The air seemed colder somehow, despite the charm. I cast another heating charm, but there was no improvement. I didn’t understand it.

The third floor looked no better than the fourth floor, although someone had done a better job stripping the portraits from the walls. A lone portrait of a dark-skinned girl hung on one wall, but the remainder of the portraits were gone. I frowned, wondering who the girl might have been, once upon a time. Her frilly outfit suggested she’d lived and died four hundred years ago. One of Cat’s relatives, perhaps? It was possible, but unlikely. House Aguirre wasn’t the only family known for dark skin, merely the most prominent. The girl held a spellcaster in one hand and a book in the other. I couldn’t make out the title.

Probably someone who was stricken from the records, I thought. Or someone who was off the main branch of the family tree.

The thought sobered me as I walked down the corridor. I’d been forced to memorise endless lists of names and faces belonging to relatives dating all the way back to the early days of the Thousand-Year Empire. Mother had stood over me and listened, carefully, as I recited the achievements of people everyone else had forgotten five hundred years ago. But I’d never heard of either Ira or Morag. Had they been struck from the records so completely that no one knew their names, save for the archivists? Or had the Family Council decided that Ira and Morag would not be discussed with children? It was always frustrating to hear snippets about people who’d disgraced the family, in one way or another, only to be denied the full story. Adults never treated us as equals.

I supposed I should be glad, I told myself, grimly. An adult who did what I did would’ve been executed.

I stepped into the first room and looked around. It was crammed with trunks, each one layered in preservation spells. I opened the first one, careful not to disturb the spells more than absolutely necessary, and peered inside. It was filled with clothes, shirts, skirts, trousers and underclothes so tiny that they had to be for newborn babies. I couldn’t have done anything with them, save perhaps for turning them into cleaning rags. My lips twitched as I eyed a baby coat. Like the clothes I’d worn when I was a little girl, the coat was a miniature version of something an adult would wear … if she didn’t mind being hideously unfashionable. Whoever had stored the clothes had probably hoped that they would come back into fashion at some point, but they never had. I put the coat back in the box and started to look for an inventory. Surely, someone must have listed the contents of the trunks somewhere.

I’ll probably have to do it, I thought, after a brief and futile search. The trunks were huge, and hideously unfashionable, but they didn’t seem to have been labelled in any way. It suggested that there was no inventory, beyond - perhaps - a very basic one. It’ll be something to do when I’m bored.

It took me nearly an hour, going from room to room, to find clothes suitable for teenage girls. The first set of dresses were ridiculously frilly, a fashion that even my grandmother would probably find absurd; the second set were much more reasonable, save for the plunging neckline that would get me in real trouble if I wore the dresses before I had my Season. I made a mental note to wear a shirt under the dress to hide my bare skin, then put the dresses aside and searched through the rest of the trunks. One of them contained a number of trousers that were clearly intended for young men.

I stared at them for a long moment, my thoughts churning. They were intended for men, but … could I wear them? I wouldn’t have dared wear trousers in Shallot - trousers on a woman was a sign of low breeding - yet here …? I didn’t think that either Morag or Ira would bother to police what I wore. The trousers would be a lot better at absorbing spills than my poor dresses … and, besides, it would be easier to run in them if I had to flee an exploding cauldron. I put the trousers aside and searched through the remainder of the trunks. Most of the shirts and underclothes were even further out of fashion than the dresses - I couldn’t help wondering if whoever had deemed them to be fashionable had been playing a sadistic joke - but they were wearable. I put a small pile of them outside the door, then replaced the preservation spells on the trunks. I’d probably have to keep coming back as I grew older.

The window at the bottom of the corridor darkened, suddenly. I walked forward until I was practically touching the glass, staring out at the scene before me. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were so dark I was sure it was just a matter of time before the water started pouring down again. Giant shadows seemed to be moving across the ground - I could see the road, leading down towards the boundary line - and faint shapes seemed to be moving in the trees. I wondered, suddenly, if Uncle Ira ever went hunting. Father had often gone hunting when we’d travelled to the country estate for holidays. He’d tried to interest Akin in going with him, but my brother hadn’t been interested. Akin had always been too soft for his own good.

And father never invited me, I remembered, bitterly. Girls did not go hunting …

Something moved, at the corner of my eye. I turned my head and looked down the corridor, half-expecting to see Morag. But there was nothing, save for a faint sense that not all was quite right. I tensed, feeling an icy shiver running down my spine. The wards, a constant presence in the background, seemed dimmed. It was suddenly very hard to move. I had to fight to get my legs to work properly.

There’s nothing there, I told myself. There really isn’t anything there.

I shivered again, remembering Uncle Ira’s warning about ghosts. Were there really ghosts in the hall? It didn’t seem likely. And yet … I couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong, terribly wrong. I wanted to walk back to the stairs and flee down to Morag. She would be rude and sarcastic and generally unpleasant, but at least she wasn’t a ghost. If there were ghosts. Something flickered, once again, at the corner of my eye. It was at the bottom of the corridor …

I forced myself to run down the corridor, pushing myself right to the far end. There was a large room in the end, its windows boarded shut. I slowed as I reached the door and peered inside, expecting to see … I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see. The floor was covered in glass - a faint breeze of bitterly cold air drifted in from the windows - but the remainder of the room was completely empty. Perhaps the gusts of air had done … something … to catch my eye. Or … I looked at the wardrobe doors, nervously. Was something hidden inside them? I braced myself and inched forward, carefully reaching out to open the first door. It creaked loudly when I opened it, loudly enough to make me jump, but there was nothing inside. A musty smell greeted me as I checked the next wardrobe, then the next. There were hints of mould at the back of the small cupboards, but otherwise they were empty.

You’re imagining things, I told myself, firmly. Your mind is playing tricks on you.

It should have been convincing. I was in a new place, a very old house with all sorts of little weaknesses … I found myself eyeing the fireplace, wondering if someone could climb up into the chimney. The vents would be huge, I thought. A whole set of secret passages, allowing someone to move around as long as the fires weren’t lit. I peered into the darkness, wondering if I dared try to climb up. Anything could be up there …

… And then I felt something behind me. I froze, too scared to move. There was something in the room with me. I knew it, even though I couldn’t hear or see anything. It was right behind me … I braced myself, shaping a spell Father had taught me, a spell he’d told me never to use unless I felt my life or my virtue was in serious danger. He’d made it clear that there would be consequences if I used it in error. I spun around, hand raised to cast the spell …

… And saw nothing.

The sensation vanished, as if it had never existed. I stepped forward, then ran through the door, half-convinced that I was going to be chased by a small army of ghosts. And yet, the further I ran, the harder it was to believe that anything had happened. There hadn’t been anything there. I’d imagined everything. And yet … I wasn’t sure what had happened. It felt like a dream or a nightmare, one that lingered even after you woke up. I stopped long enough to pick up the pile of clothes and drop them on the stairwell, then I hurried down the stairs. It wasn’t quite time for lunch, but perhaps Morag would like a hand. I’d welcome her company, even if she didn’t welcome mine.

She looked up from the stove as I entered the kitchen, one hand stirring something in a pot that smelt faintly of tomatoes. “What do you want?”

“I saw … something … on the third floor,” I said, ignoring her tone. I described what had happened as best as I could. “Are there really ghosts here?”

“I rather doubt it,” Morag said. She sounded as though she was trying to be reassuring, but didn’t know how. “The wards are quite old, Isabella, and they’re poorly maintained. They occasionally produce odd effects, particularly to the unwary. You might just have walked into an aversion ward that was starting to spark out of control. I’ll mention it to the Master.”

“It felt so real,” I said. I’d never heard of a ward that did that. An aversion ward would push anyone unlucky enough to step into its field to run, pressing at their minds until they were so terrified they couldn’t think straight … which was what I’d done, I supposed. I certainly hadn’t considered trying to block the ward from affecting me. “I thought I was keyed into the wards.”

“There are sections that might not recognise you - or any of us - as family,” Morag said, stiffly. “If so, they might try to drive you away.”

“Oh,” I muttered. I’d heard stories about what happened to people who managed to trip a house’s interior wards. None of them ended well. “How reassuring.”

“Quite,” Morag agreed. “Now, seeing it will probably rain for the rest of the week, you can give me a hand drying the clothes. And we’ll be finished just in time for lunch.”

I glanced at the clock, then nodded. “Yes, Senior.”

Chapter Seven

The one major problem with living at Kirkhaven Hall, I discovered as the week slowly progressed, was that I was alone. Neither Morag nor Ira seemed to feel any inclination to spend time with me … and even if they had, there was a colossal age gap between us. There was no one my age to talk to, not even an upperclassman who might lord his greater age over me without being completely inaccessible. I would have welcomed anyone, even Cat, if it had meant having someone on my level. But I was alone.

Morag had been right. It had indeed rained all week. Water had splashed down so heavily, it was a wonder the roof hadn’t sprung a leak or two. I’d looked outside a few times, but the downpour was so heavy that I was sure I would be soaked to the skin within seconds if I walked into the gardens. I’d made what use I could of my free time, when I wasn’t cleaning my workrooms or exploring the building, but by the time Friday rolled around I was starting to feel trapped. There simply wasn’t much to do, save for reading old books - half were outdated, while the other half were well above my comprehension - and working my way through the first set of exercises. I was almost glad of it when Uncle Ira joined me in the potions lab after lunch. At least I’d be doing something.

“You’ve definitely improved the room,” Uncle Ira said, as he took a seat in the corner and watched me through his blue eyes. “I trust you read the recipe notes?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. There were a dozen different potions recipes included in the first set of exercises, ranging from the strikingly simple to the hideously complicated. I thought I could handle them, but I didn’t really want to mess up in front of Uncle Ira. He wasn’t a teacher. He wasn’t paid to help me overcome my weaknesses and master the art.

“Very good,” Uncle Ira said. He reached into his pocket and produced a parchment scroll. “I want you to brew this potion.”

“But …”

“This potion,” Uncle Ira repeated. His voice was polite, but it was a very powerful kind of politeness. He knew he was in charge. He didn’t need to prove it by blustering. “Brew it, if you please.”

I scanned the recipe quickly, trying to figure out what the potion did. It had some aspects in common with sleeping potions, but it also seemed to share ingredients with healing and energy potions. I wasn’t sure the different sections would go together, no matter how carefully I infused the magic. It was definitely a year or two ahead of where I’d been at Jude’s. I wanted to object, but I knew it would get me nowhere. Instead, I started to gather the ingredients.

“We’re going to need more dried ants,” I said, as I put the sole jar on the table. If there was one advantage to having a private workroom, it was having plenty of space to sort and measure the ingredients. I didn’t have to worry about cramming everything on a table a size too small for me. “Can you order them?”

“I have placed the order,” Uncle Ira said, placidly. He folded his arms over his chest. “Carry on, please.”

I nodded as I put the cauldron on to boil - making sure the heating element was carefully focused to direct any excess magic away from the brew - and started to chop the ingredients, one by one. I had no idea how forgiving the potion would be, if I skipped a step or two, so I forced myself to do everything perfectly. Thankfully, Magistra Loanda had drilled precision into me and the rest of the class. Bad habits, picked up when we were Firsties, would haunt us for the rest of our lives.

“The recipe normally calls for the ants to be mashed,” Uncle Ira said, suddenly. “Why do you chop them up instead?”

Because that’s what the recipe says, I thought. He hadn’t suggested that I should improve the recipe as I went along. The potion requires chopped ants …

“It allows a slower release of magic,” I said, after a moment. Father had insisted that I learn the reasoning behind each instruction too. “Mashed ants would only ruin a slow-brewing potion.”

“Very good,” Uncle Ira said.

I nodded, then turned my attention to the boiling water. Three of the ingredients had to be added and infused together, the reminder added at five-minute intervals … I gritted my teeth as I mixed the chopped ants with the frogspawn and powdered mice, then poured them into the boiling water and hastily infused the first surge of magic. The mixture bubbled violently, just long enough for me to want to jump to one side and dive under the table before it started to settle down. I started to stir, carefully counting the strokes. It had to be stirred at least twenty times before the next ingredients were added.

“You’re stirring very slowly,” Uncle Ira said. “Is there a reason for that?”

“It allows the magic to settle into the brew,” I said, feeling sweat prickling on my forehead. I had no hope of impressing him, I thought, but perhaps I could convince him I understood enough to be worth teaching. “If I stirred too hard, the magic might be warped out of shape and the potion might explode.”

“I see,” Uncle Ira said.

I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but there was no time to worry about it. The potion was starting to bubble again. I could feel the magic swirling through the brew, calling me. I counted down the last few seconds, then added the next ingredient, upping the tempo of my stirs. This time, I needed the surge of magic to knock the spellform into shape.

Uncle Ira didn’t say anything until I’d added the last few ingredients and triggered the cascade reaction. “You added only a handful of powder base,” he said. “Should you not add more?”

“The recipe calls for only a handful,” I grated. I’d probably get in trouble for tone, if nothing else, but I was feeling stressed. “And now the spellform is taking shape …”

The brew flared a brilliant white, just for a second, then settled down into a murky purple liquid. I watched it for a long moment before turning off the heating element, half-expecting something to go wrong at the last second. But nothing happened. The potion merely started to cool rapidly. Uncle Ira didn’t seem inclined to tell me off after all.

“You’re not questioning the recipe,” he said, instead. “Can you not look for a better way to brew it?”

I bit down on the response that came to mind. “You gave me the recipe,” I said. It was hard to keep my voice even. “I thought you would want me to follow the recipe.”

Uncle Ira’s lips twitched. “True enough,” he said. “But how would you improve the recipe?”

“I don’t even know what it does,” I protested. I had to fight not to show my annoyance on my face. Mother would snap at me for being cheeky and Father would send me to my room or assign some pointless and thoroughly unpleasant task for being rude. “How am I supposed to improve on the brew if I don’t know what it does?”

His face darkened, just for a second. I cringed, unsure what to expect. His voice, when he spoke, was so flat I knew he was annoyed. “Why don’t you go through the ingredients again, while the potion cools, and work out what it does?”

I took the recipe and sat down, forcing myself to work my way through the list of ingredients, one by one. Some of them seemed to cancel out the others … no, they balanced the others, allowing them to work in tandem. The potion seemed to encourage sleep, without actually forcing the drinker to sleep; the potion seemed to encourage healing, yet didn’t seem focused on doing anything in particular. It didn’t appear to direct the healing in any way.

“I don’t know,” I said, slowly. “It only seems to encourage the body to heal.”

“Very good.” Uncle Ira sounded pleased. “And what use does it have?”

I hesitated, forcing my tired brain to think. If I was on the right track … understanding clicked. It was a rejuvenation potion. I’d heard of them, years ago, but I’d thought they’d been superseded by regeneration potions and charms. I certainly hadn’t seen a recipe in any of the books in my father’s study, the ones I hadn’t been supposed to read. If I’d given the matter any thought, I would have assumed that they were considered outdated and rarely brewed any longer.

“It helps the body to heal,” I said. “Doesn’t it?”

“In essence,” Uncle Ira said. He reached out and tapped the parchment. “For next Friday, I want you to write an essay explaining how each of the ingredients helps the potion to work and how they interact to produce the final result.”

I hid my dismay behind a flat expression. “Yes, Uncle.”

Uncle Ira shot me a look that told me I wasn’t as good at hiding my emotions as I might have hoped. “I’m sure you will find it very interesting,” he said. “Almost as interesting as the assignments from a distant tutor.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said, quietly.

Uncle Ira stood. “Bottle up the potion and label it carefully - the brew is called Ira’s Tipple, by the way - and then put it on the table,” he ordered. “And then come meet me in the next workroom.”

I watched him go, unwillingly impressed. Ira’s Tipple? Had Uncle Ira invented the potion? I didn’t think he was old enough to have brewed rejuvenation potions in Jude’s - if he’d gone to Jude’s - but he might have come across references to older potion recipes in Kirkhaven’s library. And, with more modern knowledge, he might have been able to invent his own or improve an older recipe to the point where he could claim it as his own. I didn’t think it had any real use, but I might be wrong. It was something I’d have to ask him.

He was waiting for me in the next room when I finished, absently reading his way through a dust-covered tome that probably hadn’t been touched in a hundred years. I sat down and rested my hands in my lap, oddly amused that he hadn’t noticed that I was wearing a pair of boy’s trousers. Morag had sniffed disapprovingly, when she’d seen them, but she hadn’t forced me to change. Perhaps she thought she had no room to complain. She wore her hair in a manner befitting a married woman.

“Uncle,” I said, slowly. “Why are we brewing rejuvenation potions when we could be brewing regeneration potions?”

Uncle Ira gave me a sharp look, then nodded slowly. “You are aware, no doubt, that you have never been sick? Ever?”

I frowned. It was true. Neither I nor Akin had ever caught anything nasty. I couldn’t recall any of the family ever getting ill. Injured? Oh yes, we’d been injured. But ill?

“Yes, Uncle.”

“The magic that flows through your blood has a vested interest in keeping you alive,” Uncle Ira told me. “You may break your arm, if you are unlucky, but it is extremely rare for a powerful magician to catch a disease. The pestilences that sweep through the countryside from time to time never touch you because your magic keeps you healthy. Indeed, should you break an arm, your magic will try to fix it. The problems that most magicians encounter when they do break bones happen because the damage is too great for the magic to gently push things back to the way they should be.”

He paused. When I nodded, he went on.

“The basic difference between rejuvenation potions and regeneration potions, and spells, is that the former tries to encourage the body to heal itself while the latter pretty much does the work for it. The latter are quicker, if you want to be up and running within a day of your accident, but the former tend to do a more comprehensive job. It would be” - he paused, searching for a good example - “akin to me making you figure out the answer for yourself, instead of simply giving it to you. You’d understand the underlying principles a great deal better if you worked it out for yourself.

“That’s partly why potions teachers are so fussy, even when there’s no reason to be quite so nitpicky. You have to understand what you’re doing in order to progress to a mastery - or even be able to apply your skills to other potions. Simply following a recipe is not enough, Isabella. You have to understand what you’re doing and why.”

I supposed that made a certain kind of sense. “Yes, Uncle.”

Uncle Ira sat back in his chair. “And now … I want you to cast a lighting charm.”

I frowned - it was one of the first spells I’d learnt - but I cast it anyway. Uncle Ira studied my work for a moment, then told me to cast another charm. And another, and another, and … I think I must have cast over fifty different spells, some more successfully than others, by the time he finally called a halt and passed me a bottle of apple juice. I sipped gratefully, feeling suddenly very tired. He’d made me cast more spells in an hour than I’d used to cast in a day.

“You have a good grasp of the basics,” Ira said, as I drank. “Your more advanced spells are lacking, I think. You’ll have to work on those.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said. He was right. Father had pushed me hard, when I’d been at the hall, but Jude’s tutors hadn’t had time to give me too much attention. “I’ll keep working on it.”

“A very good idea,” Ira agreed. “You really need to learn to think about what you’re doing, young lady. You are a competent brewer, at your level, but you don’t show much in the way of imagination.”

I winced. That stung, even though I didn’t want to admit it. “I was always taught not to improvise a recipe on the fly.”

“No,” Ira agreed. “However, you should always be looking for ways to improve your work, even something as simple as using chopped ants in place of crushed ants. Your tutors will be quite happy when you start modifying their recipes … if, of course, you are successful. Even a failed experiment can be quite informative, if you figure out what you did wrong and why.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said.

I took a breath. “What should I do?”

“Think about what you’re doing and why,” Ira said, again. “You need to bear that in mind at all times.”

He met my eyes. “I have to get back to my own work,” he added. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes.” A dozen possible questions ran through my mind, questions I suspected he wouldn’t answer. “Are the wards really … are the wards really threatening us?”

Uncle Ira didn’t seem surprised by the question. Morag must have told him what had happened to me. Instead, he merely looked pensive.

“Kirkhaven Hall is old,” he said. “It was rebuilt twice, I believe; the histories make it clear that there were at least two fires, the second bad enough to leave the outer shell in ruins. The original wards were augmented with several more layers of wards, some of which were warped and twisted by the fires. There are things in the ward network that even I cannot remove easily. It’s quite possible that one subset of the network is unaware that we have a perfect right to be here, or simply cannot figure out why we were allowed to enter the main doors at all.”

I frowned. “Then why don’t we take the ward network down and start again?”

Uncle Ira laughed, humourlessly. “The magic has infused itself deeply into the stone,” he told me. “I don’t think the wards can be dismantled completely, not without destroying the entire building. I’ve never seen anything like it outside Magus Court itself. It’s probably better to simply go around any parts of the building you cannot access easily.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said. “But what about the ghosts? I mean … are the ghosts and the wards connected? Or are the ghosts nothing more than illusions …?”

“Good question,” Uncle Ira said. “And one no one has ever been able to answer.”

He stood. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”

I scrambled to my feet and dropped a hasty curtsey. “You too, Uncle.”

My mind raced as he left the room, closing the door behind me. Morag might be right, I supposed. A compulsion spell worked into a ward might be powerful enough to scare me - and push my imagination into doing the rest - without making it obvious. Subtle compulsions were often more dangerous than brute force, although the latter could be terrifying. It was harder to resist something when you didn’t know it was there. But Uncle Ira had warned me specifically about ghosts. I didn’t know what to make of it. He could have simply warned me about the wards himself, if he’d wished.

I sighed. I wanted to ask my father for advice, but I was grimly certain that no letter I sent would be allowed to reach him. And the Arbiters wouldn’t give me any advice themselves.

At least I managed to brew his potion, I told myself. I’d enjoyed his short lecture, even though it was clear he was no tutor. That’s something, at least.

Putting the thought aside, I went back to work.

Chapter Eight

I had hoped, despite myself, that Uncle Ira would be happy to give me more lessons - or even to watch as I worked my way through the correspondence course. But I was disappointed. I barely saw him for the next two days and only then at dinnertime, where he would grunt vague responses to my questions and then hurry back to his work as soon as he finished eating. Morag didn’t seem inclined to talk about magic at all, even though she was clearly a powerful magician. I found myself spending far too much time in the library when I wasn’t in the potions lab or charms workroom. It was the only way to get answers.

But it was an immensely frustrating experience. The books were so badly covered in dust that it was clear they had not been read by anyone for years. No one had reviewed the collection, let alone purchased up-to-date volumes from Shallot. The youngest book I found was older than Father and very much outdated. I read the first sections, noted all the areas in which magical understanding had advanced, then nearly threw the book out the window in irritation. I’d need a set of modern tomes if I had any hope of completing the theoretical half of my studies.

The library would have been impressive, I thought, if I’d had more time and freedom. There were a handful of books I’d never been allowed to read, resting on the shelves next to volumes that had been deemed suitable for little children. I picked up A Compendium of Curses and glanced at some of the spells, then recoiled in horror at just how unpleasant they truly were. Anyone subjected to one of the nastier curses would wish they’d merely been turned into a frog permanently by the time the spell was through with them. The next two books felt so unpleasant, when I touched them, that I couldn’t force myself to open the cover and look inside. I had no idea why they’d been shelved so openly. Perhaps Uncle Ira - or whoever had sorted the library - simply didn’t care.

It isn’t as if there are any children here, I thought, choosing not to consider that Uncle Ira and Morag might consider me a child. I was in exile too, just like them. They probably don’t care what I do.

I sighed at the thought, then turned my attention to a thoroughly outdated copy of Modern-Day Spells. It might have been modern, a few decades ago, but now … the spells were still usable, I believed, but the theoretical sections had been superseded long ago. I’d owned a copy of the book back home, one that had contained far more advanced spells … I wished, bitterly, that I’d thought to bring it with me. Spellbooks were traditional presents for young children, particularly those born to the Great Houses. My collection would have made life a great deal easier if I’d thought to bring it.

Perhaps I could write to Father and ask him to send it, I told myself. And then …

My heart sank. The Arbiters had clearly expected me to keep wearing the magic-suppressing cuff. I didn’t know why - I needed magic to do everything from cleaning my clothes to fetching and heating water for my baths - but Uncle Ira had warned me not to tell them. It didn’t make sense. Father wouldn’t have bothered to arrange a correspondence course for me if he’d thought I’d be unable to do it. A person without magic could do a great deal of theoretical work - I admitted, privately, that Cat was an absolute genius - but it wouldn’t be real magic. Cat hadn’t had a hope of passing the practical side of the exams.

And I can’t ask Father for the spellbooks, I thought. The Arbiters will ask too many questions.

I sat back and surveyed the bookshelves. Someone had crammed thousands of books into the room, all practically dripping with dust. I made a mental note to come back and try to catalogue everything, if only so I could find the books I needed when I needed them. There didn’t seem to be any cataloguing system, not as far as I could tell. The family librarian back home would have fainted dead away if he’d seen it. He’d threatened to maim anyone who put a book in the wrong place. I didn’t think anyone had dared see if he was bluffing.

Pointless, I told myself. I really needed newer books. Why bother?

I stood and swept out of the library, brushing the dust off my shirt and trousers as soon as I was outside. I’d gotten better at casting dust-repellent spells, although there was so much of it in places that the spells weren’t as effective as I’d hoped. The thick layer of dust on the uncarpeted floor was proof that no one had entered the library for years. It billowed up around me as I walked down to the stairs, making my skin itch. I wished, once again, for a proper shower. Perhaps I could rig one up, with a little magic, or perhaps I should just step outside in the rain. No one would care if I stayed outside long enough to get thoroughly drenched.

The stairs creaked ominously under my feet as I headed down to the kitchens. It was an hour until lunch, which meant Morag would be there. I didn’t know if she’d be pleased to see me or not, but at least she was company of a sort. I didn’t know how she’d managed to survive so long on her own. She might be older than me, but I doubted that made it any easier. A woman her age would normally be surrounded by friends and family - and children too, probably. Morag was certainly old enough to have children.

And her hair shows she’s married, I thought. But who is she married to?

I stopped outside the kitchen and peered inside. Morag was bent over the stove, stirring something that smelt strong and meaty. She looked up at me, then held up her hand to indicate that I should wait. I nodded and watched as she poured brown liquid into the pot, then put the lid on with an expression of relief. Cooking was clearly very different from brewing potions. I wondered, sourly, if I should have been studying cookery as well as potions back home. It might have come in handy.

Morag’s blue eyes bored into mine. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for something to do,” I said. It was a dangerous thing to say when my mother was around - she had a never-ending list of tasks to keep bored young girls occupied - but I had no idea how Morag would react. “Can I help with lunch?”

“Perhaps,” Morag said. She beckoned me into the chamber. “Have you peeled a carrot before?”

I shook my head, shortly. I’d never cooked anything before, save for my one attempt to cook eggs. I could do potions, but cooking? I wasn’t even sure where to begin. The principles should be the same, surely? And yet, they weren’t.

“Here,” Morag said. She passed me a pair of small carrots and a peeler. I’d used something like it before - some potion ingredients needed to be peeled before they were sliced, diced and dumped into the brew - but it looked different. “Peel the carrots, making sure you remove all the skin.”

I nodded and started to work. The peeler was old and felt as if it was on the verge of breaking in my hand, but it was sharp. I carefully peeled the first carrot, then put it down on the chopping block and started on the second. Morag watched me closely, her eyes cold and hard. I wondered if she had reason to worry. It wasn’t as if I was trying to cook with boiling oil. There was nothing particularly complex about peeling carrots!

“Good,” Morag said, when I had finished. “Now, get rid of the ends - both ends - wash the carrots under the tap and cut them up into pennies.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

Morag nodded curtly, but she never took her eyes off me. Her gaze made me feel uncomfortable, as if she was just waiting for an excuse to lash out at me. I wanted to tell her that I’d changed my mind, that I was going to go somewhere else, but some innate stubbornness kept me in my place. I chopped the carrots carefully, using the same precision I would have brought to a potions recipe. Morag even looked vaguely approving - if I used my imagination a little - when I had finished.

“Good,” she said. She took a piece of carrot and put it in her mouth, then nodded to herself and put the rest in the pot. “You’ll be able to eat lunch knowing that you helped make it.”

I didn’t have a chance to reply before she shoved a handful of potatoes at me. “Peel these, then chop them up into small pieces,” she ordered. “Try not to make any of them larger than a grape.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

I started to work, slowly peeling the potatoes. Morag didn’t seem quite so inclined to keep an eye on me, now I’d proven I could peel; she left me alone and went into the backroom, returning several minutes later with a large piece of meat. I eyed it, trying to decide what animal had unwillingly donated it to our kitchens. Morag caught me staring and pointed a sharp finger at the remainder of the potatoes, ordering me to continue. I sighed and did as I was told.

“Put the pieces in the colander and wash thoroughly, then put them on the side,” Morag said, when I had finished. She actually sounded approving. It pleased me more than it should. “And then you can go.”

I blinked in surprise. I’d actually enjoyed myself more than I’d expected, once Morag had stopped looking at me as if she’d expected that I’d do something stupid at any moment. I wanted to stay, to do something that felt like I was actually achieving something. It wasn’t something I could do with magic.

“I …” I swallowed and started again. “Can I … can I pick your brains a little?”

“Perhaps,” Morag said, forbiddingly. She picked up the kettle and placed it on top of the heating element. “But they had better be good questions.”

I watched as she filled the teapot with tea leaves and placed two cups beside it as the kettle began to boil. Morag turned making tea into an art form, something I hadn’t seen outside the handful of extremely formal afternoon teas Mother had made me attend. I hadn’t liked them, not really. She’d had me dress up in my finest, as if I were nothing more than a doll, and then sit quietly while the grown-ups wittered about matters I found incomprehensible. I’d enjoyed going to the emporium more, where Mother and I had taken tea in a fancy cafe …

And that will never happen again, I told myself, sharply. I might never see my mother again, let alone sit with her and make witty remarks about passers-by. There will no longer be any fancy teas, or fancy cakes, or sugar butterflies that flap their wings under their own power and fly right into my mouth.

I felt a pang of bitter homesickness and sat down on the stool, trying to keep my face under control. Why hadn’t I appreciated what I’d had? I didn’t need more, did I? I’d have graduated, perhaps undergone an apprenticeship, then married someone my parents chose - or at least approved - and had children. Who knew? Perhaps I would have married into power and position. There had been quite a few eligible young men in my year. I hadn’t needed to work with Stregheria Aguirre at all.

“I need more modern books,” I said, as Morag poured the tea. “Can I order them?”

“I’d be surprised,” Morag said, tartly. “Do you even have a spending account any longer?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I’d once been able to draw on the family’s limitless resources - I’d once spent a thousand crowns on a necklace I’d packed into one of my trunks -but now? I doubted I had any spending money of my own. Traditionally, a girl was given a private account when she had her Season, but mine had been at least four - perhaps five - years away when … when I’d been sent into exile. Father might have wanted to set up an account for me, but I doubted the Arbiters had let him. It would be a great deal easier to keep me under control if I didn’t have any money that couldn’t be taken away at will.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I never … I never had a Season.”

“And a good thing too,” Morag said. Her voice was very sharp. “You’re far too young to have a Season.”

I scowled as I sipped my tea. “Are there no modern books here?”

“Ask the Master,” Morag said. “But make sure you work out a list of what you want first.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said. “Will he order them for me?”

“He might,” Morag said. “If he feels you need them, he’ll order them.”

I shook my head, ruefully. Once, I’d been able to get whatever I needed - or whatever I felt I needed. Now … I thought I understood why Rose had been so ill-prepared for Jude’s. Her family hadn’t been able to purchase the books she’d needed to learn. And now I was in the same boat.

“It won’t ever be the same, will it?”

Morag laughed, humourlessly. “I told you so, didn’t I?”

I looked down at my pale hands. I’d known girls who’d been raised in Galashiels or North Cairnbulg or even the Princedoms of Ardrossan and they’d all complained that they’d never been allowed a proper Season. They couldn’t be presented there, not when they wouldn’t be staying in foreign lands, and they couldn’t be presented here until their parents returned home for good. It caused all sorts of problems for them, some of which I found incomprehensible and others I understood all too well. Not giving a girl a Season when she was old enough to stand on her own two feet didn’t imply confidence in her abilities.

“I’ll never have a Season,” I muttered.

“Be grateful,” Morag said, sharply.

I stared. “Be grateful?”

Morag pointed a long finger at me, so sharply I was sure she was about to cast a hex. “You see the lights and the glamour, the beautiful girls walking down the stairs and drifting into the ballrooms … you see young men vying for dances while parents sit and discuss marriage prospects in the backrooms. For one day, a girl is the centre of attention; for one day, everyone wants her. You see it as something to be desired.”

The bitterness in her voice shocked me, but she went on before I could ask her anything.

“It isn’t like that, not really. You are displayed to the world as if you are a fat cow to be sold to the highest bidder. The Grande Dames will poke and prod at you, just to make sure you’re healthy, while your parents will receive requests for your hand in marriage and, if they receive one they like, they’ll push you to take it. You’ll be lucky if you even know the boy. And woe betide you if you say no.”

“It isn’t that bad,” I said. Everyone had told me that a Season was merely the start of true adulthood. It was the greatest day of a young girl’s life. “Is it?”

Morag snorted, rudely. “How would you know? You’ve never had a Season. Or been married.”

I looked at her hair. “Are you married? To Uncle Ira?”

She surprised me by laughing. “Isabella … you do realise, don’t you, that I’m closer to you in age than his?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I admitted. It was true, although if Uncle Ira and Stregheria Aguirre were contemporaries it was fairly clear that Ira had to be a great deal older than he looked. Stregheria Aguirre had been in her second century and looked it. “Who are you married to?”

Morag’s face darkened. Her hands twitched, dangerously. “None of your business, young lady.”

I probably shouldn’t have asked, but I was curious. “Is that why you were sent into exile? You were married? Or you refused to marry …?”

“Be silent,” Morag snapped. She drew back her hand, as if she was going to slap me again, then stopped herself. “You don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“I …” I could barely speak. I’d crossed a line I should have realised was there. Normally, people were keen to talk about their partners, but Morag was in exile. I should have realised that she might not want to talk about it. “I’m sorry. I …”

“I said, be silent,” Morag repeated. She half-rose from her stool, then sat back. Her face was reddening, slightly. I could tell she was angry. “I think you should go explore the grounds. Now.”

I stared at her. “But it’s raining …”

“The rain has stopped,” Morag snapped. She stood, looming over me. I was suddenly very aware of just how formidable she was. I hadn’t seen a woman quite so muscular outside the handful of female armsmen. If she wanted to slap me again, or hex me into next week, I couldn’t stop her. “Go outside.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said. I inched away, unwilling to expose my back. “I’m …”

“Go,” Morag ordered. She grabbed a wooden spoon and waved it at me. “Now!”

I turned and fled.

Chapter Nine

Morag was right, I discovered as I opened the servants’ door and peered out into the outside world. The air was cold and wet, mist sweeping over the distant hillsides and drifting down towards the valley, but at least it wasn’t raining. I cast a powerful heating charm around me, then stepped out into the open air. The cold was biting, so badly that I could feel it leaching through the charm, but I could endure it. Water droplets hung in the air, taunting me, as I walked onto the grass. My feet squelched through the muddy ground. I had the uneasy sense that I was one false step away from falling into a concealed pond.

The wards hummed around me as I made my way to the road. Ira had, I decided, understated just how powerful and complex the wards actually were. I’d seen complex wards before, at home and at Jude’s, but these wards seemed thrown together at random. One ward was new, I thought; another was very old. I couldn’t help thinking that they probably interfered with each other more than anything else. Getting through the wards might just be a matter of convincing one ward that another ward had already authorised my access.

I kept walking, trying to ignore the magic swirling around me. Kirkhaven Hall didn’t seem to be able to decide if it was calling me back or driving me away, although neither one was powerful enough to compel me to run in either direction. The pressure grew stronger, just for a second, as I reached the edge of the wards, then snapped out of existence completely as I crossed them. Someone had worked some fairly powerful obscurification charms into the grounds. I could barely sense the wards surrounding the hall even when I was standing right next to them.

Clever, I thought, as I reached the road. And odd.

I stopped and turned slowly to study the hall. It looked worse than I remembered, water dripping off a rooftop that was probably held in place by magic and sheer stubbornness. I’d heard stories of houses where the wards were actually intelligent, capable of adjusting themselves to prevent damage, but I didn’t think Kirkhaven Hall was anything like that sophisticated. Rubén Hall certainly wasn’t and that was the seat of my family’s power. My eyes traced the windows for a long moment, picking out my bedroom and a handful of other rooms I’d explored over the past week. I’d left the shutters open, but it was impossible to peer through the windows. There was a charm surrounding them that rendered the interior opaque.

A cold wind blew across the overgrown lawn, making me shiver despite the charm. I wrapped my arms around myself and looked around, noting just how badly the road had fallen into disrepair. No one knew precisely how the Thousand-Year Empire had made the roads and bridges that had knitted the empire together, but the technique had been lost when civilisation collapsed into madness. This road had been designed years later and no one had bothered to maintain it since Kirkhaven Hall had been largely abandoned. It was slowly coming apart, potholes and muddy puddles of water everywhere. I drifted down the road towards the boundary line, jumping between the puddles and trying not to get wet. It was the sort of place I would have loved as a little girl, before Mother had started drumming good manners into me. A well brought up young lady didn’t go jumping in puddles and soaking her clothes.

But no one would know, I thought, as I eyed a muddy puddle. It was tempting, very tempting, to just jump into the water. No one would care if I came back drenched to the skin.

I looked at the water for a long moment, then walked around it and down to the gates. A single cottage sat at the bottom, surrounded by a handful of wards. The boundary wall itself was smaller than I’d expected - I could have scrambled over with ease - but I could sense a handful of particularly nasty wards covering the stone. They looked to be in better repair than the ones protecting the hall itself, more than capable of stopping me in my tracks if I tried to climb over. I couldn’t make out the charms that would enforce my uncle’s orders, but I knew they’d be there. The last thing I wanted was to risk triggering them before I had a countermeasure in mind.

Shaking my head, I turned and walked to the cottage. The wards parted at my touch, allowing me to push the door open and step inside. It was in surprisingly good repair - the ceiling looked watertight and the floor was dry - but it had been stripped bare long ago. I paced from room to room, unsure quite what I was looking for. The rooms were so bare that the only one I could identify was the kitchen and only then because there was a cooking stove placed over a wooden fireplace. I wondered, as I walked back outside and looked around, just who had lived there and what had happened to them. The cottage was in better shape than the hall. A family of four could live there quite comfortably.

I grinned at the thought, then looked at the roads. One led back to the hall, while the other followed the boundary line. I shrugged and walked along it, frowning as I caught sight of hints of buildings hidden in the foliage. The trees weren’t trying to break down the road - not yet, anyway - but they’d grown so thick that I doubted I could find a way into the woods without magic. I peered into the gloom, feeling odd flickers of magic dancing through the overgrown forest. The trees were definitely showing signs of having been exposed to magic at some point in their lives. Their branches were entwined so tightly that they looked like knots of wood. I hadn’t seen anything like it outside the botanical gardens in Shallot.

The building slowly came into view as the road curved around the edge of the boundary line. I felt a flicker of hope as I recognised the design - it had to be a set of stables - but the hope faded as the road rounded the wall. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was indeed a set of stables, but they were clearly in poor repair. Puddles of water lay everywhere - I could hear dripping water from inside the buildings - and the horses were long gone. They’d been gone so long that I could barely smell hints that they’d been there, once upon a time. I almost started to cry as I peered into the largest stall. I’d loved horseback riding when we’d gone to the estate for summer. A horse of my own would have made the exile far more bearable.

I moved from building to building, trying to choke back my dismay. The buildings were a nightmare; the stone walls were intact, but the interiors were stained, the roofs were leaking and the wooden ladders were rotting away. I touched a ladder that led up to the loft gently, then shook my head. I doubted that someone my size could climb up into the darkness, let alone a grown adult. And if they did, there was a very real prospect of plunging through the wooden floorboards to the stone below. I shaped a levitation spell in my mind, then decided there was no point in trying to get up. Besides, I didn’t think I could hold the spell long enough. Father had told me never to risk it unless I was desperate.

The remainder of the small collection of buildings wasn’t in any better shape. The dovecot had been abandoned too, while a pair of tiny cottages that had probably been intended for the staff were so completely wrecked that I couldn’t help wondering if a pair of careless magicians had been letting off blasting spells without proper wards. The roof’s frame was still intact, but the roof itself was gone. Water dripped down the walls, oozing into what had probably once been a bedroom. I shook my head and turned away, picking my way back into the stables. Once, horses had probably been groomed here before being walked outside and handed over to the riders. Now, it was so bare that I could see right into the far corner and out into the forest. I hesitated, then walked through the door and into the woods.

It felt … eerie. I looked around, feeling oddly unsettled. There was magic here, magic … magic that lingered on the edge of my senses. I reached out carefully, trying to locate the source, but it was everywhere and nowhere. The wood was silent, unnaturally so. I couldn’t even hear the steady dripping of water that had been prevalent just a moment before. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to walk deeper into the forest. The trees seemed to close around me as I made my way up a muddy path. In truth, I wasn’t sure it was a path. It might just have been a place where the trees refused to grow.

The temperature dropped rapidly as I entered a clearing. A handful of stones lay on the ground, surrounding … a chunk of stone. I walked closer, despite the cold. The stones might be all that remained of a building, but … I thought there was something more. A shiver ran down my spine as I looked up, into the trees. They were hiding a series of statues, resting in the gloom. The statues looked immobile, but there was something about them that chilled me to the bone. I didn’t want to turn my back. The sense that something was deeply wrong grew stronger as I looked from side to side. I’d heard stories about statues that moved when they weren’t being watched …

My nerve broke. I turned and fled, half-expecting to hear something moving behind me. My footsteps echoed in the air as I squelched my way through the mud, not looking back until I was in the stables. There was nothing behind me, save for a handful of black birds flying through the trees. I nearly threw a hex at them before collecting myself. The birds were probably harmless. I was just imagining it … but, no matter what I thought, I couldn’t convince myself to walk back up that path.

I turned and walked back through the stables, then onto the road. It sounded more natural here; I could hear birds singing as the sun slowly peeked out from behind the clouds, small animals moving through the undergrowth. I even thought I heard someone calling my name, although I might have imagined it. Morag probably didn’t want to see me anytime soon. I shouldn’t have asked her about her marriage. Perhaps she just wanted to pretend she was married. There were some girls who wore their hair in braids, even though they’d had their Season. I didn’t understand it, but presumably they had their reasons.

I’ll stay out for a few hours, I told myself. The grounds were vast, larger than anything back home. And I’d been confined to the house for far too long. I can get something to eat later.

The road twisted again, the boundary wall half-vanishing in the undergrowth. I followed it around, wondering just what the designer had been thinking as it twisted further into the grounds, then went over a bridge that was in surprisingly good repair. I kept a wary eye on the stonework as I crossed anyway, just in case. The stream was larger than I’d expected, constantly on the verge of breaking its banks. I’d have enjoyed splashing around when I was a child …

… And I was being watched.

The sensation crashed into my awareness with terrifying force. I stopped, listening carefully as I scanned the trees for movement. There was nothing, save for more birds flying high overhead. Sorcerers in disguise? It wasn’t easy to turn oneself into a bird - instead of having someone else cast the spell on you - but I’d heard of plenty of sorcerers who’d managed it. I eyed the birds for a long moment, then looked into the gloomy undergrowth. If there was anything there, it was concealed in the darkness or hidden behind an obscurification charm.

I muttered a word I wasn’t supposed to know as I tried to decide what to do. The sense of being watched hadn’t faded at all. I concentrated, casting a locator spell that should have pointed me in the direction of any active magic, but there was no response. A magician hiding nearby should have been immediately obvious, even if he wasn’t the one spying on me. Unless, of course, he had enough power and foresight to hide from my spell. I cast another spell, trying to determine if someone was watching me from a distance. Again, there was no response. I shaped a counterspell Father had taught me in my mind, then cast it into the open air. Anyone trying to scry me would have to either back off or use a more powerful spell. And I’d be able to trace that spell back to its caster.

Nothing happened, save for a long rumble of thunder in the distance. A gust of wind slapped against me, blowing cold water into my face. I looked up and cursed under my breath. It was darkening rapidly as the wind blew stronger, dark clouds roaring towards me. I thought I saw, just for a second, a face hidden within the clouds. I told myself that I was being silly as the thunder rumbled again. This time, it was closer.

Time to go back inside, I thought. The sense of being watched was fading rapidly. Maybe I’d scared the watcher off, even if I hadn’t managed to trace them. I can ask Uncle Ira about it later.

It crossed my mind, as I stared to hurry up the path towards what I thought was the hall, that Uncle Ira himself could have been spying on me. I didn’t think it was likely, but … I shuddered at the thought. Technically, he had every right to know what I was doing when I was on his land; practically … I shook my head as the rain started to fall in earnest. I couldn’t imagine Uncle Ira wasting his time watching me. Whatever he was doing was clearly important.

I splashed through a rapidly-growing puddle as the rain grew worse, the hall coming into view behind a copse of trees. The mist was blowing in rapidly, visibility dropping so sharply that I nearly walked straight into another stream. Someone had dug a pond, only a few short metres down the hill from the hall; raindrops were splashing down, driving more and more water into the overflow and down into the stream. I wondered, morbidly, if there was a small colony of frogs within the pond. Perhaps I would have to start harvesting them for potions ingredients.

We could set up a greenhouse, I thought, as I caught sight of a pair of disused tennis courts in the distance. It wouldn’t be hard to start growing most of what we needed …

I made a mental note to raise the issue with Uncle Ira as I scrambled up the hill, nearly slipping on the mud, and hurried to the main entrance. The hall felt empty as I approached, a sense of uselessness nearly overwhelming me before I realised that it was the wards trying to push me away. I ignored the sensation as best as I could as I stumbled into the door and came to a halt. Water was dripping down my back and splashing onto the floor. The heating charms had failed completely.

Odd, I thought, as I cast a pair of drying spells. What happened to the first set of spells?

I turned and looked back outside. The mist had grown stronger and stronger, to the point where I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I dreaded to think what would have happened if I’d loitered outside for a few minutes longer. A locator spell would have pointed me back to the hall, but I might have walked straight into the pond - or something worse - if I hadn’t been able to see properly. I didn’t think the standard night-vision spells would allow me to see through mist.

My clothes dried, slowly. I waited until I was sure I wouldn’t drip water onto the carpet, then closed the main door and walked into the lobby. It felt … odd, odd enough to worry me. I looked around, but saw nothing … no, there was something at the top of the stairs, something at the corner of my eye. I stared up the stairwell for a long moment, then dismissed the thought. I wasn’t sure if the wards were malfunctioning or not - it was easier to believe that they were, now that I’d seen the wards outside the hall - but I didn’t want to go chasing after shadows. It was all too easy to believe that something nasty was waiting for me up the stairs.

“Well,” a quiet voice said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

I jumped. Morag had walked through one of the smaller doors without me noticing. How did she do that? I glared, then hastily remembered myself. I was probably in enough trouble without showing blatant disrespect. That had always got me in more trouble with my parents.

“Your food is on the stove,” Morag said. She sounded cold, yet somehow amused. “And, after that, you can wash the dishes.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said. As punishments went, it wasn’t too bad. “Ah … does it always rain so badly here?”

Morag laughed. “These are the April Rains,” she said. “They’re not to be confused with the May Rains, or the June Rains, or the July Rains …”

I swallowed, hard. I hoped she was joking.

Chapter Ten

The next few days were wet enough to convince me that Morag wasn’t joking. It rained constantly, as far as I could tell; it rained in the morning, it rained in the afternoon, and it even rained late at night. The handful of dry spells were nowhere near long enough for me to walk outside, even for a few minutes. I spent most of the day cooped up inside, working in the potions lab, writing my essays and trying to find something - anything - else to do. Uncle Ira seemed completely unsympathetic to my plight, although he did grunt acknowledgement when I told him I needed newer and better books. I hoped that meant that he’d read the list I’d given him and order the books. Perhaps he’d have a use for them too.

I worked in the library, trying to sort the books; I dug through chests of clothes, hoping to find better outfits to wear. It was deeply frustrating; half the clothes were designed for children, the other half for adults who were taller than me. I experimented with a handful of shrinking spells, trying to resize them to something more suitable, but the ancient fabric didn’t take the magic very well. The clothes either suddenly returned to their old size at unpredictable intervals, or simply fell to pieces five or six minutes after I cast the spells. Morag could probably have helped, but I was reluctant to ask her for anything. I rather suspected she was in a vile mood.

The only bright spot was that Uncle Ira seemed pleased with my essay, returning it with a lot of notes pointing out what I’d done right and detailing the issues with what I’d done wrong. I enjoyed his praise more than I should have done, perhaps, although he promptly assigned me two more potions to brew and another essay to write. He seemed to like the older healing potions, though he seemed to have invented quite a few variants on the original recipes. I wasn’t sure why he didn’t simply send them in to the Guild of Potioneers. It wasn’t as if they’d reject them just because their creator was in disgrace.

“I have my reasons,” he said, when I asked. “Why don’t you focus on your work?”

I was thoroughly bored - again - after the fourth day of rainfall. I just wasn’t suited to being alone. Akin would probably have enjoyed the chance to work at a forge without being interrupted - and I knew a handful of girls who would have loved the solitude - but I wanted to be surrounded by friends and clients at all times. I wanted to play games, to try on clothes, to chat about life … even, perhaps, to have a sleepover. But it wasn’t going to happen. Morag was twenty years older than me and showed no inclination to pretend to be my friend. And I saw so little of Uncle Ira that there were times when I wondered if he was napping on the sixth floor. He didn’t seem inclined to be anything more than a part-time tutor.

It was midmorning when I slowly made my way down to the kitchens, once again. I didn’t hold out much hope of finding something to do, but it was the only thing I could think of. I couldn’t go outside unless I wanted to be soaked and I was in no state to concentrate on the books. I hadn’t been able to find any fiction in the hall, not even a handful of the tedious and moralising works I’d been forced to read as a child. I’d hated them when I was six - the kids were practically perfect in every way - but I might have enjoyed rereading them now that I was a little older. If nothing else, I could amuse myself by noting just how blatantly they’d been written for young children.

Morag frowned when I entered the kitchen. “Yes?”

“Can I help?” I hated the pleading sound in my voice. “Please?”

“I suppose,” Morag said, after a moment. She pointed to a chopping block. “You can start by peeling a dozen carrots and chopping eleven of them into pennies. Make sure you cut the ends off.”

I nodded, grateful for something to do. Morag kept an eye on me for a moment as I started to work, then started to cut up an onion and a large red pepper herself. I felt oddly at peace as we worked in companionable silence, even though I would normally have tried to chat if I was working with someone my own age. When she was done, Morag started to melt some butter in a large pan while I finished chopping the carrots. She was humming cheerfully to herself.

“Done,” I said. “What are we cooking?”

“Carrot soup,” Morag said, shortly. She dropped the onion, pepper and chopped carrots into the pan. “It tastes very good, if left to simmer long enough.”

“There’s no spellform,” I guessed.

Morag gave me an odd look. “This isn’t a potion,” she said. “There’s no magic involved at all.”

She took a wooden spoon out of the drawer and passed it to me. “Stir every minute or so,” she ordered. “We don’t want the food sticking to the bottom and burning.”

I nodded and did as I was told. The butter was starting to sizzle, slowly softening the vegetables. It smelt a little odd, but I decided it would probably taste better when we’d finished cooking. Morag headed into the backroom and returned with a single large chicken, wrapped in a preservation spell. I watched with grim fascination as she carefully removed the feathers, placing them to one side. I’d heard of spells that involved chicken feathers, but I’d never seen them performed. Most of them were regarded as borderline dark.

“Keep stirring,” Morag said. “If you burn the vegetables, you’ll have to start again.”

And probably eat them anyway, I thought, sourly. It isn’t as if there is a carrot shortage.

“They’re softer now,” I said. “What do we do?”

Morag came over, took the spoon and pressed it down on a carrot. “A minute or two longer,” she said, giving me back the spoon. “I’ll be back in a second.”

She hurried into the backroom; returning, a few minutes later, with a large jug of brownish liquid. I wasn’t sure what it was, but the smell was so strong that it seemed to waft through the air like smoke. It wasn’t unpleasant, merely overpowering. Morag took the spoon, checked the carrot again, then poured the liquid into the pan. I flinched back, expecting a vile smell. Instead, it smelled surprisingly nice.

“Let it come back to boil, then place it on the simmering plate,” Morag ordered, clicking her finger at a heating element next to me. It glowed as it came to life. “Make sure you put the lid on once it’s bubbling.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

She hurried back into the rear section, leaving me alone. I frowned, wondering just how much food she’d salted away. The soup started to bubble, so I placed the lid on top and then moved it to the simmering plate. Morag hadn’t returned, so I walked into the rear section and stopped in surprise. It was crammed with canned goods, utterly drenched in preservation spells. Morag was bent over a large metal box, searching for something inside. I slipped back before she turned and saw me. I had the feeling she wouldn’t be pleased if she knew I was watching her.

“The soup needs to simmer for an hour,” Morag said. She pointed to the chicken. “You can help me get ready to roast this beast.”

I nodded. “Where does the food come from? I mean … there isn’t an emporium here, is there?”

Morag gave me a sardonic look. “Of course not,” she said. “I buy the food at Kirkhaven Town.”

“Kirkhaven Town?”

“There’s a town further down the valley,” Morag said. “I go there every so often to buy food for the hall. Where did you think the food came from?”

I shrugged. I’d never believed that food came from magic, unlike a distant cousin who’d been horrified to discover that a sweet little lamb had been killed to provide meat for the autumn feast, but I hadn’t thought much about how an animal moved from the farm to my dinner plate. The cooks bought meat somewhere in the city, didn’t they? That was all I needed to know. But here …

“You go every week?”

“I go whenever I need to go,” Morag said, briskly. She stuffed a lemon in the chicken, rubbed butter all over the meat and dumped it into a roasting tray. The remaining carrot and an onion went in beside the chicken. “It’s a change.”

I looked up, trying not to sound like I was begging. “Can I come with you, the next time you go?”

“No,” Morag said.

I felt my heart sink. “Why … why not?”

“Because you have been told no,” Morag said, sharply. “And most smart children would recognise that that is the end of the matter.”

I looked down, feeling trapped. I hadn’t managed to explore all the grounds, not yet, but … when I did, I suspected I would find little to keep me occupied. It wasn’t as if I had anyone to explore them with. And now … I’d had the brief hope of being allowed to leave, if only for a few hours, only to have it dashed in my face. Of course Morag didn’t want me to go with her! It was the only taste of freedom she enjoyed. Why would she want to share it with me?

Morag cleared her throat. “The Master ordered that you were not to leave the grounds,” she said, with surprising gentleness. “You can ask him yourself, if you like, but I don’t think he’ll change his mind. This isn’t a safe place for children.”

I forced myself to keep my voice calm. “I was safe in Shallot …”

“Because you had the family name,” Morag told me, curtly. “Here, hardly anyone knows who you are. The world outside the grounds is not safe.”

“I’d be with you,” I protested.

“You can ask the Master to change his mind,” Morag said. “But, until then, you are not to leave the grounds.”

She turned to the stove. “Now, do you actually want to help or do you want to sulk?”

I swallowed several nasty responses as she lit the stove, waited for it to heat properly, then placed the chicken into the cooking chamber. I’d never realised that cooking could be so complicated, or that it was so very different from potions. Morag didn’t give me time to sulk, either. She set me to peeling potatoes, chopping more vegetables and heating water for tea. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been reminded, again, that I was a prisoner. Morag was my warden as well as a fellow prisoner. I told myself, firmly, that I should be grateful I wasn’t actually in jail. Or that my wardens weren’t actually testing their nastier spells on me.

“It’ll be about two hours until dinner,” Morag said, as I made the tea. She checked the soup and favoured me with a rare smile. I couldn’t help thinking that she would be prettier if she smiled more. “The soup is cooking well. You did a good job.”

“Thank you,” I said, although I knew she’d done most of it. “Can I try something larger next time?”

Morag laughed. “You’d better learn to walk before you can run,” she said. “But you can try to turn the remnants of the chicken into curry tomorrow, if you wish.”

I poured two cups of tea, passed one to her and sat on the stool. A hundred questions ran through my head, but none of them struck me as being safe to ask. The things I would have shared with my girlfriends - or Akin - weren’t things I could share with her. She was simply too old, too distant from the main family line, yet … I looked down at the teacup, wondering just how much it mattered. It wasn’t as if we were both in Shallot. Here, we were practically sisters.

And at least she’s not lording it over me, I thought. I’d been lucky enough not to have older siblings, but I knew girls who had. They’d often complained that their older siblings regularly talked down to them. It could be worse.

Morag checked the soup again, then poured it into a glass bowl and muttered a spell. The liquid started to spin, the remaining vegetables coming apart; she kept the spell going until nothing was left, save for a thick orange liquid. I leaned forward, wondering just where she’d found the spell. I’d never seen anything like it. Perhaps it was a culinary spell. The cooking itself might be done without magic, although the heating elements were magic, but I couldn’t imagine the cooks not using magic to make life easier. Why wouldn’t they?

“Very good,” Morag said. She splashed some of the soup into a smaller bowl and passed it to me. “What do you think?”

I took a sip. “It’s nice,” I said. It tasted like something I’d had back home, but there was something nicer about it. “What is it called?”

Morag smirked. “I told you. Carrot soup,” she said. “Cooks don’t give their dishes fancy names.”

We went to work as the clock steadily ticked its way towards six o’clock, Morag issuing instructions as we collected plates, glasses and cutlery and carried them up the stairs. I’d honestly never realised how hard the servants worked, nor how tricky it could be to move food from the kitchens to the dining room. And Morag and I were trying to feed three people, including ourselves. The servants who fed the family, back home, had to work very hard indeed. They didn’t get to sit down and eat with us.

I scowled as I remembered just how badly I’d treated them, once upon a time. I’d cast hexes on the maids and nastier spells on the manservants … Mother and Father hadn’t been pleased, but they hadn’t made any attempt to stop me. I’d always had the impression that Father had approved, in his own way. Akin’s silent disapproval had had more of an impact than the occasional rebuke from my parents. And … I’d been horrible to the maids. I remembered throwing a tantrum for hours when my personal maid hadn’t been able to find something I wanted. It hadn’t even been something important either! Guilt gnawed at my soul as we sat down at the table and waited for Uncle Ira to join us. Perhaps I deserved exile - or worse - after all.

And if I hadn’t been so self-important, I told myself, perhaps I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be tricked.

The roast chicken was lovely, the potatoes done to perfection … but they tasted like ashes in my mouth. I’d been a little brat all my life, whinging and moaning whenever I hadn’t got my way. I wondered, morbidly, just how many times the servants had wanted to slap me, even knowing that it would have gotten them fired or exiled themselves. And I hadn’t realised just how lucky I’d been until it was too late. I was so lost in my thoughts that I barely paid attention to anyone until the dinner was over and Uncle Ira was rising. He’d be gone in a moment and I wouldn’t see him until tomorrow lunch.

“Uncle,” I said, quickly. “Can we talk?”

Uncle Ira turned to peer down at me. “I already ordered your books and potions ingredients,” he said, with the air of a man distracted from a far greater thought. He didn’t quite meet my eyes. “And you have enough work to get on with.”

I felt a stab of annoyance. He could have told me he was sending letters out: I wanted to write to Father, even though I had no way to know if he’d see it or not. But I suppressed my annoyance as best as I could. Snapping at Uncle Ira would get me nowhere. And besides, he had ordered my books. That would make life easier once the books arrived.

“Morag told me that she visits the nearby town fairly regularly,” I said. “I was wondering if I could accompany her …”

“Out of the question,” Uncle Ira said. “You will remain within the grounds at all times.”

His voice left no room for argument, but I tried anyway. “Uncle, I’d be with Morag and completely safe …”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Uncle Ira said. He glowered down at me as if I’d asked for something totally unreasonable, like everything he owned. “And my judgement is that you are not to leave the grounds. Do you understand?”

“But …”

“That will do, young lady,” Morag said, sharply. “You have your answer.”

Uncle Ira turned and swept out of the room, closing the door behind him. I sank back into my chair, feeling hopelessly trapped. I was a prisoner. I’d known it, but it hadn’t truly sunk in until now. I might not be behind bars, yet … I was trapped.

“I’ll clean up here,” Morag said. I half-expected her to give me lines to write. She sounded as irritated as Sandy had when she’d told me to write five hundred lines for some long-forgotten offence. I’d hated it at the time, but it seemed petty now. “Go to your room. And don’t let me see you until tomorrow morning.”

I tried to think of an answer, but nothing came to mind. I was a prisoner and I knew it and … and I was trapped.

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

Chapter Eleven

I walked back to my room, closed the door and lay on the bed, trying desperately not to cry as rain beat against the windows. The thought ran through my head, time and time again; I was a prisoner, I was trapped, I was at the mercy of two adults who didn’t care about me very much … I wanted to scream, but I knew it would be futile. Tantrums wouldn’t get me anywhere at Kirkhaven Hall.

If anyone hears, I thought. The hall was so quiet that I was half-convinced the wards were muffling everything. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had crafted wards to dampen sound. Back home, Father had made sure that none of our childish games on our floor could disturb his important guests. I might be screaming at nothing.

I rolled over and stared up at the cracked white ceiling. The grounds were vast, but they were still part of a prison. And there was nothing to do … I wanted a horse, I wanted games, I wanted … I wanted to able to come and go as I pleased. But I hadn’t had that, even back in Shallot. My parents had always insisted that I wasn’t allowed to leave the hall without supervision. I would have traded everything I owned if it meant I could travel the world without impediment.

And I’m the lucky one, I thought. I had no idea what had happened to the older conspirators, but I was fairly sure they’d been beheaded. They’d been on the wrong side, after all; they’d exposed themselves as traitors when it was too late to walk it back and claim to have supported the king the whole time. I’m just in prison. They’re dead.

I tried to tell myself, again and again, that I was lucky. It was true. And yet, I didn’t feel lucky. The moments of insight I’d had didn’t really help when the bars of my prison were as strong and solid as ever. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere for me to go. The rain splashing against the window was a grim reminder of what would happen if I was caught in the open. I’d be drenched to the skin before I got five metres. And then … I suspected Uncle Ira and Morag wouldn’t care. They’d probably be relieved if I caught cold and died.

He did say it was unusual for magicians to get ill, I reminded myself, as I stood. I’d probably just get wet.

I walked over to the window and peered out. It was growing darker, the light fading away as the sun - already hidden behind the clouds - sank below the horizon. I snapped my fingers at the lantern, then slowly started to change into my nightclothes. They might have been so badly out of fashion that anyone who’d dared wear them in the dorms would be an instant laughingstock, but at least they were warm and roughly my size. I blessed the mystery girl who’d left them behind, decades ago. I had no idea who she was, or what had happened to her, but she’d probably saved my life. If I ever got home, I told myself, I’d look her up and light incense at the shrine in her memory. Who knew? Perhaps she was still alive.

Probably not, I told myself. These nightclothes were unfashionable when Mother was a little girl.

I walked into the bathroom, splashed water on my face and hands, then headed back to the bed. I wanted a bath - I really wanted a shower - but I didn’t feel like going outside to fetch the water. Perhaps I could rig up a spell to transport water into my washtub without having to mess around with buckets, or … perhaps I could take the bathtub down to the tap. I considered a number of possible spells, all of which would probably need Uncle Ira’s approval. The wards would not approve of water running through the corridors … and, if he authorised the wards to let them pass, I’d have to be careful I didn’t actually cause a flood.

And that would be bad, I thought, remembering the rotting wood in the stables. I might cause the floorboards to collapse.

I pulled the blankets up to my neck and clicked off the light. The room plunged into darkness, save for a vague hint of light from the windows. I sighed, wondering just what was over the nearby hills, then closed my eyes. My body felt tired and worn, but my mind felt wide awake. I couldn’t help feeling frustrated. The hall was a prison and we were its prisoners.

What did Morag do? The thought nagged at my mind. What did Uncle Ira do?

I rolled over, pulling the blankets over my head. I’d never heard of either of them, which meant their names had probably been struck from the family rolls. My name had probably been struck from the family rolls too. And that meant … they were in disgrace. But what had they done? Morag was certainly old enough to be beheaded, if she hadn’t been simply kicked out of the family; Uncle Ira was older still. I found it hard to imagine them doing something that had got them sent into exile, rather than a more summary punishment. I was a special case.

Closing my eyes, I forced myself to take deep breaths and concentrate on a simple meditation. It should have helped me to sleep, even though my body was tense. I slowly drew in my breath and let it out, slowly becoming aware of my entire body. Magic seemed to pervade my cells, reminding me that I wasn’t completely helpless. Maybe I could find a way through the wards and walk away, down to the town. From there, I’d be able to get a coach to …

To where? I gritted my teeth, willing the thought to leave. It didn’t. I had only the vaguest idea where I was, let alone how to get home. It had taken five days to reach Kirkhaven Hall in a carriage, after all. If I went the wrong way, I was likely to accidentally walk across the border to Galashiels and then … I didn’t know what would happen then. The family had interests in Galashiels, but I doubted our local representatives would be pleased to see me. I suspected they’d either send me straight back to Kirkhaven or something worse.

A sense of despondent hopelessness overcame me. Tears stung my eyes. I was trapped and I was a prisoner and … the thought ran through my head, time and time again. I couldn’t get home, no matter what I did. I’d just have to wait until I came of age - if Uncle Ira could be bothered to declare me a legal adult - and then … I didn’t know what I’d do then. Perhaps it was the sheer lack of anywhere else to go that kept Morag at Kirkhaven Hall. She was an adult. I had no doubt she could simply walk away if she wished …

… And then I felt something in the room.

I froze, utterly convinced that I was no longer alone. Something was there, a presence that filled the room and pushed down on me. I couldn’t move. I was too scared to move. My entire body was trembling as the temperature started to drop rapidly, my heating charms flickering and failing as the presence grew stronger. It was right on top of me, beside me, all around me … I could feel it. I had to fight to shape a defensive spell in my mind. My thoughts were spinning out of control. The room was dark and light and dark and light and …

Panic ran through me. I bit my lip, hard enough to draw blood, the pain shooting through my body and banishing the paralysis. I mustered a spell, powerful enough to do real harm to a grown adult, and threw back the covers. The darkness seemed too dark, as if something was lurking within the shadows. I snapped my fingers at the lantern, half-expecting the spell to fail. But the lantern came to life, revealing … nothing. The room was empty.

I leaned forward, a spell flickering on my fingertips. The presence was gone, as if it had never been. My forehead prickled with cold sweat. Outside, I could see lightning flashing through the clouds, followed by rolling thunder that sounded oddly muffled. Had I imagined it? I reached out, very carefully, to touch the wards. They didn’t seem active. Uncle Ira had made sure I could sleep in the room without the wards deciding I was a thief. They certainly didn’t seem to be malfunctioning.

My body was still shaking. It was cold, very cold. I cast another pair of heating charms, one on the duvet and one on my nightdress, then lay back in the bed and waited. Something was going to happen. I was sure of it, although I couldn’t have put the reason into words. A prickling in the air, perhaps, or a sense that defied comprehension. I closed my eyes …

… I must have fallen asleep, somehow, because the next thing I knew was sunlight streaming through the windows and birds singing merrily outside. I sat upright, unsure if I’d been dreaming or not. It hadn’t felt like a dream, had it? And yet, in the bright daylight, it was hard to believe that it had been real. I was more concerned with Uncle Ira’s refusal to let me leave the grounds than presences in the night.

It’s an old building, I told myself as I washed and changed into a shirt and trousers. I didn’t bother to do my hair. The wards really might be flickering out of control.

I scowled at the thought. Uncle Ira had warned me about ghosts, which meant … I didn’t know what it meant. There was definitely something weird about Kirkhaven Hall. But then, it really was an old building, one that had been infused with magic for centuries. And no one had bothered to maintain it either. Uncle Ira had admitted as much. Dismantling and replacing the wards might be impossible.

They’re probably based on a hidden Object of Power, I thought. Jude’s wards had certainly been dependent on an Object of Power that had been forged back in the days of the Thousand-Year Empire. No doubt Cat had forged a replacement by now, building a legend while I was stuck in exile. The surge of bitterness surprised me. She’ll be fine until someone kidnaps her again.

I pushed the thought aside as I walked out of the door and sneaked down to the kitchen. The hall was very - very - quiet, but I knew that was meaningless. Morag and Uncle Ira could be anywhere. But the kitchens were dark and cold when I walked in, so neat and tidy that I almost wondered if I’d been left completely alone. I fixed myself a roughly-cut jam sandwich, heated myself water for tea and tried to decide what to do.

It’s sunny outside, I told myself, firmly. I should at least take a look at the wards guarding the gates. If I managed to get a sense of how they went together, I might be able to match the designs to something in a spellbook and work out how to bring them down. I was already inside the wards, after all. I should at least try to work out if I can leave without Uncle Ira’s permission.

I half-expected Morag to show up while I was pouring and drinking tea, but there was no sign of her. The clock insisted that it was around seven in the morning, a time when most servants would probably have been up for several hours already. Morag wasn’t a servant, I reminded myself sharply. She probably fixed her own breakfast whenever she actually wanted it. I wondered, absently, why she fed Uncle Ira if she wasn’t a servant, then decided it was probably a bad idea to ask her. Perhaps they were more closely related than I’d assumed. Ira was certainly old enough to be Morag’s father or even her grandfather.

Definitely a bad idea to ask her, I thought, as I washed my plate in the sink. I’d found a family tree in the library, but it hadn’t been one of the charmed parchments that automatically updated itself when someone was born or married into the family. The last entry was dated over three hundred years ago. She might have gone into exile with him.

I didn’t feel like going to the potions lab, not when I suspected that there was no point in trying to earn a handful of qualifications. Instead, I walked to the door and stepped out of the hall. The air felt fresh and clear, surprisingly warm for the highlands; I took a long breath, savouring the smell of wet grass and trees, then grabbed a coat and closed the door behind me. I didn’t think either Morag or Uncle Ira would care enough to check on me. It was an oddly frustrating thought. There was no thrill in rebellion if no one bothered to notice that one was being rebellious.

Not that I ever really was, I thought, crossly. I’d thought of myself as daring, but … I hadn’t really dared anything. Save, perhaps, for when I’d challenged Cat … and then, I’d thought I had the advantage. The only time I really went against the family was when I betrayed them and even then, I thought I was doing the right thing.

I gritted my teeth as I walked down the driveway. The sun was shining brightly, odd rays of light pulsing through the trees; water dripped down from the leaves and branches, glinting brightly as they fell to the ground. I felt almost at ease, even though I knew it was an illusion. I had the run of the grounds, perhaps, but I couldn’t go any further. I wondered, sourly, if anyone would notice if I moved into the gatekeeper’s cottage. Morag probably would be relieved she didn’t have to pretend to care any longer.

The gates themselves were wrought iron, covered in carved runes and invocations I hadn’t seen outside a couple of old books. I couldn’t help thinking that, unlike the rest of the estate, they were in very good condition. They looked odd placed against the stone wall, as if they’d been taken from another hall and installed here. It was possible they had. Father might not like to admit it, but my family had lost a great deal of money and status over the last few centuries and we’d only recently regained what we’d lost. And then I’d made it worse …

I put the thought aside and concentrated on studying the gates. Magic curled around the metal, keeping the gates firmly shut. The wards were strong, a dozen different spells humming around the lock alone. Oddly, they were designed to be hard to open from the inside as well as the outside. Uncle Ira clearly wanted to keep me inside. Or, perhaps, someone wanted to keep him inside. Was Morag his gaoler? It didn’t seem likely.

There might be someone else around, I thought, as I tried to focus on a single spell. The hall is certainly large enough to hide a dozen people from me.

I scowled as I probed the wards as thoroughly as I dared. They weren’t unbreakable, I was sure, yet they were well beyond me. Cat would probably devise an Object of Power that could smash the gates to powder and Akin might be able to use a forged Device of Power to weaken the wards, but I couldn’t do either. A handful of options ran through my head, yet almost all of them would expose me to the wards if something went wrong. There was no hope of breaking out unless I managed to figure out - and then cast - a very precise counterspell.

Useless, I thought, feeling another surge of despondency as I checked the walls. There’s no way out.

I turned and started to wander aimlessly towards the stables. Perhaps I could talk Uncle Ira into buying me a horse. Or … I did have the necklace, after all. I could try to sell it and purchase a horse for myself. But I didn’t know if there were any horse farms nearby. I certainly wasn’t going to purchase a horse sight unseen. Aunt Cecelia would have been horrified if I didn’t inspect the beast for myself before putting any money on the table. A horse-faker knew plenty of ways to trick unwary buyers into purchasing a lame animal.

It wasn’t likely, I knew, but it was a pleasant fantasy to occupy my mind as I walked into the stables. Water was dripping from the roofs, pouring into the stalls … I dreaded to think what Aunt Cecelia would say if she heard I was planning to keep a horse in such a place. The old bat was more interested in horses than people. I’d once heard her threaten to horsewhip Akin for not mucking the stables out properly when we’d stayed on her estate. I hadn’t thought she was joking.

I’d have to fix the roof first, I thought, as I looked into the nearest stable. It was perhaps the best of the lot, although that wasn’t saying much. Someone had removed the wooden stalls, probably for firewood; I’d have to replace them too, if I wanted to keep a live animal in the chamber. I didn’t think I could make them for myself in the workshop. And then I’d have to get food and riding equipment and …

I stopped, dead, as an icy sensation ran down my spine. I was being watched. I could feel it.

Again.

Chapter Twelve

I stayed very still, carefully feeling the area using my magic. There was nothing beyond a few stray flickers of magic from the forest, but I was sure I was being watched. The certainty was so strong that I was convinced the unseen watcher was far too close for comfort. I found myself eyeing the muddy puddles, watching for signs that someone was hidden under an invisibility cloak or obscurification spell. Father had taught me what to watch for, years ago. There weren’t that many invisibility cloaks that concealed everything.

And they’re all Objects of Power, I thought, as I listened carefully for hints that someone was close to me. They wouldn’t be kept up here, would they?

I closed my eyes for a long moment, reaching out again. The sense of being watched was fading, slowly, but I was morbidly sure that I wasn’t alone. A faint noise, a scraping sound, echoed from one of the stables. I leaned forward, thinking hard. Someone was in there, someone was in there watching me … it couldn’t be anyone I knew. Morag or Uncle Ira wouldn’t have needed to hide. I forced myself to recall the layout as I inched forward, moving as quietly as possible. As long as I was in the courtyard, no one could get past me without being seen, but if I walked into the stable the mystery watcher could scramble into the next stable, run through the courtyard and vanish into the forest. I wondered, just for a moment, if I was imagining it, then I heard another shuffling noise. Someone was definitely there.

Time to change the game, I thought, shaping a spell in my mind. It wasn’t a very good spell, and any halfway decent magician could counter it effortlessly, but it should win me a few seconds. And …

I pointed my finger at the open door and cast the spell. There was a flash of bright green light. The shuffling sound cut off abruptly. I shaped another spell and ran forward, half-expecting to crash into someone running out of the stable. Instead, I entered the darkened building and looked around. A young man was standing by a hole in the wall, frozen by magic. He looked to have been caught completely by surprise.

Odd, I thought. The omnidirectional freeze spell was easy to counter, even for a magician with only a few months of training. He didn’t manage to break the spell?

I stared at him for a long moment. He was about a head taller than me, his brown hair cut close to his scalp. I thought he was a year or two older than me, although it was impossible to be sure. His clothes were patched in a dozen places, marking him as a commoner, yet his hands were surprisingly unscarred. The commoners I’d met at Jude’s had all had scarred hands from years of menial work. This commoner wasn’t as scarred as he should be.

The spell broke. He stumbled forward, one hand raised as if he expected a blow. His breath came in ragged gasps. I hastily cast a second spell, freezing his feet to the ground. It would allow him to talk without permitting him a chance to escape. Not, I supposed, that I had any idea what to do with him. Technically, I thought I should turn him into something harmless and take him to Morag, but … I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t think he was a threat.

“I …” He gasped and started again. “How did you do that?”

“Magic,” I said. His accent was rustic, rather like Rose’s. I wondered, suddenly, if whatever dingy village Rose had come from was nearby. Rose had lost the accent fairly quickly, when she’d realised it marked her out for trouble, but this boy clearly hadn’t bothered. “How did you get into the grounds?”

He smiled at me, rather wanly. “Magic.”

I felt a flash of irritation, mingled with amusement. He was a commoner, but … I didn’t get any sense of threat off him. He’d been watching me - I wondered if he’d been the one watching me the last time I’d visited the stables - yet I didn’t think he was dangerous. I kept a wary eye on him anyway, just in case. The spell I’d used to fix his feet to the ground was easy to counter.

“I’m Isabella,” I said. I was wryly aware I probably shouldn’t be talking to him, a commoner and a boy, but I was desperate for someone to talk to. “And you are?”

He looked hesitant, just for a second. “Callam,” he said, finally. He didn’t try to shake my hand, which suggested he knew some manners. “I am pleased to meet you, Lady Isabella.”

I felt an unaccustomed warmth in my chest, a sensation that faded rapidly when I realised my hair was down. Mother would have been shocked if she’d seen me and the Grande Dames would have had a collective fit of the vapours. I couldn’t have shocked them more if I’d walked around unclothed. Flushing, I hastily tied my hair into a rough braid and prayed to all my ancestors that Mother - or Morag - never found out. They’d be furious.

“A pleasure to meet you too,” I said, all too aware that I was making an ass of myself. “What … what are you doing here?”

Callam met my eyes. “The grounds are fun to explore,” he said. I thought he was telling the truth, but not the whole truth. “I didn’t know about you.”

I winced. That stung, although I knew it wasn’t his fault. Everyone who was anyone was supposed to know about me. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d simply assumed that everyone within a hundred miles knew I’d been sent to Kirkhaven Hall. A girl being fostered - and I was, to all intents and purposes - would have kept the gossips wittering for months. I might discover - if I stayed long enough to be declared an adult - that the local gentry was interested in having their sons walk out with me.

“I only just arrived,” I told him. I didn’t want to tell him the complete truth either. “Uncle Ira is … accommodating … me.”

Callam blinked. “Uncle Ira? The Big Man?”

I shrugged. “Probably. Why … why are you exploring the grounds?”

“They’re fun,” Callam said. “Don’t you think so?”

“They have their moments,” I said, unwilling to admit that I found them alternatively boring or terrifying. I wouldn’t have minded them so much if I’d had a companion. “Why did you come all the way here?”

Callam looked down. He was definitely a commoner, then. I rarely needed to ask an aristocrat to get a complete breakdown of his or her family tree, their status and everything else I might need to decide if I should treat them as potential friends, clients or enemies. In hindsight, if I’d treated Cat as a friend, who knew what would have happened? But commoners rarely talked about their lives. It was unusual, even, for them to be able to provide a family tree stretching back five generations, the minimum required to marry into the aristocracy. Rose and her ilk were going to have problems when they became adults, I thought. I doubted she knew anything about her grandparents.

“I don’t fit in,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing for me to do at Kirkhaven.”

The town, I thought. Was everything in the valley called Kirkhaven? And why doesn’t he fit in there?

I lifted an eyebrow and waited. Callam looked back at me for a long moment, then sagged.

“My father is the local teacher,” he said. “I don’t fit in with the other kids.”

“Ouch,” I said. I’d known a couple of kids myself who had tutors for parents. Their parents had gone out of their way to make it clear that they weren’t being favoured, to the point of coming down harder on their own children for minor misbehaviour than any of the other kids. It hadn’t been enough to keep their children from being unpopular. “And so, you come up here?”

“No one else dares,” Callam told me. He smiled. His face lit up. “I’m the only one who dares.”

I had to laugh. “I’m glad you did,” I said. He might be a commoner, but at least he wasn’t twenty years older than me. “How did you get over the wall?”

“Magic,” Callam said, and winked.

“I can do magic too,” I pointed out. “I caught you, didn’t I?”

“Yep,” Callam said. He looked down at his feet. “Are you going to let me go?”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t think he was dangerous. And besides, I wasn’t in the mood to do either Morag or Uncle Ira any favours. “You can cancel the spell at any time.”

A shadow crossed Callam’s face. “I don’t have any talent for magic.”

“Anyone can cancel the spell,” I told him. Even commoners knew a handful of spells. They might not start learning early enough to make magic second nature to them, but they could still cast the spells. “Just do it.”

Callam made a series of gestures, then stopped. His feet remained firmly fixed to the cobblestones. I rolled my eyes in irritation. His gestures were far from precise and he wasn’t even mumbling the right words … I could have gotten away with it, perhaps, because I had power to burn, but a commoner with hardly any practice needed to be precise. Father would have been furious if I’d been so careless. I’d probably have wound up being grounded until I managed to write an essay explaining precisely why it was so important.

“You’re not doing it right,” I snapped. I couldn’t help thinking of Akin, when we’d been taught to ride. It had been blindingly obvious that my twin hadn’t wanted to learn and he’d only put up with it because Father had promised him a new set of forging tools. “You have to be more precise …”

The spell broke. Callam stumbled forward, his legs buckling. He caught himself before he could fall and leaned against the wall, massaging his legs roughly. I didn’t think the spell had lasted long enough to cause cramps, but I could have been wrong. He seemed to be having trouble walking as we headed out into the courtyard. I wondered if his attempts to cancel the spell had only made matters worse.

It might have done, I thought. Callam didn’t seem to have the sort of power where a careless gesture could cause a disaster, but I could be wrong about that. Rose had plenty of power, without the training she needed to keep it under control. Maybe I’ll have to teach him some magic.

I had to smile at the thought. I’d never really considered teaching anyone how to do magic - I kicked myself, mentally, for not trying to mentor Rose while I’d had the chance - but it might be useful. Who knew? Callam might make a great client. And his father was a teacher … that meant he’d have connections. It wasn’t quite the sort of patronage network I’d wanted, a year ago, but it would have to do. I felt a surge of enthusiasm that surprised me in its intensity. Perhaps there was something for me here after all.

“You’re a very impressive magician,” Callam said, softly. “I didn’t know I could be caught like that.”

“Thank you,” I said. I wasn’t sure how much praise from him was worth, but I took it anyway. “It’s a very simple spell. You could learn it.”

Callam shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“You could try,” I insisted. Uncle Ira had told me to study potions and charms, but he hadn’t said anything about defensive magic. Odd, particularly given that he’d insisted that the land outside the grounds was dangerous. Perhaps I could practice with Callam. “It took me several tries to cast my first spell.”

“… Maybe,” Callam said. He shot me a smile. “Do you want to see my treehouse?”

I blinked, then nodded. “Why not?”

Callam led me on a long walk around the edge of the grounds, circumventing the hall at a distance that puzzled me until I realised he didn’t want to be seen. Morag and Uncle Ira wouldn’t care if I spent all my time on the grounds, but they’d certainly want to ask Callam quite a few questions if they saw him wandering around. Uncle Ira would have every right to demand answers, then turn Callam into something nasty if the answers failed to satisfy. I quietly resolved to do everything in my power to make sure they never knew he was there. It simply didn’t feel like he was a threat.

“I was never quite sure who planted the trees here,” Callam said, as we entered another section of the forest. “They grow … oddly.”

“There’s raw magic in the air,” I said. The gloom was deepening as we picked our way across oddly bumpy ground. I could see warped and twisted trees everywhere, as well as hints that the forest had overgrown some stone buildings that had collapsed into ruins long ago. “Can’t you feel it?”

Callam shook his head as we walked down an embankment and crossed a small stream. It was small enough for me to jump over, but someone had chopped down a tree and turned it into a makeshift bridge. I eyed Callam for a long moment as he picked his way across the water, wondering if he had made the bridge. He was clearly at least as muscular as Akin, perhaps more so. A commoner would be more used to grunt work than a forger.

“There,” Callam said, once we were across the bridge. “What do you think?”

I had to fight to keep from giggling. The treehouse was really nothing more than a wooden box, hanging suspended above the ground. There was barely any room for one person my size, let alone two. It was nowhere near as elaborate as the treehouse back home, the one that had been built by the groundskeeper and his staff … no door, no window, no charmed ladder that threw intruders off if they tried to climb up without permission. And yet, Callam had built it all by himself. My eyes traced out the combination of nails and ropes holding the treehouse - and ladder - in place. There wasn’t even a speck of magic keeping it safe.

“You really built it?” I knew I couldn’t have built it. Akin might have been able to do it, if he hadn’t been more interested in forging than woodwork. “This is all your own work?”

“Yeah,” Callam said. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. And I meant it. “It’s remarkable.”

I walked around the treehouse for a long moment as Callam scrambled up the ladder. I’d expected the near-constant rainfall to make sure the wood rotted very quickly, but he’d treated it with something that ensured the rain didn’t do any damage. I hesitated, then followed him up into the treehouse. The structure felt weak as I sat on the wooden floorboards, but I didn’t think it would break under our weight.

Callam grinned at me. I couldn’t help noticing that he was missing a tooth. “Why did you get sent up here?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. If I’d been wrong to assume that everyone knew who I was … I didn’t want to tell him. Callam was the first person I’d seen who was remotely close to my age. If he knew the truth, what would he do? Run a mile? “Uncle Ira just agreed to foster me for a few years.”

“You get to live in the Big House,” Callam said. “And you get to play in the grounds.”

I’m not a little girl, I thought, although I took his meaning. He’d clearly enjoyed building the treehouse, even if it was miles from Kirkhaven Town. Perhaps I could find enjoyment too in the grounds, when I wasn’t studying magic. Who knows what we can do together?

“It’s something,” I said, vaguely. Callam didn’t have the background to understand that being sent out here, with or without a formal fostering arrangement, wasn’t exactly a good thing. The local gentry might be important, locally, but they weren’t anything like as well-connected as the Great Houses. “I get bored a lot.”

Callam smiled at me. “Do you want to meet again?”

I nodded, too quickly. “When do you come? I mean …”

My voice trailed away as it dawned on me that I had no way to contact him. I couldn’t send a letter to town, not without alerting Uncle Ira that I’d found a friend. Uncle Ira might not care, but Morag certainly would. The children of the Great Houses were not meant to play with commoners! I could easily imagine her having some pretty sharp words for me if she realised I’d found a friend.

“I normally come Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays,” Callam said. “But … where should I meet you?”

I hesitated, trying to think of a solution. It wouldn’t be hard to charm something he could use to alert me when he was on the grounds, although I’d have to be careful to make sure that neither Morag nor Uncle Ira got a good look at it. A resonance charm would probably be simplest, not least because it wouldn’t trigger the wards. I’d have to renew the charms regularly, but … I thought I could make it work.

Akin wouldn’t have any trouble at all, I thought, ruefully. And nor would Cat.

“Meet me in the stables on Thursday afternoon,” I said. “Around two o’clock. I’ll have a more permanent solution by then.”

Callam nodded. “Good idea,” he said. He grinned. “What do you want to do now?”

I looked at the sun. It looked to be around ten o’clock. “I don’t have to be back for lunch for a couple of hours,” I told him. “What would you like to do?”

Chapter Thirteen

I couldn’t help myself. I was grinning from ear to ear as I walked back to the hall, even though I knew I probably shouldn’t look too cheerful. Mother had always been suspicious when any of the children had been in a good mood and I rather suspected Morag felt the same way too. But I didn’t see any sign of her as I entered the hall, hurried to my room to change out of my muddy trousers and then walked back down to the dining room. Uncle Ira was already there, sipping his soup.

“We have to talk afterwards,” he informed me, as I sat down. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I frowned, inwardly, as Morag put a plate of chicken stew and rice in front of me. Did Ira know about Callam? Or … did he have something else in mind? I ate the stew slowly, hoping to delay the discussion as long as possible. Uncle Ira didn’t seem in any hurry, thankfully. I hoped that meant I wasn’t in trouble.

“Come with me,” Uncle Ira ordered, when he was finished. “Leave your food for later.”

I looked wistfully at the pudding - Morag was a great cook, whatever else could be said about her - and followed Uncle Ira down the corridor. I’d expected him to lead me to his office, but instead he marched me into a smaller workroom. It was empty, save for a single wooden table placed against the far wall. There were enough books - modern books - on the table to satisfy anyone. I started to run forward, only to have him catch my arm in a vice-like grip. I yelped in pain.

“Careful,” he snapped. He jabbed his free hand at the floor. “Do you want to die?”

I sucked in my breath, sharply. I’d barely seen the patterns on the wooden flooring and I hadn’t taken any real notice of them. But they were clearly designed for a ritual … I hadn’t seen anything like them since the family healers had inspected me before I was sent to school. I felt my face redden as I picked out some of the more complex etchings someone had carved into the floor. Uncle Ira was right. Running across the diagrams might have ended with me being seriously injured - or killed.

“Thank you,” I muttered. At least he cared enough to save my life. “I …”

“Walk around the diagrams,” Uncle Ira said, cutting me off. “And tell me if those are the right books.”

I nodded and did as I was told. The books were modern, strikingly so. They looked to have been freshly printed. The impression at the back of the books told me they’d been printed in Shallot, probably for Jude’s. Uncle Ira had bought enough potion books, I thought, to take me all the way to my first set of exams … if I had a hope of actually sitting them. I might be able to get a degree through the correspondence course, but it wouldn’t be quite the same.

“They look right,” I said. I checked the rest of the titles, quickly. Charms, forging … nothing on defence. It wasn’t the only exclusion, but it was the most striking. I already knew a great deal of history and I didn’t need more etiquette lessons, yet I did need to be able to defend myself. Uncle Ira himself had said the world outside the gates was dangerous. “Why isn’t there anything on defence?”

“There are quite a few books on defence in the library,” Uncle Ira said, shortly. His tone warned me not to press any further. “And besides, you won’t be going outside the grounds.”

I lowered my eyes to conceal my irritation. I would go outside the grounds, one day. If Callam could come and go as he pleased, I could too. Unless, of course, the wards were specifically keyed to keep me inside. If they were … I considered it for a long moment, remembering some of the Devices of Power I’d learnt to make. I might be able to find a way to trick the wards into thinking I was someone else with a little work. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.

Uncle Ira cleared his throat. “Am I boring you, young lady?”

I flushed, realising that I’d tuned him out. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t listening.”

“I had noticed,” Uncle Ira told me. His voice was hard enough to make me flinch. Seniors disliked it when they caught you not paying attention to them. “As I was saying, I’ll expect you to work your way through these books - and a handful of assignments I will give you - now that the new ingredients have also arrived. I trust you will become a proficient brewer before too long.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said.

“I will also expect you to actually think about what you’re doing,” Uncle Ira added. “If you wish a potions mastery, you will need to demonstrate that you actually understand the subject.”

I met his eyes. “Do I have any hope of actually getting a master to take me on?”

“I am a master,” Uncle Ira said. “And if you do well, I’ll be happy to take you as an apprentice.”

“… Oh,” I said. I was surprised - it was rare for someone to be apprenticed to a family member - but it wasn’t as if anyone else would be interested in me. “In potions?”

“And charms,” Uncle Ira said. “I actually did a dual apprenticeship myself, back when I was a few years older than you. It took longer than it should have done, because I was studying two separate disciplines, but it was worth it. I actually … well, I’ll tell you about that later.”

I was impressed, despite myself. A dual apprenticeship was unusual, although someone Uncle Ira’s age could easily have undergone two apprenticeships in succession. Mother had talked about getting a second apprenticeship herself, now that Akin and I were old enough to go to boarding school. She could certainly look forward to having plenty of time to earn the mastery and put it to use. But doing two apprenticeships at once was very rare.

“I’ll think about it,” I mumbled. I didn’t really have a passion for potions, not like Akin had for forging. Charms maybe, although I’d really been more obsessed with building up a patronage network than studying magic for the sake of studying magic. “Would you be able to vouch for me?”

“I could certainly give you a certificate,” Uncle Ira said. He tapped the pile of books. “I trust these are satisfactory?”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said. I surprised myself by giving him a hug. “Thank you!”

“You are welcome,” Ira said, as I disengaged myself. He nodded to the etchings carved on the floor. “And if you would now please stand in the exact centre …?”

I frowned. “Why …?”

“I have to check your health,” Uncle Ira said, curtly. His voice didn’t give me any room to argue. “Please, stand in the centre.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said, carefully picking my way over the lines. My magic flickered as I crossed the innermost line, reacting badly to the power flaring around me. “Why do we need to be sure of my health …?”

“If I’m going to teach you a few more interesting tricks, I need to be sure you can handle them,” Uncle Ira told me. He knelt down and tapped the edge of the etchings. I felt the magic growing stronger, pressing against me. “Your father was rather vague about just how powerful and practiced you were.”

“You saw me cast spells,” I protested. I hadn’t liked the last medical check-up I’d been given and this felt worse. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” Uncle Ira said. “Here we go …”

I gritted my teeth as the etchings flared to life, blue sparks dancing around the diagram and slowly reaching out to me. The magic flared, touching me … going through me. Invisible needles jabbed into my skin, so sharply that I screamed in pain. The world darkened, then lightened, then darkened again … I thought, just for a second, that I had blacked out completely. My head started to pound uncomfortably, my emotions blazing out of control: one moment, I was angry enough to put a knife through him; the next, I was so sad that I couldn’t keep tears dripping down my cheeks. I was suddenly very aware of every last inch of my body, from my hair to my toes; I could feel my bones, my blood, my magic …

“You look reasonably healthy, for a girl your age,” Ira said. I barely heard him. Something was pounding in my head. I sank to my knees, my hair falling out of its braid and spilling around me. “You should probably eat more in the mornings, but otherwise you’re actually coming along nicely.”

“Thanks,” I managed. My body felt so heavy that I couldn’t move. I was being pulled to the ground by an invisible force. “Are you …”

The force snapped out of existence. “You can stand up now,” Uncle Ira said. A faint aroma of burning reached my nostrils. The etchings on the ground were smoking slightly. “Your magic handled it very well.”

I choked as I stumbled over the lines, careful not to touch them. It hadn’t been anything like so bad the last time I’d been subjected to a full body scan. I had aches and pains everywhere, as well as an overpowering urge to just lie down on the floor and go to sleep until I felt better. It was hard, so hard, to merely lean against the wall.

My voice sounded raspy, even to me. “What … what did you do?”

“Probably one of the most detailed magical resonance scans in the world,” Uncle Ira said, absently. He was holding a crystal in one hand, studying an image of my innards with apparent fascination. I’d seen something like it before, back when I’d been given a handful of lessons in healing, but Uncle Ira had produced a far sharper image. “You’re fit and healthy, for your age; you shouldn’t have any trouble growing into adulthood.”

I leaned against the wall and wished the room would stop shaking. “Can I … can I study magic? Magic like that?”

“Probably,” Uncle Ira said. He reached into his pocket and produced a small vial, uncapping it with a simple spell. “Drink this.”

I put it to my lips and drank. It tasted unpleasant, as always, but I rapidly found my strength returning. I pushed myself away from the wall, forcing myself to stand on my own two feet. My skin felt as though it should be covered with needle marks, but what little I could see of it was pale and clear. It had just been an illusion, although a painful one. My magic probably hadn’t known how to interpret the sensations surrounding it.

“Thank you,” I managed.

Uncle Ira favoured me with a rare smile. “Go back to lunch and eat as much as you can,” he ordered. “And then you can read the books. I’ll discuss your progress on Friday.”

I bobbled a curtsey, scooped up one of the books and hurried down the corridor before he could call me back. The book felt fresh and new in my hands, practically glowing with preservation and protective charms that would keep it clean and dry, even if I dropped it in the bath. I was grinning from ear to ear, again, as I practically ran into the dining room and sat down in front of the stew. I was so ravenous that I would have eaten anything, even something I normally would have disdained. Thankfully, Morag had cooked something I actually liked. I was surprised she hadn’t already cleared the table before I had a chance to return.

That was odd, I thought, as I practically inhaled a bowl of stew. Mother would have sent me to my room without supper for such poor table manners. I didn’t feel so drained when they gave me the full health check before I went to Jude’s.

I puzzled over it as I ate a second bowl, with slightly more decorum. Uncle Ira had scanned me thoroughly, so completely thoroughly he probably knew what I’d had for breakfast. I didn’t think there was any need to go so far, not if he wanted to gauge my magic. He’d already done that when he’d had me casting spells for him. Unless … he’d wanted a rough idea of just how much magic I could actually produce. Casting one high-magic spell might be harder than casting a multitude of relatively simple spells.

Putting the thought aside, I opened the book and scanned the first chapter. The writer was practically a genius, compared to some of the other writers; he actually understood that he was writing for kids! Every step was clearly outlined, with explanations of the reasoning behind every instruction detailed so thoroughly that even I could understand it. I made a mental note to show Callam the basic book on charms. It wasn’t quite A Beginners Guide to Charms, but it should help him to master the basics.

I finished my pudding and looked up. There was no sign of Morag, which meant … I hesitated, then started to load the plates and pots onto the tray. It was heavy, when I’d finished, but I managed to carry it down to the kitchen and place it on the sideboard without incident. I wasn’t sure what to do with the remainder of the stew, so I put it under a preservation spell while I washed the plates in the sink. It was, again, a droll reminder of just how much work the servants had to do every day. And Morag did most of it on her own.

I’ll have to help her more, I told myself. It wasn’t as if I was expected to spend all of my time in the workrooms. And she can teach me how to cook.

“Very good,” Morag said, from behind me. “You’re learning.”

I tried, hard, not to jump. It didn’t work. My heart pounded as I slowly turned to face her. I still didn’t know how she kept sneaking up on me. If this continued, I was going to accidentally spill something crunchy on the floor behind me and see if she still managed to take me by surprise.

“Thank you, Senior,” I managed. I wasn’t quite as lonely as I’d been a day ago, but still … I was wary of angering her for nothing. “What should I do with the stew?”

Morag glanced at my work and nodded. “If you want to eat it today, make sure you use a spell to heat it thoroughly,” she said. “If not, put it in a container tonight and shove it into the cupboard. You or I can eat it later.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

I found myself grinning. “He bought some books for me!”

“I trust that will lower the volume of your complaints to a dull roar,” Morag said. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. “The Master does expect you to work hard, you know.”

“At what?” My tone was plaintive. “Will I spend the rest of my life here?”

Morag snorted. “If you get a degree, even one from an independent tutor, you can simply change your name and move to another country. You may have to sit an exam there, to prove the degree isn’t completely worthless, but you’d be able to work afterwards. Or you could simply set up on your own, somewhere in the countryside. A decent magician could make a good living far from Shallot.”

I blinked. “Why would anyone want to live away from Shallot?”

“The world is so much bigger than you realise,” Morag said. “Why do you think the king doesn’t live in Shallot?”

“I honestly never thought about it,” I said. It had taken five days to travel from Shallot to Kirkhaven. How far was I from home? A couple of hundred miles? Or more? “Shallot always seemed the place to live.”

Morag laughed, gently. It made her look much younger. “You’ll be surprised to hear that there are people in Tintagel, young lady, who say that the only good thing that comes out of Shallot is the road to Tintagel. And there are people in Shallot who say the same about Tintagel. There are other places, you know. You could set up a small business in Caithness and no one would care, as long as you pleased your customers.”

“Caithness?”

“The nearest city,” Morag said. She waved vaguely towards the wall. “Somewhere in that direction, I believe.”

“Oh,” I said. Things were starting to look a little more hopeful. Maybe I could tough it out for five years, gain a degree or two, then simply vanish. It would mean never seeing my family again, but I suspected that the Arbiters would ensure I never saw my parents or brother again anyway. “I suppose it beats marrying the pig-boy.”

“Yes,” Morag agreed. “I suppose it does.”

She cleared her throat. “I’ll finish here, if you don’t mind. Go study your books, then brew an absolutely fantastic potion. You do not want to disappoint the Master.”

The warning in her voice was very clear. I understood, even though I didn’t really want to admit it. Uncle Ira might have argued with the Arbiters when he’d ordered the books - or, perhaps, somehow managed to slip the order around them. Either way, he’d probably put more effort into obtaining the books for me than he’d admitted. I definitely didn’t want to let him down.

“I will, Senior,” I said. I’d have to devise a charm for Callam too. “And thank you.”

Morag met my eyes, her expression much darker. “I mean it,” she said, sharply. Her voice was very cold. “Do not disappoint him.”

I shivered. “Yes, Senior.”

Chapter Fourteen

If I was forced to be honest, Callam was not the type of person I would have befriended at Jude’s.

It wasn’t something I could deny. Callam didn’t have the family connections to face me as an equal, allowing us to be actual friends, or the talent for me to take him as a client. He was smart and good with his hands, but he lacked the training and experience to learn magic or practice wood and metal work. His family, as far as I could gather, was neither prominent in the nearby community nor tied into any guilds that might have provided assistance when it came to finding a new placement. He was not the sort of person I would have been expected to spend any time with at Jude’s.

And yet, over the next two weeks, we became friends.

It was odd, yet somehow liberating. No girl could befriend a boy at Jude’s without the Grande Dames of both genders eventually starting to babble about possible marriage alliances. No girl could befriend another girl without people talking about patrons and clients and what it would mean for future alliances. But Callam had nothing to offer me and I had little to offer him and … we could be friends. He showed me where he’d hidden his tools and how to work wood, slowly expanding the treehouse without benefit of magic; I tried to teach him how to use a little magic himself. If I hadn’t met him, someone fairly close to my own age, I think I would have gone mad.

Father wouldn’t approve, I thought, as I sat cross-legged on the rug and centred myself. But Father is a very long way away.

Callam sat down facing me. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“It should,” I said, trying to hide my doubts. Callam really should have started a great deal younger. Magic was a muscle, I’d been told. The earlier one started to practice, the easier it was to build one’s reserves - and control. “Cup your hands, like this” - I demonstrated - “and close your eyes, concentrating on the magic.”

It was an old exercise, one I hadn’t needed for nearly five years. Power flowered through my fingertips, surging into the cup. I opened my eyes and saw light flaring over my hands, the magic slowly taking on shape and form. It wasn’t doing anything in particular - shaping the magic into spells came later - but it was a simple way to learn how to channel and extrude magic. I looked at his hands and frowned. No magic danced over his fingertips.

“Nothing,” Callam said, disgustedly. “It isn’t doing anything.”

“Don’t get frustrated,” I said, remembering when my father had given me the exact same lecture. “Concentrate on your heartbeats … and the power that flows through them.”

I watched him for a long moment as he slowed his breathing, taking long breaths as he focused his mind. Someone had clearly taught him how to meditate at one point, probably his father. A wandering teacher would know the basics, even if they’d be unlikely to know the theory that had been drummed into my head since the day I could walk. They’d certainly be able to point a prospective sorcerer at someone who could give him more attention, perhaps even a scholarship to Jude’s. I was morbidly sure that someone had found Rose not too far away. She’d probably been noticeable even as a young girl.

Someone would probably have taken her away and adopted her if Jude’s hadn’t found her first, I thought. Rose would hardly be the first talented commoner to be adopted by a Great House. I wonder what her parents would have thought of that?

Callam opened his eyes. “It isn’t working,” he said. “I’m not producing any magic.”

I nodded, slowly. I should have been able to sense something, even if he hadn’t managed to produce light. Instead … perhaps his power was so low he’d need help to fan the spark into a flame. I thought about it for a long moment, considering options. A focus would probably help - I’d used them myself as a child - but I didn’t think there were any in the hall. Morag and Uncle Ira would certainly ask a great many questions if I tried to order one.

They’d know I wouldn’t need it, I thought. And then they’d start wondering why I wanted it.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I conceded. Akin could probably have forged a focus, but I doubted I could. There was a workshop in the hall, and plenty of supplies, yet forging had never been my speciality. I made a mental note to look up the instructions anyway. It might be possible to craft one with a little effort. “Does your father have a spell focus?”

Callam looked blank. “What’s a spell focus?”

“A device to help children channel magic,” I told him. A multitude of emotions crossed his face, moving so quickly that they were gone before I could identify them. “Your father might have used one in his work.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Callam said, stiffly. “What would it look like?”

“Depends on the design,” I said. I forced myself to think back to childhood. “Mine - ah, the one I used when I was six - looked like a stick with a star on top.”

A thought struck me. I probably couldn’t find a focus, but I could find a spellcaster. There were a number of uncharged spellcasters in the workshop. I could prime one to draw magic out of Callam, shaping it into a very basic spell. It would teach him the basics without having to either order or forge a focus myself.

“A magic wand, you mean,” Callam said. “I don’t think Dad has one.”

“They’re not wands,” I said. My Father had been very insistent on that, for reasons I had never really understood. Wands were legendary Objects of Power, spellcasters were … just spellcasters. “They’re spellcasters.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” Callam said. He sat back on his haunches. “Shall we find something else to do?”

I frowned. I’d been taught to keep practicing magic until I’d mastered it, but Callam … didn’t seem inclined to practice. I wondered, sourly, if it was too late for him. There were mature students who sometimes tried to study magic after a lifetime doing menial work, but never managed to master their powers. Callam might have been stunted through a lack of training when he was a child. Or maybe he just didn’t want to practice. I had cousins who’d preferred kicking a ball around the grounds to studying magic. They’d regretted it after they went to school and discovered that they didn’t know as much as they should.

“Why not?” I glanced at the sun, carefully calculating the time. It was slowly moving towards evening. “We should have at least another hour before I have to sneak back into the hall.”

Callam glanced at me, concerned. “Are you alright there? I mean … you’re alone.”

“It’s okay,” I said, touched by his concern. “It’s a little boring, but … it could be worse.”

“I suppose,” Callam said. He stood, brushing dirt off his trousers. “Shall we go for a wander?”

I grinned and followed him deeper into the woods. The ground felt oddly bumpy under my feet, as if the endless rainfall had worn down the soil and washed much of it into the river. A handful of broken fences were clearly visible, completely drained of magic. We passed through them without hesitation, then found a path that led up to a grassy field that might - once upon a time - have been a golf course. It was so badly overgrown that I doubted anyone had played golf for years, perhaps decades.

“Can’t catch me,” Callam called. He winked, then ran. “Bet you can’t!”

I followed him, silently thanking the ancients that Morag hadn’t made a fuss about me wearing trousers. Callam could run like the wind, but I wasn’t that slow myself. I chased him, enjoying myself more than I cared to admit. If I’d played a chasing game back home, it would have involved magic and nearly everyone ending up frozen or transfigured. Here … there was something oddly pleasant in the simplicity.

Callam tripped over a rock and fell to the ground. I ran up behind him and caught him before he had a chance to get up, giggling like a loon. He rolled over and over, trying to get away, but it was too late. I’d caught him.

“That was fun,” he said. “Did you put that thing” - he waved a hand at the rock - “in my path?”

I shook my head, hastily. “No,” I said. “I didn’t want to use magic.”

Callam nodded. “Could you do it, though? I mean … could you have put something in my way to trip me up?”

“Probably not,” I said. I knew a dozen spells that would have slowed him down long enough for me to catch him - or simply frozen him in place - but putting a rock in his path was beyond me. I didn’t think even Father could cast such spells with impunity. I’d heard of curses that were designed to give their victim bad luck, but they were supposed to be very difficult to cast and quite easy to counter if you knew what you were doing. “I would have done something simpler.”

“Oh,” Callam said. There was something in his voice that nagged at me. “Does magic make life easier?”

“Yes,” I said, flatly. I’d never understood just how much magic made life easier until I’d had to live without it for five days. I definitely understood how Cat had felt for most of her life now. “But it can be quite hard too.”

“I bet,” Callam said. He stood, looking down through the trees. “What is that?”

I followed his gaze. The trees parted, only a few metres ahead of us, to reveal a pond, the water shimmering in the sunlight. A statue of a young woman, only a few years older than me, stood in the water, staring up at something in the sky. It was strikingly detailed, hardly worn down at all by wind and rain. I took a step forward, then paused. There was magic in the air. A shiver ran down my spine. It felt … wrong.

Like the others, I thought. It’s just … wrong.

“I’m not sure,” I said. My instincts were telling me to run. “But I don’t think we should be anywhere near it.”

Callam gave me an odd look, but followed me as I led the way back towards the abandoned stables. We’d explored much of the grounds together, being careful to remain out of sight of the hall, yet the grounds were so big that we’d barely scratched the surface. I remembered the horror stories that had been drilled into me as a child and shivered, again. There were places tainted by magic, places that could be very dangerous to the unwary. It was clear that Uncle Ira hadn’t bothered to check the grounds for tainted magic, let alone remove it. He’d simply left it alone.

“That statue looked very real,” he said, when we reached the stables. “Do you think that it was once a real person?”

I swallowed. It was possible, of course, but unlikely. “I don’t think so,” I said. The other statues had been a bit more worn down, hadn’t they? I wished I had the nerve to go look. “It would be hard to keep the spell in place permanently.”

“Oh,” Callam said. He didn’t sound as though he believed me. “Good.”

He met my eyes. “I’m going to have to hurry back now,” he added. “Next time … do you want to come with me? You could visit the town?”

I stared at him for a long moment. I didn’t know - I still didn’t know - how he managed to get onto the grounds, let alone wander freely. And I wanted to know …

“It wouldn’t take that long to walk down to the town,” Callam added. “You’d be there and back in a handful of hours.”

“I’m not sure,” I temporised. Uncle Ira had made it clear that I was not to leave the grounds without permission. I was entirely sure he wouldn’t give me permission if I asked. He’d even told me that the lands outside the wards were dangerous. And yet, I wanted to leave the grounds for a few hours. It would give me a sense of freedom I wanted - I needed - if I was to keep from going insane. “I …”

My thoughts ran in circles. I knew enough spells to take care of myself, if the lands really were dangerous. And yet, if I was caught … I didn’t think Uncle Ira would take it very calmly. I might find myself grounded for life - or worse - if he realised I’d left the grounds. I wasn’t even sure if he had a tracking spell on me or not. I’d done my best to check, but there was so much stray magic around that it was hard to be sure.

And he probably has ways to hide a tracking spell on me, I thought. Mother had placed one on me when I was a child and I’d only discovered it through sheer chance. There might be one on my clothes or even worked into my magic …

“Let me think about it,” I said. I did want to go, but … what if I was caught? “What do I need to bring?”

“A pair of wellies and some spare clothes,” Callam said. “Trust me, you’ll need them.”

I frowned. “What for?”

He winked. “Wait and see.”

“Fine,” I said, crossly. Let him have his secrets. It wasn’t as if I’d told him everything about me, either. I didn’t want to tell him what I’d done to get exiled to Kirkhaven. “Meet me on Thursday, as usual. I’ll see if I can sneak off the grounds or not.”

I bid him farewell, then walked back to the hall, thinking hard. There were ways to locate tracking spells, but I wasn’t sure I could remove them - if they existed in the first place - without alerting Uncle Ira. Or Morag. They’d have a good reason for putting spells on me if I asked, I was sure. The grounds were wet and slippery enough that I might have a serious accident. And yet … I hated the thought of them keeping an eye on me. I didn’t want to have them following me everywhere.

But they don’t, I told myself, as I walked into the hall. They’d know about Callam if they kept a close eye on me.

I headed down to the library and started to dig through the spellbooks. Tracking spells weren’t difficult, depending on what one actually wanted. I scanned the lists of spells, then muttered charms that should have revealed their presence … if, of course, they were there. I didn’t see anything, but that proved nothing. The wards surrounding the hall and the grounds might not be tracking my precise location, yet they might notice if I stepped outside and vanished. That would probably trigger an alert. There were spells that might successfully trick the wards into thinking I was still on the grounds, but most of them were well beyond me. I didn’t think Father could have cast half of them without proper preparation.

And yet, the charms revealed nothing. There were no tracking spells on my clothes, my shoes or my body. I parsed it as carefully as I could, wondering if Uncle Ira had been cunning enough to hide the spells … or, more likely, if he hadn’t cared enough to cast them in the first place. He had never seemed particularly concerned about me, although he’d taken some care with my education. I couldn’t help wondering if his life would be simpler if I tripped, fell down an embankment and broke my neck. He couldn’t have wanted me in his life.

I sat back in my chair, thinking hard. I wanted to leave, I wanted to go down to the town … I wanted to escape the grounds, if only for a few hours. I didn’t think Callam was going to try to hurt me - and, if he did, I had enough magic to make him very sorry. I’d walked through the streets of Shallot, knowing that my magic would protect me against minor threats and the family name would shield me from anything greater. Kirkhaven Town held no fears for me.

You’ve never actually been there, I reminded myself. And you don’t know what it’s like.

I shook my head. I didn’t know what it was like, but I wanted to go. I wanted to rebel against Uncle Ira and the Arbiters, if only for a few hours. It would be something different. And, if I got caught, I’d take whatever punishment came my way with a smile on my face. I wasn’t going to allow Kirkhaven Hall to beat me down. Perhaps I could just leave, when I came of age, and change my name. I doubted anyone would care enough to call me back.

Father would, I thought. And so would Mother. And Akin.

I sagged, feeling tired and helpless. How long would it be until I could hear from them again? Or see them? Or … I wondered if I would ever be welcome back at Shallot. High Society had a long memory, particularly for traitors. Morag had been right. Nothing would ever be the same again.

And I realised, in a moment of sudden insight, that I had already made up my mind.

I’ll go, I thought, as I headed down to dinner. I had no idea why Callam wanted me to bring wellies - or a change of clothes - but it wouldn’t be hard to pack a bag. And no one will notice if I stay out until dark.

Chapter Fifteen

“I’m here,” I said a few days later, as I met Callam by the stables. “And I brought everything you wanted.”

Callam grinned at me. “And are you ready to brave the dangers of Kirkhaven Town?”

I smiled back. I could tell he was teasing me. “Yeah,” I said. “Shall we go?”

Callam winked, then led me down towards the bridge. “It took me quite some time to realise that there was a way into the grounds,” he said. “I only found it through sheer luck.”

I frowned, studying the boundary wall. The wards were clearly visible, just waiting for someone to try to cross them. I could scramble over, I thought, but the wards would detect me and then … I wasn’t sure what would happen. Father’s wards were designed to hold intruders in place, keeping them frozen until they could be interrogated, but I had no idea what Uncle Ira’s wards would do. They might not even be his. I thought they felt old enough to predate Uncle Ira by centuries.

“Put your wellies on,” Callam said, as we reached the river. “We’re going wading.”

I blinked. The water was rushing down towards the wards … and passing through a gap in the wall. A thin arch rose up and over the water, but … the wards should have blocked anyone trying to wade underneath and out into the wider world. Callam produced a pair of wellies from where they’d been concealed, under a bush, and pulled them on. I hastily followed suit, feeling cold. The magic was almost overwhelmingly powerful.

“This way,” Callam said, tying his boots around his neck and wading into the water. “Keep your head down.”

I stepped into the water, wishing I’d thought to bring a bigger pair of wellies. Droplets of water splashed against me, wetting my trousers or dripping into my socks. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to follow him. The wards were growing stronger, but there was a gap right underneath the arch. I stared in disbelief. I’d heard that wards sometimes had problems coping with running water, but I’d never seen it. Uncle Ira had clearly never realised that there was a crack in his defences.

The rushing water seemed stronger, somehow, as I ducked my head and waded after him. I could feel the magic pressing down on me, yet … it didn’t touch me. Callam walked onwards, splashing his way down the river until we were several metres from the wards, then clambered onto the bank. I followed him, feeling relieved to be out of the river. My wellies were full of cold water and my trousers were drenched. Callam didn’t look any better.

I giggled, despite the cold. “It worked!”

“I told you so,” Callam said. He looked back at the arch. “Most people probably wouldn’t try to wade up to the wards.”

I looked at him as I sat down and took off my wellies. “Why did you?”

Callam looked shifty. “I wanted somewhere I could be on my own,” he said. “And there aren’t many places like that around here.”

I frowned. He was clearly hiding something, but what? I eyed him for a long moment, then decided I could hardly complain about him refusing to tell me the full story. I’d hidden things from him, after all. Instead, I motioned for him to turn his back and hastily changed my trousers. The old pair were so badly drenched that it was difficult to use magic to dry them.

“Let’s go,” Callam said, once I’d finished. “I have a lot to show you.”

He led me down the riverbank, explaining - as we walked - that the river fed into another river that ran down the valley and through the town. I looked around with interest, noting how the path became more solid the further we walked. The land was changing too, the trees slowly thinning out to reveal scrubland and grass. A handful of sheep were quietly grazing on the land, their white coats marked with red dye. Callam told me that the dye helped identify who owned the sheep.

The pathway widened suddenly as we walked around a corner, allowing us to stare down into the town. Kirkhaven was … grey, completely grey. Every building within eyesight was built of grey stone, ranging from a handful of stone cottages to a small collection of larger buildings that I guessed were shops. It was tiny too, far - far - smaller than Shallot. I couldn’t begin to guess how many people lived there, but I doubted it could be more than a hundred or so. A handful of other stone houses, positioned on the nearby hillside, suggested that the population was more than a little spread out. I couldn’t help wondering if they were farms.

I sensed a surge of magic and caught Callam’s arm, yanking him back. Panic ran through me. I’d been wrong. There was a tracking spell and Uncle Ira and Morag had found me! I was dead. I was …

Two redheaded boys stepped out of the bushes and smirked. “Well,” one of them said. His eyes lingered on me for a long moment, as if he couldn’t quite place me. “Who’s your little girlfriend?”

I felt Callam tense beside me. “Hart,” he said. “I thought you were supposed to be in class.”

“Skived,” Hart said. He spat into the bushes. “As if we cared about class.”

I looked from one to the other, trying to conceal my concern. I’d thought Callam - and Akin - were muscular, but Hart and his friend were practically built of muscle. Their clothes seemed a size or two too small, revealing just how muscular they were. I hadn’t seen anyone so muscular apart from a couple of armsmen. They looked strong enough to knock down a tree with a single punch.

“What’s your father going to do to us?” Hart asked. “Hound and I have better things to do with our time, don’t you know?”

He jabbed a finger at Callam, casting a spell. I reached out and deflected it, instinctively. He blinked in surprise, staring at me. The spell hadn’t been put together very well. I dreaded to think what Father would have said if I’d cast that spell. It would have blinded its target, but only for a few minutes.

“Don’t do that,” I snapped. Callam was my friend. “You …”

The other boy - Hound - pointed a finger at me. Another spell, a marginally more complex spell, shot through the air and exploded harmlessly against my wards. I felt a flash of pure rage as I realised that the spell had been designed to make my clothes fall off. How dare he? How dare he? My anger built as I shaped a spell of my own and threw it at them. They melted into green light, which rapidly coalesced into a pair of frogs. Callam gasped beside me. I glanced at him, surprised. Had he never seen someone changed into a frog before?

“Well,” I said, as I stepped forward. The frogs stared at me, their beady eyes bulging with shock. Perhaps they hadn’t expected me to be able to fight back. It was pathetic. I’d faced nastier spells when I was eight! I’d gone to parties which had ended with half the guests turned into animals or objects or simply compelled to make utter fools of themselves. “I trust this will be a lesson to you.”

I kicked the first frog into the river. The second started to hop away, but I caught up with him and tossed it into the river too. I saw them vanish into the cold water, their bodies automatically swimming away from me as fast as they could. The spell wouldn’t last for long, no more than a few hours, but it would give them a few nasty moments. I looked at Callam and flinched. He was staring at me in utter horror.

“Isabella,” he managed. “What did you do?”

“Turned them into frogs,” I said. I lowered my voice. “They’ll turn back. Eventually.”

He swallowed, hard. “I never … I never saw anything like it.”

“I can teach you how to do it,” I told him. “And” - I hesitated, just for a second - “you were trying to avoid them, weren’t you?”

Callam nodded, looking away as if he didn’t want to meet my eyes. I didn’t blame him. No one liked to admit they were being bullied, or worse. Students at Jude’s would sooner spend months studying magic, just so they could give the bully a bloody nose, rather than go to one of the tutors and admit they needed help. I looked down as it dawned on me that I might have been a bully myself. Rose would certainly agree that I’d been a little brat. I’d turned her into a frog on her very first day.

“They’re meant to be in classes with my father,” he said, as we resumed our walk down to the town. “But they really hate it and they take it out on me.”

I winced. “And so you sneaked into the grounds.”

“They don’t dare go up to the hall,” Callam said. “And as long as I am there, I am safe.”

I kept my thoughts to myself. Callam needed to learn magic, the sooner the better. I promised myself that I’d teach him. He probably wasn’t too happy that I’d saved him from a hexing or two, perhaps a beating as well. I was a girl, after all. I’d saved him at the cost of hurting his pride. It sounded stupid, but … I shrugged. Hart and his friend would probably know better than to go after him again.

Kirkhaven grew larger as we approached, a cluster of buildings divided by a fast-flowing river. I’d expected people to go sailing on the river, but it was clear that it wasn’t remotely large or deep enough for anything larger than a dingy. A handful of young children were playing by the riverbank, laughing and calling as they splashed in and out of the water; an older girl, wearing a pair of trousers, watched them with gimlet eyes. I felt a flicker of shock at how casually she was wearing trousers, then caught myself a moment later. I was wearing trousers too.

We weren’t the only ones, either. I could see quite a few women on the streets, almost all of them wearing trousers. The little girls wore skirts, but their older sisters - and brothers - wore trousers too … save for a single girl who wore a faded green dress that might, once upon a time, have been fashionable. I wondered if she was showing off her wealth, such as it was, or going to her wedding. It didn’t look as if the locals indulged themselves with a week of celebrations every time someone got married. Grey stone buildings spoke of a mindset that was grim and dour rather than taking pleasure in life.

I frowned as I saw the handful of people gathered outside the little shop. They all looked very similar: pale skin, red hair, muscular builds … there was none of the variety I’d learnt to take for granted at Shallot. I probably stood out more than I wanted; Callam probably stood out more than he wanted. Did everyone in the town have red hair? Their eyes followed me with interest, although they said nothing. I had the nasty feeling that everyone in the town would know that I’d visited by the end of the day.

As long as they don’t tell Morag, I thought. She’d wonder if they told her about a blonde visitor, wouldn’t she?

“That’s the local butcher,” Callam said, pointing to a stone building. I could feel a couple of preservation spells surrounding the building, both massively overpowered. “And, beyond him, there’s the baker.”

I took a deep breath, savouring the smell of bread. Morag probably bought her bread at the shop and carried it all the way back to the hall. I was tempted to go inside and ask for a bite or two - I could smell sweeter things than bread hanging in the air - but I didn’t have any money. Uncle Ira would not be amused if the baker presented him with a bill, particularly as I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the town. I wondered, absently, if he’d pay or if he’d force me to do something to earn the money.

“That’s the schoolhouse,” Callam added. I followed his gaze. The schoolhouse was a long low building, very clearly an afterthought as far as the townspeople were concerned. It didn’t look very inspiring, not like Jude’s. “No one wants to go there.”

I looked at him, surprised. “No one?”

Callam reddened. “The law says that everyone must have a basic education,” he said, rather crossly. “But here … they don’t want their sons to take time off from work to go to school and learn. They think it spoils them for actual work.”

“I’ve never heard that before,” I said. I thought about what my father would say, if someone told him that, and shivered. How could a potioneer or a forger or anyone get by without an education? “Why?”

Callam laughed, as one does at a joke that isn’t particularly funny. “Isabella, the majority of the boys who live here will inherit a farm and work it until they die and pass it down to their sons. The girls will marry into different farms, probably moving to the next town and making their homes there. They don’t need education, not as far as their parents are concerned. They need to work the land.”

“Oh,” I said, stunned.

“My dad often gets accused of teaching his students to have airs above their station,” Callam added, after a moment. “A young boy learns to read and suddenly he has ideas that conflict with his parents; a young girl learns to read and starts dreaming of a life in Caithness or Tintagel or Shallot. And then they start rebelling against their families and plotting to escape to the big cities.”

I frowned. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It is for them,” Callam said. He shrugged. “Although it does have some advantages, I suppose. Dad ensured that the farmers could actually read the contracts they were being offered by outsiders, then do the math to realise that they were going to be cheated. It probably saved them from getting into real trouble.”

“But they weren’t pleased enough to let him work in peace,” I guessed.

Callam shook his head. “They don’t really want their children to have a pointless education,” he said. “Reading books is a waste of time, as far as they are concerned. History? History is utterly useless. What good does reciting a list of kings and queens and famous magicians do the folk who live here? They don’t care who sits on the throne. What does it matter to them?”

I hesitated. Father had taught me, again and again, that knowledge was power. Knowing something someone else didn’t know might make the difference between life and death. The thought of rejecting knowledge was practically blasphemy. My parents would have been utterly horrified if I’d refused to study magic, or history, or the social graces. I’d probably have been chained to a desk until I finished reading the books and proved my comprehension of the material. Knowledge was power.

But I could see their point too. What good was knowledge if you never had the chance to use it? What good was studying magic or history or anything if it was just abstract knowledge? I knew a handful of low-power magicians who’d made careers out of theoretical magic, but how many of the children here would get the training they needed to make a success out of it? I didn’t think any of them would have a chance to succeed.

Callam was still speaking. “I don’t fit in here, you see. No friends, because my father’s the teacher; no hope of making a life here, because I don’t know how to farm … I don’t even think we’ll be staying here long enough for me to take up an apprenticeship …”

I looked up. “You’re leaving?”

“Not yet,” Callam said. “But we never stay in any one place for too long.”

I winced. Callam was my friend, my only friend. I didn’t want him to go. But what could I do? I didn’t have the influence I’d need to keep them in town, even if they wanted to stay. I couldn’t imagine moving from town to town, working for a year or two before moving to the next town. I’d always assumed that I’d spend most of my life in Shallot. Now …

I might have to keep moving, just to stay ahead of the news, I thought. I’d heard of people who ran to escape scandal, always keeping one eye open for the moment when their new friends heard what they’d done. Will I have to change my name again and again as I move from place to place?

“I’ll miss you,” I said, softly. I tried to think of a way to keep Callam nearby, but nothing came to mind. Uncle Ira might be able to convince Callam’s father to stay, yet … he’d ask too many questions. “Let me know when you go, okay?”

“It won’t be for a while yet,” Callam said. He sounded resentful. I hoped that meant he’d miss me too. “Dad normally moves in winter. We have the snowy months to find somewhere near, before the snow melts and the schoolchildren go back to school.”

He led me over the bridge and up to a small grey house. “I thought you’d like to see this,” he said, as he opened the door. A delicious smell wafted out. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten much for lunch. “Welcome to my home.”

Chapter Sixteen

Callam removed his boots as he walked into the house, placing them under a shelf to dry. I followed suit, then looked around. The house was small, smaller than the abandoned gatekeeper’s cottage on the estate, but it was very neat. I could hear someone singing, the tune echoing through an open door. The smell of cooking grew stronger as Callam led me into the next room. A middle-aged woman was bent over the stove, her back to us. I realised, in shock, that she was Callam’s mother.

She turned and bowed her head to me, her eyes looking me up and down appraisingly. I hastily dropped a curtsey, as best as I could in trousers, and studied her back as best as I could. She was taller than I’d realised, with dark hair, a plump face and a strikingly pretty smile. There was something about her that was very like Callam, I thought, although I couldn’t place it. She hadn’t given him her looks, for better or worse, but she’d given him some of her expressions.

“Lady Isabella,” she said. Her voice was a warm contralto, flavoured with an accent that reminded me of Rose. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

“I thank you,” I said, trying to remember my manners. I was socially superior to her, even though I was in exile, but it was her home. “I … just call me Isabella, please.”

“I’m Catha,” she said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

My stomach growled. “Very,” I said. “It’s been a long time.”

Catha smiled. It was a beautiful smile, I thought as she turned back to the stove. I couldn’t help remembering what my father had said about never trusting a skinny cook, although Morag was both a good cook and quite slim. A crashing sound from the next room announced the arrival of two little girls, both somewhere around seven years old. They skidded to a halt as they saw me, then performed a surprisingly neat pair of curtseys. The devilish glint in their eyes suggested that Callam would pay in embarrassment for bringing me home. I’d met girls back in Shallot who’d done the same to their older siblings.

“Isabella, please allow me to introduce Daisy and Poppy,” Callam said. “My twin sisters.”

“I’m older,” Daisy - or perhaps Poppy - said.

“Only by fifteen minutes,” the other girl insisted. “You’re not old enough to be an old fuddy-duddy yet.”

I looked from one to the other, trying to hide my amusement. The little girls were practically identical twins, right down to their pigtails, shirts, trousers and the stuffed animals under their arms. Akin and I were twins, but we didn’t look alike; Daisy and Poppy were so close to each other that I couldn’t help wondering if their parents ever mixed them up. Callam was probably not going to have a good time as they grew older. It was clear that his younger siblings were the apples of their parents’ eyes.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, as Callam motioned me into the next room. It was a small dining room, with a large wooden table at the centre. “I hope we will be friends.”

Daisy - or Poppy - smirked at me. “Are you going to marry my brother?”

Callam choked. I felt my face redden. Callam and I were far too young to marry … and, even if we had been old enough, there would have been all sorts of problems. He was nowhere near my equal, socially speaking; now, after everything that had happened, there was a chance that I wasn’t his equal.

“Girls,” Catha said, sharply. She carried the pot into the dining room and placed it on the table. “What have I told you about embarrassing your brother?”

“Do it as often as possible,” Daisy said.

“And with style,” Poppy added.

Callam opened his mouth, then closed it again as the main door opened. I looked up, just in time to see a tall brown-haired man stride into the room. He had a no-nonsense attitude that reminded me of a couple of my tutors, men I’d never dared to challenge openly. His robes and mortarboard marked him as a schoolmaster. I wondered, as I hastily curtsied to him, why his students gave his son trouble. His attitude suggested he was too formidable to be scared by over-muscled louts.

“Lady Isabella,” he said. His voice was strong and firm. “I am Master Tobias. You are welcome.”

“I thank you,” I said, as I sat down next to Callam. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“You never answered my question,” Daisy said. “Are you …”

“Daisy,” Catha said. “Behave yourself.”

She smiled at me, rather wanly. “I’ve cooked sausage casserole,” she added, as she started to ladle food into a bowl. “You eat it with a spoon.”

“Spoons are tasty,” Poppy said. She picked hers off the table and put it in her mouth, pretending to chew. “Yummy.”

Catha put the bowl in front of me. It smelled heavenly, but I forced myself to wait for everyone else to be served before I picked up my spoon and began to eat. Daisy and Poppy ate with surprising delicacy for their age, but they kept glancing at me in a manner that made me want to check my chair for hidden traps. I’d never dared hex a guest’s chair at home - Mother would probably have hexed me into next week - and I didn’t think they could cast anything really dangerous … I hoped I was right about that. I’d heard horror stories involving toddlers with magic.

“It’s very good, Madame Tobias,” I said to Catha. “I’ve never had anything like it.”

“It’s a fusion of two different recipes,” Catha told me. “I took half of it from a traditional Caithness stew and the other half from a dish I had in Galashiels.”

I looked up, interested. “You’ve been to Galashiels?”

“It isn’t that different,” Master Tobias said. “The folk on the border don’t care much about borders, Lady Isabella. There are people who are supposed, technically, to pay taxes to both kingdoms.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “How did that happen?”

Master Tobias grinned. It was suddenly easy to see just how he was related to his son. “The short version of the story is that there are long-standing disputes over precisely where the border happens to run,” he said. “Tintagel believes the border runs along the Sunflower River, while Galashiels insists that the border really runs along the Andros Mountains. That leaves a disputed zone between the two kingdoms that is taxed by both sides.”

“Ouch,” I said. “Why don’t they just agree on a border?”

“Both sides believe they’d be giving up ten to twenty miles of territory, depending on what border we use,” Master Tobias said. “And so, the status quo suits them better.”

“Not that they get much tax,” Callam said.

“I’m afraid not,” Master Tobias agreed. “The locals are quite good at avoiding the tax collectors.”

“Boring,” Daisy announced. She dropped her spoon into her empty bowl. “Can you teach us magic?”

It took me a moment to realise she was looking at me. “I think you’d do better with a proper tutor,” I said, as diplomatically as I could. Callam was trying to shake his head at me without actually moving a muscle. I didn’t blame him. Daisy and Poppy were already alarming without magic. “And you’re really too young to go to magic school.”

“But we could learn earlier,” Daisy said. “I could be a great student …”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Master Tobias said, in a tone that refused to brook disobedience. “You do not need to pester our guest with demands for training she can’t give you.”

“But she’s teaching big brother,” Daisy said.

“And anything big brother can do we can do better,” Poppy added. “I …”

“That will do,” their mother said. She looked at me. “I’m sorry for their presumption …”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I’d been a little brat when I’d been a child too. “What do you do? I mean, when you’re not cooking good food?”

“A little healing, a little education that won’t come from other places,” Catha said. “And chasing these two around half the time.”

“They wear everyone out,” Callam agreed.

I looked at Master Tobias, who nodded and started to talk about the life of a small-town schoolmaster. He wasn’t anything like as learned as the tutors at Jude’s, but he had an amazing breadth of knowledge. I couldn’t help feeling impressed. He might not know the history of the world down to the smallest detail, but he knew the basics and he knew where he could find out more. Callam might be cynical about the value of educating the townspeople - or at least their children - yet it was clear that his father didn’t share that attitude. He was a firm believer in the value of education.

“Some of my students do go elsewhere,” he told me. “They find places to further their studies in Caithness, even Shallot. But others stay here.”

“And do nothing with the skills you taught them,” Callam muttered.

“That is true,” his father acknowledged. “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make the beast drink.”

Catha started to clean up the bowls. I wondered, absently, if I should be helping her. It wouldn’t have been a problem back home, where servants did all the work, but here? I wasn’t sure and I didn’t dare ask. There were people who would expect their guests to help and people who would be mortally offended by the suggestion their guests should put themselves out in any way. I sat still, hoping for a clue. But Callam did nothing.

His father nodded to me as he stood, replaced his mortarboard on his head, then hurried out of the door. Callam grinned at me as Daisy and Poppy waved goodbye and ran out of the room, then motioned for me to follow him. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, as he gave me a brief tour of the house, but it was hardly a hovel. Catha clearly kept it in good shape. The hall was in far worse condition.

The hall needs a small army of servants to repair it, I thought, wryly. I don’t think a single person, however motivated, could make any impression.

“This is my room,” Callam said, leading me up a flight of stairs. I could hear giggling from the nearby door and guessed that Daisy and Poppy were close. “What do you think?”

I peered inside and smiled. Callam had very little room to himself - my chamber in the hall was nearly six times bigger - but it was clearly loved. A bed, barely large enough for a grown man; a desk, a sketchbook … I liked it, even though I’d have turned my nose up at such accommodation a few weeks ago. Catha shouted something about leaving the door open from downstairs, which made Callam blush and the twins giggle even louder. It was almost a relief when I heard a pearl of thunder in the distance.

“What time is it?” I hurried to the window and looked out. Dark clouds were sweeping over the nearby mountains, rushing towards us. “I think I’d better hurry back.”

Callam looked relieved too. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

The sound of distant thunder grew louder as we hurried down the stairs, bid Catha a hasty farewell and practically ran for the hills. Kirkhaven was emptying rapidly, the townspeople heading to their houses or the single pub at one end of the road. They barely spared a glance for me, this time. I hoped that meant they wouldn’t mention me to Morag when - if - she came shopping. Kirkhaven might be the closest town, but it wasn’t the only one … was it?

Caithness isn’t that far away, I thought, although I knew it might be an illusion. Morag couldn’t travel that far without a horse and cart, could she? Maybe she could hire one in Kirkhaven. There have to be horses nearby.

“There’s an inn on the main road that serves as the local post station,” Callam told me, when I asked. “You could hire a horse there, if you wished.”

I nodded as we scrambled up the path beside the embankment. It was growing darker as the clouds moved overhead, casting the river into shadow, but I could hear someone splashing and cursing as they made their way onto the bank. Callam and I exchanged looks, then moved closer. Hart was crawling up the side, moving like a frog even though he’d returned to human form. I could hear his friend splashing through the water behind him.

“The spell didn’t last very long,” Callam muttered.

I stared down into the gloom. Hart was looking back at me, his face terrified. I felt a flash of cold satisfaction, followed by anger. Did he think that merely turning him into a frog was enough? I could do worse. I could do a lot worse. I could blind him, showing him how the blinding spell was actually meant to work; I could cripple him, I could freeze him, I could force him to recite doggerel or humiliate himself in public or …

A year ago, I would have done it without a qualm. Hart and Hound had attacked us. They deserved everything they got. If Callam hadn’t been beside me … I sighed as we turned away, leaving the two boys to scramble out of the river. I’d shocked Callam enough for one day. I wanted him to think well of me, as long as we were friends. He wouldn’t want to watch as I tortured his tormentors, no matter how much they deserved it.

“Thank you for bringing me,” I said, as we hurried further up the path. The air was blowing colder, water splashing as the river grew deeper. I hoped we’d be able to wade under the arch without problems. I knew how to swim, but I’d never swum in a fast-flowing river. “You have a lovely family.”

“I’m sorry about the twins,” Callam said. “They can be a bit much at times.”

“I wasn’t very nice when I was their age,” I told him. It was true. I’d been worse. “And your parents are nice too.”

“Thanks,” Callam said. “What are your parents like?”

I hesitated. “Father is … a very ambitious man,” I said, after a moment. “He wants to rule Shallot. Unfortunately, so many others have the same ambition.”

Callam stopped and stared at me. “The whole city?”

“He believes it’s ours by right,” I said, carefully not mentioning that there was a time I’d believed that too. “We’re the oldest family in Shallot. It comes with certain responsibilities.”

“And big heads,” Callam teased.

“Yeah,” I said. I ran my hand through my hair. The braids were starting to come undone again. “We’re very self-important.”

I felt a flicker of envy. My parents had planned my life out for me almost as soon as I’d been born. I would grow up, go to school, build a patronage network of my own, marry well and have children before starting a career … all for the greater good of the family. Callam didn’t have to worry about marrying well, or even marrying at all. Akin had been expected to take over as Patriarch, once Father died, although I suspected the Family Council would be reluctant to clear him after what I’d done. They might look at a cousin - perhaps even a second cousin - instead of my brother.

And Akin would be happy, I thought, as we reached the arch and recovered our wellies. I wonder if Cat will be pleased.

I looked at Callam. “Would you want it? I mean … would you want to live in Shallot?”

Callam stepped into the water and started to wade up towards the arch. “I don’t know,” he said, without looking back. “You don’t make it sound very attractive.”

“It’s the finest city in the world,” I said, stung.

“But you’re also telling me that people like you have to work to please your families,” he pointed out. “And that you’re in constant competition with every other family …”

I followed him, unsure what to say. The water lapped against my trousers, spilling down into my wellies; I shivered and forced myself to keep going as we stepped through the wards. The gap in the defences was smaller on this side, but still there. Callam waded to the riverbank and climbed out, just as the rain started to come down in earnest, drenching me to the bone. I cursed under my breath. It was almost dinnertime and I was going to be soaked! I hoped Morag didn’t see me as I entered the hall. I’d have to sneak up to my room and undress before she saw me.

“I wouldn’t want it,” Callam said, reflectively. “I’d sooner be happy.”

“I understand,” I said, not entirely truthfully. I’d wanted power, whatever the price. If my family had given me a path to power, I would never have listened to Stregheria Aguirre. And yet, my lust for power had betrayed me. “I’ll see you on Saturday?”

“Without a doubt,” Callam said.

I winked at him, then hurried back along the road to the hall. The rain grew worse, sending trickles of water running down my back and into my wellies. My feet splashed into potholes I couldn’t see, leaving me more drenched than ever before. I promised myself a hot bath when I got home, followed by some hot chocolate. I didn’t need a real dinner. Catha had fed me more than enough.

The side door crashed open as I approached. Morag stood there, her hands on her hips and murder in her eyes. I flinched, suddenly convinced that the worst was about to happen. She knew I’d left the grounds …

“Where have you been?”

Chapter Seventeen

I found myself stammering, unsure what to say or do. Panic ran through my thoughts. She knew. She knew I’d left the grounds. She knew …

“Get in here,” Morag snapped. She reached out, caught my arm and yanked me through the door, slamming it behind me. “You’re wet!”

I stared at her as she rounded on me. Should I be defiant or beg for mercy or … I swallowed, hard. I was in real trouble and … how had she known I’d left the grounds? I’d checked for tracking spells. Had I missed one? Or …

“The first time we actually need you at dinner and you decide to go playing in the rain,” Morag thundered. “What were you thinking?”

“I …”

“Be silent,” Morag snapped. “Go upstairs, get washed, get into a proper dress and then walk to the green dining room. And remember your manners!”

I blinked. I was slowly starting to realise that, whatever else she was mad about, she hadn’t realised that I’d left the grounds. There hadn’t been a tracking spell after all. Morag was merely mad I hadn’t been there for dinner, although … she’d never told me I needed to be there for dinner. I opened my mouth to point that out, caught sight of the murderous glint in her eye and fled up the stairs instead, water dripping from my clothes. Morag snapped something after me - I didn’t hear it - as I reached the first floor. I hoped I wasn’t going to be too late for dinner. That was an unforgivable faux pas.

The thought made me giggle helplessly as I hurried into my room. I was in exile for high treason and extremely lucky I hadn’t had my head chopped off. High treason and being late for dinner. I’d never be welcome anywhere with a record like that. I closed the door behind me, slammed a locking charm into place and hastily tore off my damp clothes. I wanted a proper bath, complete with hot water and soap, but I didn’t have time. Instead, I heated water in the tub and splashed myself thoroughly.

They need me at dinner, I thought, as I muttered a drying cantrip. Why do they need me at dinner?

It was odd, to say the least. I’d fallen into the habit of joining Morag and Uncle Ira for dinner, but neither of them had bothered to complain when I’d stayed away. Mother would have made sharp remarks; Morag had merely reminded me to clear up the mess after I fixed dinner for myself. I puzzled over it as I searched through the wardrobe until I found a green dress, one of the last I’d bought for myself before going to Jude’s. It was the nicest thing I had to wear.

Uncle Ira wouldn’t care what I wore, I thought, as I pulled the dress over my head and snapped it into place. It was modelled on one of Mother’s dresses, although it was obviously a great deal smaller. And if he wanted me there, he’d have had Morag tell me in the morning …

I stopped, midway through plaiting my hair, as it struck me. We had guests! Visitors! And that meant … my father? My birthday was only a few weeks away. Father might have been able to get permission to visit or, more likely, found an excuse to visit Caithness and drop by Kirkhaven Hall on the way home. My heart started to beat as I picked up the golden necklace, glinting with rubies, and placed it around my neck. If it was Father, I had to see him. I had so much to ask him …

The hall felt very quiet as I made my way down the stairs and into the green dining room. It was a large chamber, barely used; Morag had told me that it had been years since Kirkhaven Hall had hosted any dinner parties. Now, it was brightly lit, with a giant wooden table in the exact centre. Five people - six, counting Uncle Ira - were seated around it. My heart sank as my eyes flew from face to face. Four men, one woman … all strangers. My father hadn’t come after all.

Uncle Ira rose, motioning for me to enter. “Lady Isabella Rubén, Daughter of Carioca and Jeannine,” he said, formally. “Another young person who has been sent into exile.”

My cheeks heated. I curtseyed hastily in the hopes of hiding it. They looked at me for a long moment, then turned back to the table as Uncle Ira pointed me to a chair at the far end. It stung, even though I knew I wouldn’t be expected to do more than sit still and look pretty. I was too young to take part in adult conversations. Normally, there would be someone my age - or close enough - to keep me entertained. Here … I looked at the guests. The woman, who seemed to be the youngest, looked to be around ten years older than Morag.

Pity I can’t invite Callam, I thought, as I remembered my manners and lowered my eyes. He might have enjoyed it.

I clung to that thought for a moment, then dismissed it. Callam wouldn’t enjoy it. Formal dinners were carried out with all the stiff formality of a dance. The slightest mistake, the slightest break in the well-trodden routine, would be remembered for years. Callam would hate having to follow rules he didn’t understand, knowing all too well that it was just a matter of time before he crossed a line he didn’t know existed. I didn’t like it either and I’d been trained in formal etiquette from the moment I could sit upright.

Morag entered, carrying a large tureen of soup. I wondered if I should get up and help her, even though I was wearing an expensive dress. She made no sign as her eyes met mine, just for a second. Instead, she ladled out the soup as she walked around the table. I remembered helping her to make it, a few days ago. She could have told me that we would be having guests. I was lucky I’d come back in time for dinner.

I took a sip, then amused myself by studying the guests. None of them were family, unless they’d dyed their hair. Two of the men were so pale that they or their ancestors probably came from the icy kingdoms to the north, their hair so red that I thought they’d have fitted into Kirkhaven; the other two were more common, although there were hints that they’d had ancestors from Ardrossan. The woman was definitely from Shallot, I thought. Her accent was strikingly pure. She glanced at me a couple of times, as we finished our soup, but said nothing. Another exile? Or someone who’d decided to establish herself elsewhere? The family had quite a few of those.

The soup was tasty, but I wasn’t very hungry. I sipped, trying to listen to the conversation as it rolled around the table. Some of it was incomprehensible, to the point where they might as well have been speaking in tongues; some of it was so boring that I did my best to ignore it, wishing - once again - for a companion of my own. It was a galling thought. I’d wanted to be considered an adult ever since I’d started at Jude’s. Now, I thought I understood just how far I had to go.

It could be worse, I told myself. I could have been put in charge of a much younger kid.

I shuddered at the thought. I’d been a much younger kid, once upon a time. Defying the poor girl set to watch us had seemed hilarious. Now, as an older girl myself, it was much less funny. The certain knowledge that Mother - or Morag - would blame me for anything the little brat did, just as Sandy had been blamed for our misbehaviour in the dorms, would put a damper on my enjoyment. I finished my soup, feeling a little better about the day. At least I wasn’t expected to serve as a babysitter.

Morag collected the bowls without comment and slipped through the door. I wanted to go with her, even though I knew better than to do as much as stand without Uncle Ira’s permission. Mother had always said that a person who left the table could not return - I’d missed out on pudding a couple of times because of it - and that had been when the family had been dining alone, without witnesses. Embarrassing Uncle Ira in front of his guests would not please him. The only thing I could do was wait to be dismissed.

“Lady Isabella,” one of the guests said. “Was the Crown Prince really guilty?”

I blinked in surprise. It wasn’t usual for the adult guests to talk to the children, not if there wasn’t a family relationship. Even family rarely talked across the age line during formal dinners. My older sister - if I’d had an older sister - would spend the dinner doing her best to pretend that I didn’t exist. I’d often thought it was a shame I couldn’t do that with Akin. We hadn’t got on too badly, before I’d been sent into exile, but we’d had little in common beyond the family name.

Uncle Ira nodded, when I looked at him. I guessed that he wasn’t that concerned about formality - or, more likely, that he was more desperate for company than he’d let on. Morag was clearly not someone he could talk to on an equal basis and I was even less so. I felt a flicker of sympathy, wondering - again - just how long Uncle Ira had been in exile. He was certainly old enough to change his name, cross the border and vanish. And he was skilled enough to make a decent living wherever he might go.

“He was,” I said. I had no idea quite how much of the story they’d heard, but I saw no reason to spare the Crown Prince’s memory. “He was planning to overthrow his father and take the crown.”

The woman cleared her throat. “I heard he was a dupe,” she said. “Lady Stregheria had conned him into supporting her.”

“He wasn’t conned,” I said, tersely. “The Crown Prince knew what he was doing.”

I looked down at the table as the guests started to talk amongst themselves again, trying to process what I’d been told. The Crown Prince had been conned … was that the official line? King Rufus wouldn’t want to admit that his firstborn son had been plotting against him, would he? And, with the Crown Prince dead, there was nothing to stop the king blaming everything on Stregheria Aguirre - and me. No one would question the story, particularly when everyone wanted to believe it. The prospect of a bloody coup, even without foreign involvement, was enough to make everyone shudder. It was supposed to be unthinkable. Better to let Stregheria Aguirre cop the blame than call the integrity of the monarchy into question.

And I’m up here - in exile - while his reputation is being rehabilitated, I thought, bitterly. I knew I was lucky to be alive, and this far from Shallot I probably didn’t have to worry about the king sending assassins to tie up a loose end, but still … the Crown Prince had been involved in the conspiracy from the very start. The king is probably grateful he doesn’t have to behead his son.

“The new Crown Prince isn’t having a good time of it,” one of the pale-skinned men said, wryly. “His mother has been sent back home, while he and his siblings are under a cloud of suspicion. Parliament has been asking all sorts of questions about removing them from the line of succession.”

“They can’t be removed, unless they’re found guilty,” Uncle Ira pointed out. “And they’re even younger than Isabella.”

My cheeks heated, again, as they looked at me. I was twelve, the late Crown Prince’s children were … what? The oldest boy was five, I thought. I’d attended the official birthing ceremony - everyone who was anyone had attended the ceremony - but I’d been too young to really appreciate it. I felt a stab of sympathy for the kid. Growing up under a cloud of suspicion for something that had happened before he was old enough to cast a single spell … I felt sick. Maybe I was the lucky one after all. I didn’t have to endure years of people thinking I was untrustworthy.

“You were there,” the woman said. “What happened?”

I gritted my teeth and started to tell the story as best as I could. They listened, without interrupting to ask questions … I was almost grateful. Uncle Ira listened too, his face an impassive mask. He should, technically, have told them to leave me in peace, but he didn’t seem to care. I wondered if he was quietly using me to distract attention from him or … or what? I didn’t even know who the guests were.

Morag returned just as I finished, pushing a trolley in front of her. I stared, wondering where she’d managed to get a turkey. Uncle Ira was clearly trying to impress his guests, I thought, as Morag placed the turkey in front of him and started to pass out the bowls of potatoes, vegetables and various different sauces. I kicked myself, mentally, for not having been around to help. No wonder she’d been annoyed. And yet, I would have stayed if she’d thought to ask.

“We may be a long way from home,” Uncle Ira said as he carved the meat, “but we do not need to be uncivilised.”

I took the plate he offered me, loaded it with potatoes and some vegetables - one advantage of being in exile was that no one tried to … encourage … me to eat sprouts or broccoli - and splashed gravy over the pile. It smelt so good that I had to force myself to wait for everyone else to be served, then for Uncle Ira to mutter a prayer to our ancestors before starting to eat. It tasted perfect, right down to the gravy and peas. Morag was clearly a very good cook.

There was no conversation during the main course, much to my relief. My feelings were a tangled mess. The Crown Prince was being rehabilitated, now that he was dead … I shook my head, wondering what that meant for Akin. My brother had killed the Crown Prince. The king might want his head, but the family would resist … of course they’d resist. Akin hadn’t been a traitor. He’d killed a traitor. And yet, the king would need to demand some punishment for Akin if he wanted to rehabilitate his son’s memory. I wondered, sourly, what was happening back home. I might be safer a long way from Shallot.

The dinner came to an end. Uncle Ira spoke briefly to Morag, then led his guests into the smoking room. I hesitated, unsure if I should follow him or assist Morag in cleaning the table and washing the plates. He’d made a point of having me at dinner, when he could easily have left me in my room, but … I was a child. I wasn’t supposed to join the adults unless specifically invited. Uncle Ira closed the door behind him before I could make up my mind.

“Go to your room and sleep,” Morag ordered, quietly. “And don’t leave until tomorrow morning.”

I blinked. “You don’t want help?”

“Do as you’re told,” Morag said, crossly. “Go.”

I dropped a curtsey - she was clearly in a bad mood about something - and then hurried up the stairs to my room. Morag might not have control over the wards, but she could probably use them to keep track of me while I was in the hall. I shut the door behind me, then changed into my nightgown. The charms woven into the dress seemed to have kept it clean, to my relief, but I brushed it down anyway as I placed it back into the wardrobe. I didn’t feel tired, although it had been a long day, so I picked up one of the books and climbed into bed. I thought I could read for a while until I felt like sleeping.

It isn’t as if anyone bothers to turn out the lights here, I thought, as I snuggled up to the blanket. There were some advantages to being in exile, after all. I can read all night and no one would care …

A dull thump echoed through the hall. I froze, my ears pricking. What was that? I heard something - a muffled sound, as if someone was pacing around the room overhead - followed by another thump. The wards seemed to grow stronger for a moment - I braced myself, half-expecting them to turn on me - and then faded away again into the background. I forced myself to climb out of bed and listen at the door, but I heard nothing. The sound, whatever it was, was gone.

I turned and looked out of the window. There was nothing, but darkness. The grounds were shrouded in shadow. I remembered Shallot, feeling another pang of homesickness. Even at midnight, Shallot had glowed with light. It was the city that never slept. I’d known teenagers who gleefully claimed to have slept all day and partied all night. Here … there was nothing to do after night fell. I could walk out of the hall and lose myself in the darkness.

Shaking my head, feeling suddenly tired, I walked back to bed. It had been a long day and yet … I didn’t want to sleep. I was too nervous. What was making that sound? And who were the guests? Why had they come to Kirkhaven Town?

I’ll ask Morag tomorrow, I thought, as I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Maybe she’ll tell me.

Chapter Eighteen

“The Master wants to see you after you finish your breakfast,” Morag said, when I walked into the kitchen the following morning. “I suggest you hurry.”

I stared at her. I hadn’t slept very well, despite everything, but Morag looked as if she hadn’t slept at all. Her eyes were tired, her face was pale and her hair hung down in a manner that suggested she hadn’t bothered to brush it, let alone tie it in a bun, for days. She held a large mug of strong coffee in one hand, eying it as if she had to force herself to put it to her lips and drink. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

“Are you alright?”

Morag raised her head and gave me a look that made me take a step back. “Get your breakfast, then get to the potions lab,” she snarled. “And you’ll feel my hand if you say a single word.”

I nodded hastily, then made a quick breakfast of bread and jam. Morag barely moved, one hand resting against her forehead. A headache? Or something worse? I knew potions that could help, but I was sure she had a supply herself. Uncle Ira could probably make anything she might need without any trouble at all. I did my best to ignore her as I munched my food, then washed the plate and hurried out of the room. Morag was in a foul mood and I didn’t want to give her any excuse to take it out on me.

Uncle Ira, by contrast, was looking unusually cheerful as he sat in the lab, waiting for me. He was flicking through one of the books I’d ordered, making a handful of notes in a leather-bound notebook. I wondered, idly, what secrets he might expect to find in a book written for beginners, then reminded myself that he’d been in exile for decades. Techniques improved all the time. Uncle Ira might not have kept up with the latest ideas.

“I trust you slept well,” Uncle Ira said, as I closed the door behind me. “Thank you for attending my little gathering.”

I curtseyed. “Uncle … who were they?”

“A handful of friends,” Uncle Ira said. “We have something in common.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Are they in exile too?”

“Something like that,” Uncle Ira said, blandly. “But the details are really none of your business.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him. Neither Uncle Ira nor Morag seemed to go gallivanting around the countryside at will, although there was nothing stopping them from simply walking away from the hall. Morag did go to buy food at the local town, I supposed, but I hadn’t heard any suggestion of her going to visit friends. Maybe no one in Shallot cared what the exiles did, as long as they stayed well away from the city, or maybe Uncle Ira wasn’t being entirely honest with me. A person might be told to go away for a while without actually going into permanent exile.

“Here,” Uncle Ira said. He passed me a scroll. “Tell me what you make of this.”

I took the scroll. It was covered in dust, despite a pair of protective runes. I opened it carefully, silently grateful I’d thought to wear a shirt and trousers even though I wasn’t sure if the guests were still here. Perhaps they were. Uncle Ira was normally never seen until lunchtime, but now … it was barely half past nine.

Morag would have told me to go straight back to my room and change, I thought, as I started to parse out the writing. She wouldn’t have let me wear trousers if there were strangers about.

I pushed the thought aside and forced myself to concentrate. The scroll was written in Old High Imperial, somewhat to my surprise. The parchment didn’t feel old enough to date all the way back to the Thousand-Year Empire. It was possible that someone had tried to preserve a handful of original notes, or merely hide the contents from readers who couldn’t read Old High Imperial, but nearly everyone raised in the Great Houses could and did. The syntax was odd, yet I had no trouble slowly working it out. I wasn’t too surprised to discover that it was a potions recipe.

“It’s odd,” I said. The recipe was completely outdated. “What does it do?”

“I want you to update it,” Uncle Ira said. “And then I want you to actually brew it.”

I swallowed, hard. The recipe had one thing in common with nearly everything else that dated back to the empire … there were pieces missing. Whoever had written the confounded thing had left out details that he or she had considered to be common knowledge. Perhaps they had been common knowledge, once upon a time. Now … figuring out what was missing was nothing more than guesswork. And getting it wrong could be literally explosive.

“I still don’t know what it does,” I said, as I reached for a notepad. “What does it do?”

Uncle Ira gave me a warm smile, but there was no warmth in his eyes. “Figure it out.”

I resisted the urge to say something cutting as I carefully jotted down a translation, first of the ingredients and then of the instructions … such as they were. There was something maddeningly imprecise about the whole thing. Magistra Loanda would probably have banned me from my class if I made notes about stirring the potion without carefully detailing just how many stirs the potion needed. I dreaded to think how Father would have reacted if one of his apprentices had made the same mistake. I’d known, vaguely, just how much we’d lost when the Thousand-Year Empire fell - our family had been gravely weakened - but I hadn’t really understood it. I thought I did now.

Gritting my teeth, I went through the list, piece by piece. Some ingredients were designed to boost energy, others were designed to dampen out the side effects … I put them together and guessed that the potion was intended to keep someone awake for days. I’d seen upperclassmen use wakefulness potions at Jude’s, although I’d been warned - in no uncertain terms - that I wasn’t to even think of taking them for myself until I was at least seventeen. A child who used the potions might wind up having a heart attack.

“It’s a primitive wakefulness potion,” I said.

Uncle Ira favoured me with a genuine smile. “Very good, Isabella,” he said. I couldn’t help basking, just for a moment. “Now, how would you go about updating it?”

I was tempted to point out that there were newer recipes, but I had the feeling that saying that would cost me all the credit I’d just earned. Instead, I went through the list of ingredients, silently considering which ones could be replaced. Canossa Moss was relatively rare, outside Ardrossan; it simply didn’t grow very well in cooler climes, no matter how carefully the greenhouses were designed to mimic the climate in the princedoms. But it could be replaced, fairly easily. I was surprised the Thousand-Year Empire hadn’t made the connection itself.

They probably took whatever they wanted from Ardrossan, I thought. The locals had been fighting each other for centuries before the Thousand-Year Empire and they’d resumed their pretty squabbles as soon as the Empire had collapsed. We don’t have that option.

I wondered, absently, if that was about to change. The Thousand-Year Empire had had an unlimited supply of Objects of Power. Now, Tintagel had someone who could forge them too. Ardrossan wasn’t worth conquering, as far as I could tell, but control over the Gap would bring considerable power to whoever held fortresses on both sides. King Rufus might have professed his horror at Crown Prince Henry’s megalomaniacal plan to rebuild the empire, but he might be considering a few conquests of his own. It was only a matter of time before Galashiels or Balamory or North Cairnbulg found Zeros of their own.

“I think that should do,” I said, as I held out the updated recipe. It might not be quite as effective as the ones used at Jude’s, but it should work. And I’d worked out how many stirs and suchlike should be necessary. “What do you think?”

Uncle Ira scanned the paper, then nodded. “It looks workable,” he said. He motioned to the cauldron. “Why don’t you try to brew it?”

I nodded and started to gather the ingredients. Uncle Ira sat back in his chair, looking as if he was on the verge of taking a nap, although I wasn’t fooled for a second. No Potions Master worthy of the title would take his eyes off an untrained brewer working on a potion she’d never tried before. I hoped he’d be forgiving if I made a mistake. Some of the ingredients were dangerous in combination, if they weren’t treated perfectly. I was grimly aware that an explosion might be very destructive indeed.

The wards will keep me from blowing up the whole house, I told myself. Won’t they?

Uncle Ira didn’t seem to be looking as I carefully started to brew the potion, but I could feel him watching me. I gritted my teeth, reminding myself that Magistra Loanda would be a great deal worse, then added the first of the dangerous ingredients. The potion bubbled alarmingly, threatening to explode; I forced myself to keep stirring, adding the next set of ingredients to dampen the reaction. Uncle Ira showed no visible reaction as the liquid calmed, cooling down long enough for me to add the third and final set of ingredients. I clicked the timer, then started to stir again. The magic was building up rapidly …

Sweat trickled down my back as the liquid started to bubble again. Droplets splashed everywhere, one hitting my cheek. I cursed, using a word that would probably have got my mouth washed out with soap, but somehow managed to keep stirring. The liquid seemed to grow hotter, the magic flaring brightly …

… And then everything started to settle down.

“Very good,” Uncle Ira said. “Take the cauldron off the heat, then leave the potion to cool down.”

I nodded, resisting the urge to rub my cheek as I moved the potion to the next worktable. I didn’t think the potion was dangerous, unless I actually swallowed it, but it had been hot enough to burn. I reached for a cloth as soon as I put the potion down, washed it with cold water and pressed it against my cheek. It didn’t make me feel much better.

“You’ll find some salve in the next drawer,” Uncle Ira said. “Just make sure you wipe the injury clean before you apply it.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said. I wasn’t fool enough to mix two potions if it could be avoided. “I … did my recipe work?”

“We’ll have to try it, later,” Uncle Ira said. He smiled, rather dryly. “But it didn’t explode, did it? That is something of an improvement.”

I coloured. My first attempts at potions brewing had ended badly, so badly that Father had openly wondered if I’d survive my first year at school. Even Magistra Loanda’s steady tutoring - and constant supervision - hadn’t been enough to prevent a whole series of explosions. But I had gotten better. I looked at the steaming cauldron, feeling a flicker of well-deserved pride. I’d just made a potion that would have tested a third-year student. No, I’d practically reinvented a potion and then brewed it. I’d done very well.

“Thank you, Uncle,” I said. It was hard to keep the pride out of my voice, even though I knew that Father - or Magistra Loanda - wouldn’t hesitate to tell me that pride went before a fall. “Can I … can I write up the recipe?”

“See if it works first,” Uncle Ira said. “But if it does, you can write it up and send it to the Potions Guild. I doubt it will bring you much in the way of royalties, but you never know.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said.

Uncle Ira stood and walked over to the rear of the room. A large cardboard box sat on the table. I wondered, absently, when he’d put it there. It certainly hadn’t been there yesterday, when I’d used the lab. Uncle Ira might have gotten up early or … or he might not have slept all night. I looked at the potion I’d brewed and frowned. Did he have an ulterior motive in ordering me to brew that potion? He was certainly strong enough to survive using it for several days.

“I think you’ve made considerable progress over the last few weeks,” Uncle Ira said, as he picked up the box and carried it over to my table. He put it down with an audible thump and stepped back. “These are for you.”

I blinked in surprise as he passed me a knife to open the box. Inside, there was a small collection of old books. A couple felt unpleasant to the touch, as if they were reeking with dark secrets, but the others were merely old. I pulled them out, one by one, and checked the titles. One of the dark books was on the Prohibited List; the other was unknown. I looked up at Uncle Ira and frowned. I wasn’t sure I wanted either of them anywhere near me.

“The family has quite a collection of proscribed books,” Uncle Ira said, before I could muster an objection. “You would be surprised, I think, to discover just how many forbidden books have been hidden away over the years.”

I swallowed, hard. The family came first, always. I’d had that drilled into my head from a very early age. My father had worked hard to put us on top, whatever it took. And yet, he would have been horrified at the thought of using such dark magic … wouldn’t he? He’d once ordered someone whipped for brewing a love potion, even though it was a very mild form of dark magic. I couldn’t imagine him agreeing to keep such books in the family vaults. And yet, there were sections of the vaults that were sealed to everyone outside the Family Council.

My mouth was dry. “Why …?”

Uncle Ira seemed to know what I meant. “Different reasons for different people,” he said, seriously. “Some felt - some have always felt - that the family is above the law. We’re the oldest family known to exist, are we not? Who has the right to tell us what we can and cannot do? And then there are people who believe that the only way to combat dark magic is to study it. How could we research the effects of curses without understanding how the curses actually work? And then there are people who believe that destroying knowledge, whatever sort of knowledge, is fundamentally wrong. Having the knowledge doesn’t mean that we’re going to use it.

He shrugged. “And then you have the people who believe we might need to use such magics, one day, either in defence of the family or the city or even the kingdom itself. That’s probably what convinced your father to keep the books in the vaults.”

I scowled. I didn’t want to think about my father and dark magic. “I thought … I thought these books were banned for a reason.”

“Sometimes they were,” Uncle Ira said. “There’s a book-not one of these, fortunately - “that tells you how to raise the dead. Or so it claims. The ritual is so appalling that no one has actually tried, at least on the record. Others … not so much. Some of them are only listed as dark because they involve human flesh, blood and bone.”

“Really?” I knew I was being disrespectful, but I was too shocked to care. “I thought … I thought that dark magic tainted everything.”

“That’s a matter of intention,” Uncle Ira said. He seemed more interested in the debate than snapping at me for being rude. “I could, for example, turn you into a snail to force you to learn how to turn yourself back. The counterspells you’d need are ones that are quite difficult to cast without being able to move your hands. I would have done something quite unpleasant to you, but I wouldn’t have had bad intentions. Understand?”

I nodded, silently.

“On the other hand, I could turn you into a snail and step on you,” Uncle Ira added. “That would be murder, of course, and I would have bad intentions. I’d be tainted by my desire to murder you even if I didn’t allow any emotion to bleed into the spell. Would that, then, be truly dark?”

“Yes,” I said, although I wasn’t sure if that was true. Father had told me that dark magic wasn’t easy to define. Magic done with bad intentions was the standard definition. And yet, there were plenty of unpleasant spells that weren’t on the banned list. “You’d mean to do me very real harm.”

“Quite,” Uncle Ira said. He pointed to one of the books. “There are spells in that book that can be adapted for use without bad intentions. They can be cast, they can be used, without tainting the caster. And yet, they were banned without rhyme or reason. Magus Court prefers to shy away from anything dark, rather than admit there might be ways to purify dark magic. They are reluctant to explore the topic.”

I looked at him. “Was that what got you sent into exile?”

“I found a way to use dark magic with good intentions,” Uncle Ira told me. Anger ran through his voice. “And my reward for using dark magic to save a life was to be sent into exile. It was not just.”

I stared. Using dark magic to save a life? Was that even possible?

Uncle Ira’s face darkened. “Take the books to your workroom and study them,” he added. “You’ll be brewing more potions for me next week.”

I swallowed, hard. “Yes, Uncle.”

Chapter Nineteen

It wasn’t easy to pick up the books, return them to the box and carry them into the next room - my study - but, somehow, I managed it. The box felt heavy, as if it was weighed down with the secrets it held … secrets I’d never imagined existed. No, that wasn’t entirely true. I’d been told just how unpleasant people could be, and what sort of dangers awaited me if I was careless, but … but nothing like this.

I put the box down on the desk and carefully unpacked the contents. There was nothing wrong with most of the books, although they seemed to be focused on potions and charms several years ahead of my class; I checked the titles, the first couple of spells and then placed them on the bookshelf for later. The two dark books, however … it was hard to force myself to touch them. My skin crawled, helplessly. I felt as if I’d touched something irredeemably dirty, as if there was no way the taint would ever wash off. It was hard to believe that Father, my father, would have anything to do with such books. The family had limits …

We wiped out another family in the last House War, I thought. Perhaps it was the second-to-last House War now. Did we use dark magic to do that?

It was a sickening thought. I’d never thought about it, not once. I’d always assumed that our armsmen had fought their armsmen and the best men had won. It had never crossed my mind that we might have used dark magic. Surely, the other Great Houses would have united against us if we had. Unless … did they have secrets of their own? We weren’t the only family with secret vaults. It was easy to imagine House Aguirre having a secret collection of dark magic books too.

I sat down and forced myself to look at the two books. It was hard to keep my eyes on them for more than a second or two. Their mere presence polluted the air. I felt as if I was in the presence of something fundamentally wrong, as if the books were wrapped in something that made them hard to open. Perhaps that was a good sign. No one could open one of the books unless they were already tainted. I suspected that was intentional. The writer might not want readers who weren’t willing to appreciate his work …

… And Uncle Ira had read them. What did that say about him?

I tried to think, but my thoughts were a conflicted mess. I’d been told, time and time again, that dark magic was not to be messed with … but, at the same time, I’d been taught all sorts of spells that could easily turn dark, given half a chance. I’d turned Rose into a frog, on her very first day, because I’d thought it was funny … not because I’d had any halfway noble motive. And that might have been the first step towards darkness. I wasn’t the only one either. Alana Aguirre and every other schoolchild intent on winning themselves a patronage network had done the same. No one had tried to stop us.

But everything we did, we could undo, I told myself. The spell I’d cast on Rose hadn’t lasted more than an hour. Turning Rose into a frog was one thing; making her be late for class was quite another. I didn’t do anything permanent to her.

And yet, was that actually true? Callam had been deeply shocked when I’d turned his tormentors into frogs. He wasn’t used to seeing such magics. Rose might not have seen them either. She could turn back into a girl - she had turned back into a girl - but the mental effects might not fade so quickly. I’d taught her how far she had to go, yet I’d also suggested she might never catch up …

… And Uncle Ira had done what? How could he have saved a life using dark magic?

I looked at the books, wondering just what was inside. What had Uncle Ira done? It couldn’t have been too bad or he would have been beheaded. He’d pretty clearly been an adult when he’d been kicked out of the city and sent into exile. No one would have spoken up for me if I’d been a few years older. And yet …

No, I thought. Part of me wanted to open the books and just get it over with, but … I didn’t want to read the books. I hadn’t felt so uneasy about touching something since the first day I’d had to cut up a spider for potions class. This isn’t right.

I stood and forced myself to pick up the books long enough to put them in the box. It was difficult, even though I had no intention of opening the covers and reading them. And yet … there was something nagging at my mind, an urge to simply take a look inside. Who knew what secrets might be concealed within the tomes? Knowledge was power …

No, I told myself, again. I am not going to read those books.

I felt better, once I’d put the box at the back of the room. Uncle Ira might ask me if I’d read them, and then I would have to admit that I hadn’t read them, but until then … I wondered, morbidly, if it would be easier to read the books if he was in the room. I could ask him - or Morag - if he’d stay with me … no. The books were seductive, dangerously so. I wasn’t sure I could resist them indefinitely. As long as they were nearby, I’d be torn between the urge to read and the desire to run a mile.

Shaking my head, I started to dig through the boxes of supplies for a spellcaster. There were a handful of broken ones at the bottom of one box, but it was clear that they were beyond repair. It would be easier to make new ones from scratch. I had to dig through two more boxes before I found a pair of spellcasters that could be repaired, if I cannibalised one to repair the other. I took them both into the forgery workshop and started to sort out the tools. Akin would have been in heaven - there were more tools in Kirkhaven Hall than I’d seen in his private workshop back home - but I was merely annoyed. Forgery really wasn’t my chosen career.

And Akin will be married to someone even better at it than he, I thought, wondering how that would work out for them. Akin would never be able to forge Objects of Power, while Cat did it without thinking. How long did it take her to realise what she was actually doing …?

I stopped, dead. What if … what if Callam was a Zero? He had no spark of magic that I’d been able to sense and he’d said, himself, that he hadn’t ever been able to cast a single spell. If he was a Zero … my mind raced, considering the implications. If he was a Zero, I could write to Father and tell him what I’d found. I could go home …

Not being able to cast a spell isn’t proof he’s a Zero, I told myself, grimly. He might simply have very little magic …

It wasn’t a pleasant thought. I wasn’t sure how one went about proving that someone had no magic. Callam might just be right on the lower end of the scale, with a talent so weak that it would require months of persistent training to turn the lowly spark into a fire. It would be the worst of all possible worlds, I thought; too much magic to forge Objects of Power, too little to be able to defend himself. A child born to the Great Houses would get the training he needed to become a respectable magician, but not a common-born teacher’s son from a town like Kirkhaven. Callam would be doomed to spend his life without magic.

You don’t know, I told myself. Zeros had to be rare. Cat was the only one born to the Great Houses … unless one believed the stories of kids with low magic quietly being put up for adoption. I wanted to think it wasn’t true, but I knew how far some families would go to hide any hint of low-power magicians on the family tree. Callam might just be very unlucky indeed.

I carefully took the first spellcaster apart and removed the focusing crystal, then checked it thoroughly to make sure it hadn’t cracked. It looked intact, so I removed the crystal from the second spellcaster and gingerly replaced it with the first. Akin had nearly blown his hand off when he’d been trying to do something rather less delicate, although he hadn’t thought to check that the Device of Power he’d been trying to repair hadn’t been depowered first. My spellcaster was so old that the power had leeched away years ago. I put the crystal into place, checked the remainder of the spellcaster, then carefully shaped a spell in my mind. It had to slip into the crystal and stay there.

Just a simple light spell, I thought. It doesn’t have to be anything more complex.

I smiled at the thought. I’d pestered Mother for a spellcaster that did all sorts of funny tricks when I was a little girl, although Mother had insisted I learn how to cast the spells properly. It had taken me years to learn that a Device of Power drew magic from the wielder, instead of producing magic for itself like an Object of Power. Cat had probably not been able to forge Devices of Power … I wondered, sourly, why her talent hadn’t been noticed earlier. Her parents must have been convinced she was nothing more than a very low-level magician.

Bracing myself, I waved the spellcaster in the air. The crystal lit up, immediately. I closed my eyes, feeling the magic flowing from me into the device. It was perfect. I shut off the power, then placed the spellcaster in a bag. I’d show it to Callam when he came next, then see if he could use it. Even a very low-level magician should be able to use it.

And if he can’t, I asked myself, what then?

I glanced at the clock - it was nearly lunchtime - and then hurried back to my bedroom for a quick wash and change. I could go out in the afternoon, even if Callam didn’t come today. If I hid the spellcaster somewhere on the estate, perhaps with his tools, I could make sure that neither Morag nor Uncle Ira got a good look at it. I didn’t want them wondering what I was doing with a primitive spellcaster. No magician my age would use something like it if there was any other choice.

I reached the fourth floor … and stopped. The air was suddenly very cold. I paused, glancing from side to side. The corridor seemed normal, but … my hair felt as if it wanted to stand on end. I found myself inching backwards, even though there was no visible threat. It took everything I had to stop myself from running back up the stairs.

There’s nothing there, I told myself. The hall was draughty. Some of the boarded windows hadn’t been boarded up very well. Gusts of cold air were common. I was simply imagining that the cold was something more sinister. And yet … I gritted my teeth. There’s nothing there.

A door banged, ahead of me. I swore out loud and started to run down the corridor. This time, it wasn’t going to get away. Whatever it was … I pushed the door open and threw a wide-angle freeze spell into the room, realising - a second too late - that I might just have attacked either Morag or Uncle Ira. If one of them was sorting through the boxes of clothes or something else that might have been dumped in the room …

… But the room was empty.

I stood in the doorway and frowned, my eyes sweeping the room. It had been a bedroom, once upon a time, but everything had been removed along ago. I could see faded marks on the carpet where a bed, a cabinet and a chair had once stood. A handful of boxes sat against one wall, but they were too small to hide a child. The window was boarded up so thoroughly that I couldn’t see even a hint of light outside.

This is growing absurd, I thought, as my heart slowly started to calm down. Why don’t they just fix the wards?

Something moved, behind me. There was nothing there, but I threw a hex anyway. Magic flared, brightly enough to force me to close my eyes. When I opened them, I saw a ghostly figure, standing in the middle of the corridor. I stared in utter horror, feeling my knees slowly turn to jelly. The figure was looking at me … the face was so vague that I couldn’t tell if it was male or female, but it was looking at me. An indistinct hand reached towards me and touched my face. Ice brushed against my bare skin.

My trance broke. I screamed, louder than I had ever screamed before. The figure seemed to shimmer, then vanish altogether, but I barely noticed. I scrambled backwards into the bedroom, slamming the door shut and snapping off a dozen locking charms. Magic - strange magic - congealed around the doorknob, as if the entity was trying to open the door. I screamed again, inching backwards until I crashed into the far wall. I wanted to tear off the boards and jump out of the window, even though I knew we were on the fourth floor. It was all I could do to muster a defensive spell as my vision started to blur …

… And then Morag stepped into the room.

Her voice was very hard. “What is happening?”

I could only stare at her. “I … I …”

“I heard you in the kitchens,” Morag said, sharply. “What were you doing?”

It took me several moments to gather myself. “I saw … I saw a ghost.”

I stumbled towards her and fell into her arms, holding her tightly. Morag huffed in astonishment, then wrapped her arms around me and gave me a gentle hug. I started to cry, helplessly. I’d seen something. I knew I’d seen something. But Morag didn’t seem inclined to believe me. Couldn’t she tell I was upset?

“You probably saw something produced by the wards,” Morag said, firmly. She made no move to push me away, but she somehow made it clear that I wasn’t welcome to hold her any longer. “They are malfunctioning.”

“I saw a ghost,” I insisted. The memory refused to fade. “I saw …”

“An illusion,” Morag said. She untangled herself from me with surprising gentleness. “A convincing illusion, to be sure, but an illusion nonetheless. It wasn’t real.”

“It was,” I said. There had been something about the ghostly translucent face that had been utterly real. “It was real.”

Morag sighed. “Come help me prepare lunch,” she said. “That should help you feel better.”

I glanced around the room, then followed her out the door. The corridor felt normal, not even a single stray flicker of magic or gust of wind. And yet, I didn’t feel comfortable until we were halfway down the stairs. It was easy to believe, now, that the sighting had a very mundane cause, but I didn’t believe it. I knew I’d seen a ghost. An illusion would have looked more real.

Morag put me to work making tea as soon as we were in the kitchen. I filled the kettle, measured out the tea leaves to Uncle Ira’s standards, then tried to calm myself as Morag put pieces of cold turkey on plates. We were probably going to be eating the remains of that bird for several weeks. I wondered, vaguely, where Morag had found it. Had she had to send all the way to Caithness for it? I wasn’t even sure where turkeys came from. They’d always been seen as an exotic food in Shallot.

Probably somewhere over the waves, I told myself, as the kettle boiled. The Thousand-Year Empire hadn’t been that interested in ocean exploration - there was no clear evidence that the Empire had ever made direct contact with Hangchow - but Tintagel had been sending out exploration ships for centuries. A dozen Great Houses had made or lost fortunes by investing in ocean-going ships. Whoever brought the first turkeys back must have made an absolute fortune.

I looked at Morag, wondering if I dared ask her about Uncle Ira’s books. What would she say? But I didn’t trust her. She’d made it clear, more than once, that she didn’t really care about me - or anyone, as far as I could tell. Whatever loyalties she had were to Uncle Ira, not to me. I didn’t dare ask her for advice.

And yet, there’s no one else I can ask, I thought. I couldn’t write to my father, Callam wouldn’t be able to advise me … there wasn’t anyone else. I’m trapped and alone and …

I shook my head in frustration. I’d enjoyed Uncle Ira’s praise. And yet, he expected me to read forbidden texts. I could get in real trouble for just touching the books, let alone opening and reading them. The temptation was strong, yet … I had to keep reminding myself that it could be dangerous. And … what was I supposed to do? Would Uncle Ira expect me to actually practice dark magic?

I don’t know, I thought. Running away was starting to look like a very good idea. But where would I go?

Chapter Twenty

“You saw a ghost?”

I scowled as I lay on the grass, staring up at the bright blue sky. Morag hadn’t believed me - and Uncle Ira had merely grunted when I’d tried to bring the subject up - but I’d hoped for better from Callam. But then, in the bright sunlight, the whole idea of ghosts seemed fantastical. The warm summer air, so pleasant compared to the cold rain, made me feel almost normal. It was the nicest day I’d had since I’d been sent into exile.

“I saw something,” I said. “And it was real.”

Callam coughed. “There are … stories … about ghosts here,” he said. “And other strange things.”

I sat up. “What sort of stories?”

“I’ve only heard whispers,” Callam said. He sounded pained. “Every little community has its own traditions, Isabella. Stories they tell each other that echo back to a time before accurate records … not that far back, not here. Even the shrine registry is remarkably vague about details that should be graven in stone. The locals don’t want to be over-taxed, you know.”

“And they don’t tell you those stories,” I said, slowly. “Why not?”

“I don’t come from here,” Callam said. He ran his fingers through his brown hair. “To them, I’ll always be an outsider. I could get married and have children and they’ll be the outsider’s brats. Maybe my grandchildren will be accepted, maybe not. Now? They certainly don’t tell me their traditional stories.”

I frowned down at him. Shallot was very accepting of the new and different. It had to be. The Great Houses worked hard to encourage new magicians to marry into the older bloodlines, adding their wild magic to the established branches. Rose and the rest of her kind would start receiving offers as soon as they let down their hair, perhaps earlier. I was fairly sure that Rose would get an offer fairly soon. She had close ties to two Great Houses as well as powerful magic. Someone like that would not be allowed to remain single forever. But here …

It was an odd thought. Callam had brown hair, the locals had red hair … there didn’t seem to be any other difference between them, save perhaps for accent. They were petty minor differences, not differences as notable as skin colour or eyes or something else that spoke of a more exotic origin than the village on the other side of the hill. And yet, I thought I understood it too. It was harder to accept people who couldn’t talk about their roots. The Hangchowese half-breeds rarely knew anything about their fathers, making it harder for them to marry into polite society. Callam didn’t have that problem, but he didn’t have a settled family either.

I wondered, sourly, why his father had chosen such a wandering life. Didn’t he know what it would do to his children? Or … had he had a choice? There were estates that were passed down to the eldest child, with the younger children forced to either work for their elder sibling or leave the land. Callam’s father might have left, taking his children with him. Or he might have been so determined to teach other children that he ignored the damage it was doing to his own.

“You’re very quiet,” Callam said. He sat upright and winked. “Want to play a game?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Is there anyone who might talk to us about the stories?”

Callam looked doubtful. “Not really,” he said. “They’ll see you as an outsider too. Worse, perhaps. You’re connected to the Big Man and he’s connected to the tax collectors.”

“I don’t think my uncle cares one whit about collecting taxes,” I said, more stiffly than I had intended. Kirkhaven didn’t seem to have anything worth taxing, save perhaps for the sheep, cows and goats. “And I certainly don’t care.”

“They won’t know that,” Callam said, dryly. “They’re probably worrying about what will happen when you take over the estate.”

I blinked. “Me? Take over the estate?”

“You are in line, aren’t you?” Callam cocked his head. “Or are they wrong?”

“Probably,” I said. If Uncle Ira died, I suspected the estate would go to Morag. I had no idea where she stood on the family tree, but I doubted anyone in Shallot cared enough to take it from her. Kirkhaven had been effectively abandoned long ago. After that … maybe it would go to me. If, of course, I was still here when they died. “I don’t intend to stay here that long.”

“Ouch,” Callam said. It struck me that he’d miss me as much as I’d miss him. We were outcasts - outsiders - together. “I …”

He shook his head. “Granny McVeigh might talk to us,” he said. “She’s the local hedge witch. She … isn’t exactly an outsider, but she isn’t exactly part of the community either.”

I met his eyes. “Would she be able to answer our questions?”

“She grew up here,” Callam said. He laughed, humourlessly. “On one hand, she’s an outcast; on the other, everyone goes to her when they need advice. I think they respect her and fear her in equal measure.”

He shrugged. “But she’s certainly old enough to know the stories,” he added. “She might just talk to us.”

“Then we’ll go,” I said. I looked back at the hall, hidden behind the trees. “When can we go?”

Callam considered it. “Well, if you want to meet my family again, we can go tomorrow,” he said. “Unless there’s a reason you have to stay home.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I’d check with Morag, if I could figure out a way to ask without tipping her off that I was planning something, but I had the impression that Uncle Ira didn’t have guests very often. He was, after all, in exile. “I should be able to sneak down to the village tomorrow.”

“I’ll meet you up here, then,” Callam said. He stood and stretched. “What shall we do now?”

I dug the spellcaster out of my bag and held it out. “I made this for you,” I said. I was tempted to claim I made it from scratch, but Callam was probably sharp enough to realise that that wasn’t true. “It’s primed for a new user.”

Callam took the spellcaster, eying it with fascination. “Will this allow me to work magic?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “It’s designed to do as much of the work as possible.”

I kept the other possibilities to myself. If Callam was a Zero, he’d need years of training before he could do anything with his talent; if he was merely a very low-power magician, he’d need focusing devices I couldn’t even begin to forge. Akin could have done it, but my brother might as well be on the other side of the world. I couldn’t write him a letter without having it read by a dozen prying eyes … and any one of them might decide that the letter shouldn’t be passed to my brother. Akin was too important, right now, for the Family Council to put in an awkward position.

“I want to learn,” Callam said, bringing me out of my reverie. He held the spellcaster by the wrong end. “What do I do with it?”

My lips twitched. “First, turn it around,” I said. I didn’t think anything would happen if he kept his fingers on the crystal, but I didn’t have that much faith in my forging skills. Akin had injured himself several times when he’d been learning the ropes. “And then wave it in the air.”

Callam reversed the spellcaster, struck a dramatic pose and waved it. Nothing happened. I frowned, wondering - just for a second - if I saw a light in the crystal. But it seemed to be nothing more than reflected sunlight. Callam waved the spellcaster again and again desperately. I felt my heart sink at the look in his eyes. He wanted, he needed, magic. I might as well have taunted him with something he could never have …

I felt a stab of guilt. I’d taunted Cat, hadn’t I? I’d rubbed her nose in her lack of magic, time and time again. I’d been a little brat who deserved far worse than to lose a duel she really should have won. And now … I wondered, grimly, if Cat would be advising Akin, if he became Patriarch, not to let me come home. She had every reason to hate me and none whatsoever to let bygones be bygones.

“It isn’t working,” Callam said. He sounded despondent. “I … perhaps it’s broken.”

I took the spellcaster back and waved it in the air. The crystal lit up, immediately. Callam let out a little sound and looked away, not letting me see his face. I turned my head, granting him what privacy I could. There was nothing wrong with the spellcaster. Callam simply didn’t have the magic needed to cast the spell.

“There’s another possibility,” I said, carefully. I had no idea how to test for a complete lack of magic, but I was sure I could figure it out. “We could …”

Callam shook his head. “I don’t want to know,” he said. “If I can’t do that, what can I do?”

I swallowed. A Zero could do a great many things, with the proper training. But how could I confirm that Callam was a Zero? And then … and then what? Would he want to spend his life forging for the family? Or would he see it as nothing more than a form of imprisonment?

And we don’t even know he is a Zero, I thought. He could just have very low magic.

“I don’t know,” I said. I wished, with an intensity that surprised me, that I hadn’t been so horrible to Cat. She had to have been experimenting with her talents while we’d been sharing a dorm. Akin probably knew exactly what she’d done, but … I couldn’t write to him and ask. “We’ll figure it out.”

Callam turned to face me. “Is there any point?”

I reached out and rested my hand on his shoulder. “There could be.”

He stepped back. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. He gave me a ghost of a smile. “But thank you for trying. You’re a good friend.”

My heart ached. “There are other things we could try,” I said. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

My mind raced. The simplest solution would be to have Callam forge an Object of Power. But where could he forge anything? The wards along the boundary line might be old and frayed, too weak to notice that there were gaps in the defences, but I knew I couldn’t sneak him into the hall. Uncle Ira would be angry and Morag would be furious. They’d be within their rights to do anything to Callam, from simply kicking him out of the gates or turning him into one of the creepy statues we’d seen as we roamed the ground. I’d heard enough horror stories about what the family did to intruders, back in Shallot, to fear for Callam’s very life. I could easily see Morag doing something that would be impossible to reverse.

“Forget it,” Callam said. He sat back down on the ground. “There’s no point in worrying about it.”

I sat next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I said, gently. I meant it. Callam was the first person I’d ever met who’d shown me true friendship. He didn’t care about my House. He just cared about me. “What do you want to do? I mean, when you get your majority?”

“I don’t know,” Callam admitted. He glanced at me, then looked away. “Dad’s taught me enough to teach myself, if I wished … well, everything apart from the magic. I could teach other children, but I don’t think I want to take a class of unwilling students. Dad has more patience than I’ll ever have.”

“You’ll learn,” I said, reassuringly. “I’m not very patient either.”

“I could try to do private tutoring, one to one,” Callam added, “but anyone who hired me for that would expect magic lessons too.”

“I did have specialised teachers back home,” I told him. “They didn’t all teach me magic.”

Callam looked at me. “What did they teach you?”

“Too much and too little,” I said, which earned me a raised eyebrow. “The first tutors taught me how to read, write and argue. They expected me to read the material and then use it to think. I got told off for simply parroting the material back to them. Then I had tutors in everything from history to languages and etiquette … all of whom stuck around long enough to ensure I learnt the basics and then moved on. They didn’t teach me magic.”

“No?”

“No,” I confirmed. “Father taught me magic.”

“You must have found it easy,” Callam said. “You’re a great sorceress.”

I felt an insane urge to giggle. I’d learnt a lot in the past seven years, ever since Father had put the first spellcaster in my hand, but I was nowhere near a great sorceress. Magistra Loanda or Magistra Solana could have thrashed me, effortlessly, if I’d been fool enough to challenge them to a duel. Sandy could probably have taught me a sharp lesson or two if I’d challenged her authority too openly. She might have treated me lightly because I was a Rubén, but that had its limits. Sandy couldn’t let me get away with openly cheeking her in front of the entire dorm.

And Morag could hammer me into the ground, I thought. And Uncle Ira could probably do worse.

“I’m not that great,” I said, putting the thought aside. “I thought … I think I still have a long way to go.”

“You’ll get there,” Callam said. “Hart and Hound are the greatest spellcasters in the valley, save perhaps for Granny McVeigh. And you kicked them into the river.”

“They know a handful of spells,” I said. I doubted either Hart or Hound could rewrite their spells on the fly. It wasn’t that hard to rewrite a frog transfiguration spell into a cow transfiguration spell, provided one knew the underlying principles. I could do it, with a little effort. “That doesn’t make them sorcerers.”

“They’re always bragging about defeating apprentices in Caithness,” Callam said. “Are they lying?”

“Probably,” I said. Caithness might not have a dedicated school of magic, although Jude’s wasn’t the only magic school in the kingdom, but any advanced school would certainly have a magic class. “Any of the first-year students I knew back home would be able to beat them, I think.”

And they clearly weren’t powerful enough to merit a scholarship, I added, silently. I couldn’t imagine anyone refusing a scholarship if one was offered. Hart and Hound probably weren’t smart or perceptive enough to realise that they would be very small fry indeed in Shallot. I wonder what would have happened if they did go?

“That’s impressive,” Callam said. “How far do you have to go?”

I looked down at my hands. “I … I thought I’d get an apprenticeship, after seven years of schooling,” I said. Or get married first, but I wasn’t going to discuss that with him. “But now I’m not so sure.”

It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Uncle Ira had said he could give me an apprenticeship, but it was becoming clear that he didn’t have my best interests in mind. I didn’t want to study forbidden books, even though part of me did want to read them. The books were practically calling to me. I told myself, firmly, that it was just my imagination. The thrill of doing something wrong should be tempered by the grim awareness that reading those books was really wrong. I wasn’t going to sneak into the kitchen to steal a snack an hour before a formal dinner.

Although Mother would rank that as one of the worst possible offences in the world, I thought, wryly. A formal dinner required the host - and the host’s children - to neither eat too much or too little. If I ruined my appetite, I could count on my mother telling me that I’d ruined dinner. It isn’t a harmless little prank, is it?

“I’m sure you’ll do well,” Callam said.

I shrugged. Uncle Ira was about the only person who’d tutor me unless I changed my name and slipped across the border. And then … how would I prove I deserved a chance to take an apprenticeship? There would be plenty of students with actual paper qualifications. I might have to actually work for a master in exchange for tuition or … or I might simply not get a chance at all. And then … I had no idea what I’d do. I wasn’t suited to life outside High Society.

“I hope so,” I said.

Callam patted my back, awkwardly, then jumped to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “Race you to the stables.”

I grinned as I stood. I’d been pretty good at running back home, but races - and games of catch - had always been warped by magic. And I’d had the feeling, more than once, that older cousins had let me win. Callam, on the other hand, never let me win. He was so fast - he actually jumped over streams I had to splash through - that I felt that my few victories were well-deserved. And it would have felt wrong to hex him in hopes of slowing him down.

“I win,” he said, as he ran into the stables. “Shall we go again?”

I forced myself to take deep breaths. “Maybe in a minute,” I said. “What time … what time do you want to meet tomorrow?”

“Eleven?” Callam smiled. “Everyone should be in school or out in the fields by then.”

“I’ll check with Morag,” I said. “But there shouldn’t be any problem.”

Callam nodded, then reached out and tapped my shoulder. “You’re it,” he said. “Catch as catch can!”

I laughed and gave chase.

Chapter Twenty-One

“So you had no trouble?” Callam asked, the following morning. “They’re not hosting another dinner party?”

I shrugged. “Apparently not,” I said. Morag had been in a grumpy mood all evening, stamping about like a bear with a horrible toothache, while Uncle Ira had been nowhere to be seen. “She was completely unconcerned about the prospect of me being late for dinner tonight.”

“Good,” Callam said, as we started to walk towards the river. “What did you tell her?”

“Just that I was planning to explore the northern edge of the grounds,” I said. “I thought I spotted some herbs last time we were there, so … well, it’s a good excuse to stay out for a long time.”

Callam grinned. “Are you planning to start your own herbal garden?”

“I might have to,” I said. “I still don’t understand why Uncle Ira never set one up himself.”

“Maybe he thought that growing herbs was women’s work,” Callam said. He jabbed a finger down the valley, towards Kirkhaven Town. “That’s what they think down there.”

“A Potions Master wouldn’t agree,” I said. “My father grows his own herbs.”

I smiled at the thought. Father had certainly supervised the family’s herbal garden, although he hadn’t had time to do all the work himself. Any Potions Master worthy of the title would certainly want to be sure his ingredients were grown, picked and stored properly, particularly the ones that exploded if you looked at them funny. But then, those ingredients were rarely grown anywhere near a house. No one in their right mind would try to raise dragons in Shallot.

Actually, no one in their right mind would try to raise dragons at all, I thought, as we reached the river and put on our wellies. They’re nasty beasts at the best of times.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Callam said. “Is there a reason there’s a gap in the wards here?”

I frowned. If Callam could sense the wards … did that mean he wasn’t a Zero? My heart started to sink, before I remembered that I’d certainly been able to hex Cat. Magic affected her, definitely. Callam might not have to be able to use magic to sense the wards and their effects.

“I’m not sure,” I said. Running water affected some kinds of magic, but I didn’t think that wards were amongst them. “The wardstones might have been improperly placed.”

We splashed our way onto the riverbank and took off our wellies. My trousers were damp, again, but it was warm enough that I didn’t feel like changing them. They’d dry before we reached the town. We concealed our wellies under a rock, then started to walk down the path. I couldn’t help feeling my heart lift as the sunlight grew brighter. The rain and fog seemed a very distant memory.

“It’s starting to look nice up here,” I said. “How long will it last?”

Callam laughed. “Just long enough to convince you to drop your guard,” he said. “The first year we were here, autumn was lovely. And then the snow fell so heavily that we almost starved to death. Dad had to pay through the nose to keep the family fed. There was no hope of getting out of the valley, let alone to Caithness, until spring. After that … well, let’s just say we learnt a few lessons about keeping plenty of supplies in the house.”

I winced. I’d seen snow in Shallot - I still smiled at the memory of an older cousin animating snowmen and ordering them to chase us around the grounds - but it hadn’t been that bad. Here, it could be a great deal worse. I wondered if I’d wind up stuck in the hall with Uncle Ira and Morag, unable even to go outside. It would be an utter nightmare … I shivered, despite the warm summer air. I hoped Callam would still be able to make it up to the hall if everything froze.

“Ouch,” I said. “I hope it’s not that bad this year.”

Callam snorted. “It will be,” he said. “Count on it.”

We stopped at the outskirts of town and took a different path, circumventing the town rather than walking through it. I was struck, again, by the odd contrast between the grey stone buildings and the barren hillsides. Patches of trees and gorse bushes could be seen everywhere, but the hills still looked bare. I wondered, absently, where the stone actually came from. There had to be a quarry somewhere nearby, but where?

“She lives up here,” Callam said, as we found a path leading up the hillside. Gorse bushes closed in, making it harder to look around. They looked so prickly that I resolved never to touch them. “I … stay quiet and look away.”

I blinked, then heard footsteps coming down the path. A red-haired girl came into view a moment later, her face going as red as her hair when she saw us. I met her eyes, just for a second, then looked away. She couldn’t be more than a year or two older than me.

“No one wants to admit going to see the witch,” Callam muttered, once the girl was safely out of sight. “I’ve seen dozens of people sneaking up the trail, all pretending that they’re not doing anything of interest.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why?”

“I guess their questions are embarrassing,” Callam said. “But the witch never tells.”

We turned a corner and saw a house, set within the hillside. It was the oddest place I had ever seen, as if someone had taken a cottage and buried half of it in the earth. The door was open invitingly, a faint smell of something nice emanating from deep inside. I could sense a handful of weak, but serviceable wards surrounding the clearing. One of them was designed, I thought, to blur perceptions. Visitors wouldn’t be able to see other visitors, not clearly, unless they already knew they were there. It was a surprisingly neat piece of work.

Callam hesitated, then stepped forward and tapped on the door. “Can we come in?”

“You may,” a strong voice said. “Enter.”

I glanced at Callam, then followed him into the witch’s cottage. It was surprisingly simple, really nothing more than a single large room. A cauldron bubbled over a fireplace, a large pile of blankets lay in one corner, a glowing ball of pearly white light hovered in the air … there was a faint sense of unreality around the cottage that gave the whole experience a subtle, dreamlike air. I took a breath and tasted something on the air. Granny McVeigh clearly knew how to use what little magic - and knowledge - she had.

“The Big Man’s child,” Granny McVeigh said, walking into the light. “And the teacher’s son.”

“I’m not Uncle Ira’s child,” I said, hastily. Uncle Ira was old enough to be my great-grandfather. “He’s just a distant relative.”

“But you may be his child in all, but blood,” Granny McVeigh said. “Is that not true?”

I shook my head firmly as I tried to look through the obscurification charm she’d placed on herself. It was hard, almost impossible, to get an idea of what she really looked like, although I saw flashes of grey hair, steely blue eyes and a strong jaw that suggested she was nothing more or less than a force of nature. Even knowing how the trick was done - and I was sure I could have cast a similar ward myself - I couldn’t help finding it impressive. The locals had to be awed. I doubted Callam could make out even a hint of her face.

“And the teacher’s son,” Granny McVeigh said. “Are you here together, perhaps?”

Callam spluttered. “We came to ask you about the ghosts?”

“The ghosts?” Granny McVeigh didn’t sound as though she believed us. “Is that why you’ve come?”

“I saw one,” I said, quickly. Callam had gone red. “I wanted - we wanted - to ask you about them.”

Granny McVeigh eyed us for a long moment. “Very well,” she said. She waved a hand at the door, which slammed closed. “Sit.”

I sat on the earthen floor, unsure if I should be impressed or amused. Callam knelt beside me, his face still red. Granny McVeigh sat facing me, moving with surprising delicacy for such an old woman. I wondered, absently, just how old she actually was. A strong magician was guaranteed a long life, but I didn’t think she was that strong. She was using her magic with a skill and precision that told of a lifetime spent trying to do more with less.

“Tell me,” Granny McVeigh said. “What did you see?”

“A ghost,” I said. I outlined what I’d seen, briefly. “And no one else believed me.”

“I believed you,” Callam said.

“Quiet,” Granny McVeigh said. She jabbed a finger north. “Do you know what’s up there?”

“Galashiels,” I said. The border lay to the north. “I’ve never been up there.”

“Something else,” Granny McVeigh said. “There’s the remains of a very old city.”

I frowned. “The remains?”

“It was abandoned a long time ago,” Granny McVeigh said. “And the tales told of the city claim that it was abandoned because of the ghosts.”

She went on before I could say a word. “There have always been ghosts here, lots of them,” she said. “They’re quite rare in the towns, young lady, but in the countryside … everyone here knows the ghosts are out there. You won’t see anyone walking out after dark for love or money … even love. And many of the stories say that anyone who sees a ghost will be taken away forever.”

I stared at her. “And is that actually true?”

Granny McVeigh shrugged. “People do vanish sometimes, when they aren’t safe at home after nightfall,” she said. “And sometimes they’re found, a few weeks later, lying dead in a bog. Some people just don’t have the sense to be let out without leashes.”

“I’ve never seen a ghost,” Callam said, quietly.

“Then you’re a very lucky man,” Granny McVeigh told him, curtly. “Perhaps the ghosts are avoiding you.”

“They didn’t avoid me,” I said.

“Many of the sightings were near the Big Man’s hall,” Granny McVeigh said. “And you’re part of the hall now.”

I took a breath, unsure if we’d wasted our time or not. “And what are the ghosts?”

Granny McVeigh snorted. “I couldn’t tell you,” she said, dryly. “I’d like to think that the ghost I saw was my husband, may he rest in peace. But he didn’t look peaceful, if it was truly him. Monee thinks the ghost she saw was the babe she lost in childbirth and who am I to tell her differently? It gives her some comfort on those cold hard nights when she asks herself why she lost a child. And Gavin thinks that the ghost he saw was trying to lure him into the bog. There are stories about all kinds of creatures that amuse themselves by preying on unwary travellers.”

I leaned forward, remembering Uncle Ira’s warnings. “What sort of stories?”

Granny McVeigh met my eyes. “If you happen to be walking out at twilight, and you see a light over the moor, do not follow it. Whatever you do, do not follow it. If you’re lucky, you’ll walk into a bog and drown; if you’re unlucky, you’ll meet the creature holding the light and … and something will come back, wearing your face, but it won’t be you.”

I looked back at her. “Is that true?”

“I’ve seen lights over the moors,” Granny McVeigh said. “I never dared follow them.”

“I see,” I said. Wild magic? Or something more sinister? “If I see a light, I won’t follow it.”

“Good thinking,” Callam said. I had the feeling he thought we’d wasted our time. “Do you have any more stories?”

Granny McVeigh pointed a finger at him. “You should learn to listen more, young man,” she said, severely. “You do not belong here. The very land itself is rejecting you.”

“I don’t want to stay here,” Callam said. “And when I’m old enough, I shall go.”

“Good,” Granny McVeigh said.

“He didn’t come here willingly,” I said, feeling annoyed on his behalf. “And neither did I.”

“But the land welcomes you,” Granny McVeigh said. “It doesn’t welcome him.”

She looked at Callam. “Wait outside,” she ordered. Compulsion flowed through her voice, so powerful that Callam stood without hesitation. “I need to speak to your friend in private.”

I felt a hot flash of anger as Callam left the cottage, closing the door behind him. “How dare you do that to him?”

“When you get to my age, you don’t really worry about the little niceties,” Granny McVeigh told me, curtly. She didn’t seem concerned about my anger. I could have blown the entire cottage into ashes and yet … I didn’t think she cared. “And I accepted a duty when I became the hedge witch.”

I glared. “A duty to treat people like puppets?”

“A duty to give advice and help to those who need it,” Granny McVeigh said. “And you need advice, don’t you?”

“Not from you,” I snapped. I’d gone off trusting adults. “I …”

“Every girl in the town - and most of the nearby towns - has come to me for advice as they grew into adulthood,” Granny McVeigh said. “Sometimes, I offer them a little magic; sometimes, I merely offer them a friendly ear. My oaths do not allow me to share their secrets and they know it. I can offer that to you too.”

I let out a long breath. I’d never really been able to trust any adult back home, apart from my parents. My tutors and healers wouldn’t have kept something to themselves, not if my parents had demanded answers. And even my parents had sometimes been more concerned with maintaining their position within the family - and society - than my peace of mind. It wasn’t any better at Kirkhaven Hall. Even if I had liked Morag, and I had to admit there were days when she was likeable, I knew she’d tell Uncle Ira anything I told her. Granny McVeigh’s offer was tempting …

… But the last elderly magician I’d trusted had been Stregheria Aguirre.

“I thank you,” I said, finally. “But I can’t talk to anyone.”

Granny McVeigh gave me a warm smile. “If you change your mind, if you want advice that is given without fear or favour, you are welcome to come back.”

“Thank you,” I said, again.

“And there is another point that might interest you,” Granny McVeigh added. “I need an heir.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “You want me to be your successor? Me? We only just met and … and I don’t want to stay here and …”

Granny McVeigh held up a hand. “Not now,” she said. “But in a few years, when you’re old enough to think without having your childish emotions get in the way, you might want to consider it. You have magic, you have a kind heart and … you don’t have any strong connections here. There won’t be anyone trying to press you to break your oaths because the family comes first.”

I flinched. That was practically the family motto. It was the family motto, if one stripped out the florid phrases that hid the underlying meaning. We came first. Always. And woe betide the person who betrayed the family … a person like me.

“A kind heart,” I repeated. Cat would disagree. Akin would probably disagree too. The maids I’d pushed around really would disagree. “I …”

“Think about it,” Granny McVeigh said. She rose. “And my door is open at any time, if you want to come back.”

I shook my head, numbly. It was absurd. Me? A hedge witch? I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. And yet … I thought I understood. Granny McVeigh had paid a high price for her position. She was as isolated, in her own way, as Callam. Why not recruit a girl with no connections to the village? She’d have less to lose.

The door opened. I walked through, blinking as the bright sunlight struck me. Callam stood outside, looking grim. His fists were clenched, suggesting he wanted to hit something. The door banged closed behind me, before Callam could work up the nerve to do something stupid. He had to be aware that he’d been compelled to leave the cottage.

“That … that …”

“It’s alright,” I said. I wasn’t sure what else to say. I’d learnt to resist compulsions through necessity, but Callam hadn’t had that sort of training. “It does go away.”

“Hah,” Callam muttered. “What if Hound learns that trick? Or Hart?”

I shivered, despite the sunlight, as we started to walk back to the village. Compulsion was a subtle spell, but it didn’t require much magic. Hart and Hound probably could learn how to do it, if they practiced. They probably couldn’t affect me, but Callam? And then … I didn’t know what I could do. I could cast compulsion spells on him myself, time and time again, until he learnt to resist them … but could he resist them? Could Cat? I’d never tried to compel her to do anything.

I could see if there are any protective amulets in the supply cupboards, I thought, grimly. Or I could try to forge one.

“My mum said she’d cook something new for you,” Callam said. “I think you’ll like it.”

I smiled, trying to banish the gloom. “I’m sure I will,” I said, as the town came into sight. I could see a handful of kids of all ages flowing out of the schoolhouse. “Your mother is a great cook.”

“Thank you,” Callam said. “She’s had a lot of experience.”

“And children to please,” I said. Somehow, I doubted Callam and his siblings had been allowed to be fussy. Akin and I had been quite hard to please, when we’d been younger. “I …”

And then I heard someone shouting my name.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I spun around, already knowing who was behind me.

Morag stood there, her hands resting on her hips. Her eyes were so angry that I half-expected lightning to shoot out of them at any second and reduce us both to ashes. My legs refused to budge, even though I wanted to turn and flee. Morag was going to kill me. Or, worse, drag me home and make Uncle Ira kill me. Or …

Panic gibbered helplessly at the back of my mind. I’d been caught. I’d been caught outside the hall and grounds. I’d been caught and … I desperately tried to think of an excuse, all too aware that nothing would do. What could I say, what could I do, that would get me out of a punishment that was going to be worse than anything my parents had ever given me?

Morag stepped forward, her eyes moving from me to Callam and back again. “What are you doing here?”

I tried to think of something, but nothing came to mind. Morag’s eyes bored into mine, holding me still by sheer force of personality. I could have kicked myself. Morag had expended a lot of her supplies in making the dinner … of course she’d need to visit the town to buy more. I hadn’t even thought to check she was staying in the hall. I’d messed up and now Callam was in trouble too …

“I brought her here,” Callam said, carefully. I could hear the fear in his voice. “My Lady, I …”

Morag jabbed a finger at him. Callam shrank with terrifying speed, his body blurring into a brown mass that became a rat. He squeaked in outrage, an instant before Morag stepped forward, snatched him up by the tail and hurled him into the gorse bushes. I heard another desperate squeak as he crashed through the gorse and hit the ground. Morag might just have seriously hurt him. I nearly panicked. If he broke a leg while he was a rat, would he still have a broken leg when he became human again?

I found my voice. “You …”

“Shut up,” Morag ordered. My lips snapped shut, so hard I thought she’d hexed them. I nearly bit my tongue. “Come with me.”

I heard a giggle from further down the path, behind her. Hound and Hart were leaning against one of the cottages, watching us. I knew, with an utter certainty that could not be doubted, that they’d told Morag where to look for us. How dare they? How dare they? Anger surged through my mind. They thought being frogs was bad? I’d turn them into slugs, or force them to eat dirt, or make them scared of their shadows …

Morag took hold of my ear and pulled, hard. I yelped in pain as she yanked me down the path, pulling harder when I didn’t move fast enough to suit her. Hart and Hound were laughing openly now, their snickering echoing through the air. I reached for my magic, intending to hex them openly and take whatever punishment Morag doled out, but the spell had barely started to form when she crushed it. She didn’t want me to curse anyone.

“We’re going back to the hall,” she said, sharply. I was suddenly aware that Hart and Hound weren’t the only ones watching us. The entire town seemed to be staring at us. Morag’s red face and furious grunting suggested she knew we were being watched too. The Great Houses weren’t meant to wash their dirty laundry in public. “Behave yourself!”

I found my voice. “But … what about …?”

“Never mind him,” Morag snapped. “You’re in quite enough trouble, you little brat!”

I dug in my heels, intending to protest. Callam might be stuck as a rat for days, perhaps weeks. Morag was strong enough to make the spell last for quite some time, even if I was right about Callam’s true nature. And if he was injured … I tried to find the right words. A young man who’d been born and raised in Shallot would know how to signal that he was, in fact, a transformed human … but did Callam know? Rose and the other country-born hadn’t known. Morag might just have sentenced Callam to death.

She tugged on my ear, hard. “Walk beside me or I’ll thrash you in front of this gawking rabble,” she hissed. I had no doubt she meant it. “Now!”

I’m sorry, Callam, I thought, as Morag tugged me after her. I’ll find you, somehow.

Morag didn’t say anything as she frogmarched me up the path and out of the village, whereupon she let go of my aching ear and transferred her grip to my upper arm. I winced - I was sure I was going to bruise - but I didn’t dare say anything. She’d caught me outside the grounds and now … and now I was a condemned prisoner marching to my fate. I had no idea what she - and Uncle Ira - would do to me. Father had always grounded me, or assigned me chores that were boring or filthy or both, but Uncle Ira might have different ideas. He was practically from a different era.

“What were you thinking?” Morag’s grip tightened as she spoke. Her hands felt as if they were going to grind my bones to powder. “Why did you leave the grounds?”

I said nothing. There was no answer I could give her. I certainly didn’t want to betray Callam, if he survived … Morag might have killed him. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her that she was a monster, but I didn’t dare. Her anger was almost a physical force. I could feel her magic bubbling around her, as if she was on the verge of lashing out. My magic started to spark in response.

“And you were with a boy,” Morag said, her voice rising. “A boy! Unchaperoned! What were you thinking?”

“My hair is in braids,” I muttered, sullenly.

Morag drew back her free hand, as if she was going to slap me, then dropped it back to her side. “Do you think that will matter, for one moment, if word gets back to Shallot?”

I glared at her, feeling tears prickling at the corner of my eyes. “Do you think anyone will care?”

“Yes,” Morag said, angrily. “Someone will care. Someone who wants to do the family harm will care, perhaps even someone who merely wants to unseat your father or ensure that your brother does not succeed him without a fight. Yes, someone will care. Do you know what they’ll say about you?”

“I’m too young to have a boyfriend,” I protested.

“Do you think that will matter either?” Morag swung me around until we were facing each other, her eyes boring into mine. “People believe what they want to believe. People will believe whatever they think will give them an advantage. Or have you forgotten that already?”

I cringed under her stare. “I’m sorry, Senior …”

Morag ignored me. “Do you know how I ended up here? I was young and foolish and I fell in love with an entirely unsuitable boy.” The pain in her voice convinced me that she was telling the truth. “I suppose it might have worked out for the best, if I’d had the nerve to talk to my mother or the Patriarch, but instead … I married the boy. I thought I could present them with a done deal and that they’d just accept it. I wasn’t as important as you, you wretched brat.

“They didn’t accept it. Of course they didn’t accept it. They said I’d married poorly and drove my husband away and sent me out here … here, where I have to play servant to a much older man and mother to a little girl too young to realise that she’s standing on thin ice! My husband … I don’t even know what happened to him! And here you are, on the verge of getting your name dragged through the mud …”

“Again,” I said.

“Again, yes,” Morag snapped. She made a visible - and unsuccessful - attempt to calm herself. “The family might find a way to rehabilitate you. If history can be rewritten to show that the Crown Prince was nothing more than an innocent pawn, history can be rewritten to show that you were nothing more than an idiot child who got herself into trouble because she trusted the wrong person. I’m sure your father is working on that even now. And here you are, making his life harder by being seen unchaperoned with an entirely unsuitable boy!”

“I’m not,” I protested. I wanted to scream. Her grip was tightening again. I felt she was going to break the skin. “Morag, I …”

“Be quiet,” Morag snapped. She shook me. “And take whatever you get like a loyal member of the family.”

My temper snapped. “No one remembers you,” I said. The story she’d told me … I should have heard something, even though Morag was at least twice my age. Her parents had clearly managed to bury it. She could probably have gone home at any moment if she’d wished. “I never heard of anyone who was sent into exile for marrying the wrong man …”

Morag jabbed a finger at me. My lips were suddenly sealed. I had to fight to breathe through my nose. She glared down at me for a long moment, then turned and yanked me forward again, taking long strides up the path. It wasn’t easy to force my legs to keep up with her. Callam was fast, but I had the feeling Morag was actually faster. Her long legs ate up the ground at terrifying speed. I tried, hard, to break the hex she’d used, but it stubbornly refused to fade. Nothing I did worked.

We crossed an old road and turned northwards, carefully avoiding the potholes. The gates came into view sooner than I’d feared, looking far more imposing from the outside. A family crest, forged from iron, hung in front, the eyes on the magician at the centre seemingly glaring at me. Morag ordered me to stand still, then let go of my arm long enough to perform a complicated charm in front of the gates. There was a long pause, long enough for me to wonder if something had gone wrong, then the gates began to open. I felt ice congealing in my stomach as Morag gripped my arm again and hauled me up the driveway. Kirkhaven Hall had always been a prison, but now … now it felt as if I was trapped.

I was always trapped, I thought. Now … now it’s just going to be worse.

I swallowed, hard. The brief moments of freedom, the few hours I’d been able to spend outside the hall and grounds, were gone now. Morag would see to that, I was sure; she’d check every last inch of the wards until she found the flaw, then close it. Callam and I would never be able to see each other again, assuming he survived. I glared at Morag, trying to make clear exactly what I thought of her, but she ignored me. No one would care - much - about the life of a commoner boy. Morag could burn Kirkhaven Town to the ground and Shallot would barely notice.

I’m sorry, Callam, I thought, again. I felt a stab of guilt. Callam might be dead or dying and there was nothing I could do. I should never have befriended you.

I forced myself to think as Morag marched me up the driveway and into the front entrance. I wanted - I needed - to get back to Kirkhaven Town as quickly as possible. No one had seen what Morag had done to Callam, except perhaps for Hound and Hart … and they wouldn’t talk. I silently promised them both bloody retribution. Open attack I understood, be it verbal, magical or physical, but sneaking …? Cat had accused me of tattling to Sandy and the other upperclassmen and it had goaded me into lashing out at her. I was going to make them pay …

Forget that for now, I told myself. Think of something you can tell Uncle Ira.

Morag pushed me into the main hall and shoved me into a corner. “Stay there,” she ordered, sharply. A wave of her hand cancelled the spell on my lips. “Keep your nose in the corner. And don’t even think of going anywhere.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said, dully.

I heard her turn and sweep away, the door banging closed behind her. I didn’t dare look round, even to check my aching arm. Morag might have left … or she might have stealthily remained behind, in hopes of catching me when I moved. I’d had a governess who’d done that a few times, back when I’d been eight or nine. Akin and I had driven the woman into leaving early, swearing never to work for my parents again, but she’d deserved it. Her ideas of how children should be raised would probably have met with Morag’s whole-hearted approval.

Think, I thought. And think hard.

My mind raced. I didn’t dare tell Uncle Ira and Morag the truth. They’d close the gap in the wards and I’d never be able to get out. Worse, perhaps, they’d booby-trap the whole area in hopes of capturing or killing Callam … if, of course, he dared come back. I needed an explanation that sounded plausible, without having more holes in it than a Balamory Cheddar. And Uncle Ira was so far ahead of me, in understanding magic, that it was hard to imagine what sort of story might convince him.

I could have used blood magic to convince the wards to let me through, I thought. I wished, suddenly, that I knew more about blood magic. Using blood to get through wards was possible, particularly if the wards were already keyed to the family bloodline, but I didn’t know how to do it. I felt a sudden mad urge to giggle. I probably should have read those wretched books.

There was a low thud, echoing through the hall. I braced myself, expecting a slap at any moment, and turned my head. No one was there. I looked around the hall, my eyes wandering up the stairs and into the darkened corner, then let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. My upper arm ached, so I pulled my shirt back and inspected the damage. My pale skin was so badly bruised that I could see her handprints on my arm. The bruises looked deeper than I’d realised.

Ouch, I thought. My nose had looked a shattered mess, after Cat had broken it, but this was worse. There was no blood, just vile purple marks. I felt sick just looking at it. My face hadn’t looked so bad after she’d slapped me. I need to find some salve.

I thought I heard someone coming, so I put my nose back in the corner and carefully rehearsed my story. A mixture of truths and lies … lies I hoped Uncle Ira wasn’t in the mood to test with compulsion spells. If he found out that Callam had been entering and roaming the grounds at will … I didn’t know what he’d do. I suspected it wouldn’t be anything pleasant.

Tell them the story, take whatever punishment they give you, then get back to town, I told myself, as someone started to descend the stairs. Callam might be fine, just trapped as a rat … or he might be bleeding to death. Even if he returned to human form, he might still be trapped inside the thorny gorse bushes. I didn’t think he’d be crushed to death, but he’d have to get out somehow. He needs help.

I briefly considered throwing myself on Uncle Ira’s mercy. He’d shown more interest in me - and care for me - than Morag, although he’d also given me those vile books. Perhaps he’d listen when I told him my suspicions about Callam, perhaps he’d help me devise spells and techniques to test him … or perhaps he’d just be angry that Callam and I had been running around without a chaperone. Morag had a point, as much as I hated to admit it. Callam and I were both too young to think about marriage, and we came from very different worlds, but being seen together without even a nominal chaperone could be very dangerous. Father would be unhappy and Mother would be incandescent with rage.

Cat and Akin were seen together, I thought, feeling a flicker of bitterness at the double standard. But then, they were both at Jude’s. They were nominally chaperoned even if no one was paying any attention to them specifically.

A hand touched my shoulder. I flinched.

“This way,” Morag said, firmly. She put her hand on my good arm as I turned, but I shrugged it off. “Now, if you please.”

I glowered at her, then held my head up as high as I could and marched towards the door, trying to muster the resolve of an unrepentant criminal on her way to face the gallows. I wasn’t sure if defiance or abject submission was the right course of action, but I had no intention of letting her have the satisfaction of seeing me cower. She’d terrified me enough over the past few weeks. Morag let out a snort that left me in no doubt she knew what I was doing - I tensed, expecting a slap or a hex - but she did nothing. Instead, she just led the way down to Uncle Ira’s study. The door was already open.

“Well,” Morag said, as I hesitated outside the door. Her voice was very sardonic. “Go in and face the music.”

I took a long breath, then stepped into the room.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Uncle Ira did not look pleased.

He was seated behind his desk, wearing a heavy-duty research lab coat that had clearly seen better days. His hands were pitted with new scars, as if he’d been brewing in the lab when Morag had fetched him. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to meet his eyes as he glared at me. He’d made it clear that he was not to be interrupted unless the matter was truly urgent. I suspected that he didn’t consider this matter to be urgent.

Morag entered behind me, closing the door firmly. I was sure she was right behind me, although I didn’t dare turn my head to check. She wouldn’t want to miss a moment of whatever punishment Uncle Ira gave me. I hadn’t realised just how much she disliked me until she’d told me exactly why she’d been exiled. She had to think that it was hugely unfair that she’d been sent into semi-permanent exile for something far less foolish than betraying the entire family. I’d practically gotten away with high treason.

Uncle Ira let me sweat for a long chilling moment. I clasped my hands behind my back to keep them from shaking and concentrated on the story I planned to tell. It should hold up, I told myself again and again, as long as Uncle Ira didn’t insist on specifics. Morag catching me wasn’t good, not in any sense of the word, but I supposed it was proof I had managed to cross the boundary line. He wouldn’t be expecting me to prove it was possible when he already knew it was possible.

“Isabella,” Uncle Ira said, finally. “What were you doing in Kirkhaven?”

“With a boy,” Morag put in.

He shot her a sharp look. I heard her jaw slam shut. I took a moment to re-evaluate my planned answers as I tried to work out what would worry Uncle Ira the most. That I’d escaped the wards or that I’d been with Callam? Morag had made it clear that she was more concerned with the latter than the former, but that was fairly typical for the women of the Great Houses. The men were far less concerned about such things.

“I was exploring,” I said. If there was one lesson I’d learnt in twelve years of trying to evade my Mother’s disapproval, it was to keep my story as simple as possible. Mother could smell deceit and never let go of anything until she was sure she had the full story. “It was a new place to visit.”

Uncle Ira frowned. “And the boy?”

“I met him the first time I crossed the wards,” I said, carefully. I had no intention of tattling on Callam. “We became friends.”

“Friends,” Uncle Ira repeated.

I heard Morag snort behind me, but ignored it. “He’s the only person I’ve met who is close to me in age,” I said, although it wasn’t entirely true. Hart and Hound didn’t look that much older than Callam. “We kept talking …”

“And he took you to the village,” Uncle Ira said. “Did he do anything else there?”

I coloured. Mother had told me that some boys would try to get me alone so they could do things with me - and Father had told me that I was to use all the spells I knew to protect myself if anyone tried - but Callam hadn’t done anything. I felt a hot flash of anger on Callam’s behalf. Who - what - did they think he was?

My voice was sharp. “No!”

“You are powerful enough to defend yourself,” Uncle Ira mused. “Still, I did give you specific instructions not to leave the grounds.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said.

“I do not appreciate being disobeyed,” Uncle Ira said, coldly. “How did you manage to cross the boundary line?”

I took a breath. “I used a blood resonance charm,” I said. “The wards thought I had permission to cross and allowed me through.”

“Really, now,” Uncle Ira said. “That would be quite impressive.”

I bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you, Uncle.”

“Still, I cannot overlook the plain fact that you disobeyed me,” Uncle Ira said. “The lands outside the boundary line are not safe. There are dangers here for the unprepared.”

“And your friend may not be as trustworthy as you think,” Morag said.

I wanted to round on her. Instead, I fought to keep my voice steady. “Callam is the only person here who is close to my age,” I said. “Is it wrong of me to want a friend?”

“A highly unsuitable friend,” Morag said.

“A friend you probably killed,” I snapped, tears prickling at the corner of my eye. “Uncle, I have to go back and …”

“No, you don’t,” Uncle Ira said. His voice was suddenly very hard. “You had orders to stay within the grounds. Orders, I might add, that came from me. I do not appreciate defiance, young lady. You put yourself at risk of losing your life as well as your reputation.”

I kicked myself, mentally. I’d blown it. I’d ensured he wouldn’t let me run free again, not for weeks … and I’d mentioned Callam’s name. Uncle Ira could find his family now, if he wished, and then … and then what? I had no doubt he could force Callam’s father to take his family elsewhere. Uncle Ira was the single most powerful magician for miles around.

A surge of anger blew through me. “And what does my reputation matter to you?”

“You are in my care,” Uncle Ira said. He held up a hand before I could explode with indignation. “I admit I didn’t want you, when you first arrived. But the family comes first.”

“You’re encouraging me to read proscribed books,” I snapped. “Won’t that destroy my reputation?”

Uncle Ira opened his mouth, but I spoke over him. “This place is a prison,” I insisted. “And what do you want me to do with those books? Do you want me to become a warlock?”

The words hung in the air, chillingly. I was surprised at myself. I’d never shouted at Father like that, let alone any of the uncles and aunts who’d infested the family hall. Mother would not have been pleased if I’d raised my voice at any of them, even the dotty old dear who called me by my grandmother’s name and insisted I should be wearing baby clothes at ten years old. It struck me, all too clearly, that I might just have made a terrible mistake. My parents weren’t here to protect me from Uncle Ira. Or Morag.

Uncle Ira looked … annoyed. Not angry, annoyed. I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed at the implications or if he didn’t consider me important enough to make him angry. I supposed I should be grateful. Implying that someone would become a warlock was a grave insult.

“Morag will take you back to your room,” Uncle Ira said, finally. “You will remain there, grounded, until I decide you may leave. And I suggest, very strongly, that you spend the time meditating on the value of following orders from older and wiser heads. Leaving the grounds without permission was very dangerous. Neither Morag nor myself would have known to look for you if something went wrong.”

I swallowed. That was true, I supposed. They probably wouldn’t notice - or care - if I didn’t join them for dinner. And they wouldn’t care if I didn’t go to bed. No one tucked me up in bed and turned out the lights, no one bothered to make sure I used cleaning charms on my teeth and washed my face before I climbed into bed. My absence would probably go unnoticed for days, perhaps weeks. Morag might not even care enough to alert Uncle Ira if she didn’t see me for several days.

“But Callam …”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Uncle Ira said, dismissively. “One hopes it will teach him a lesson about consorting with girls of your station.”

“But …”

“Be quiet,” Uncle Ira ordered. He waved his hand in a complicated gesture, then pointed a finger at me. I felt the tracking charm fall into place and swore under my breath. It was so powerful that I couldn’t help being aware of it, like a nagging toothache or the dull throbbing from my upper arm. “And if you are caught leaving the grounds again, I will have to find less … pleasant ways to keep you in place.”

I shivered. I had no doubt he meant it.

Uncle Ira looked past me. “Take her back to her room,” he ordered. “Administer whatever punishment you feel appropriate” - I gulped - “and then leave her there. She can spend the time studying.”

“Yes, Senior,” Morag said.

I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late. Morag grabbed me by the arm - the undamaged one - swung me around and marched me out of the room. I thought, just for a second, that I’d forgotten to curtsey, but under the circumstances it hardly seemed to matter. I was already in enough trouble to last for weeks. I silently cursed Hart and Hound as Morag forced me down the corridor, promising them a fate so gruesome that even Stregheria Aguirre would think I’d gone too far. Rumour had it that Stregheria had cast curses on Cat and her sisters. I was going to do something that would make that story look completely harmless.

“You are a very lucky little girl,” Morag snapped, as we staggered up the stairs. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

I didn’t feel very lucky, although I knew she had a point. Uncle Ira could have broken out the truth spells and forced me to talk, which would have ended with me betraying Callam and his entire family. Uncle Ira might understand, on some level, that I needed companionship from someone my own age, but he’d never let Callam roam the grounds freely. Magicians guarded their privacy, all too aware that their rivals would stop at nothing to spy on them. The best Callam could hope for, if Uncle Ira realised just how often he’d been visiting, would be being formally banned from the grounds. I doubted Uncle Ira would be that merciful.

Morag pushed me down the corridor and into my room. It looked as if I’d never left: my nightgown lay on the floor, where I’d left it; a small basket of dirty clothes was placed against one wall; a handful of books sat on the table, waiting for me to read them. I wondered, morbidly, what Morag had in mind. She could do anything to me.

“If I’d done that, at your age …” Morag stopped herself, sharply. “You are a very lucky girl!”

“So you keep saying,” I said, as I turned around. “I don’t feel lucky …”

Morag slapped me, again. I stumbled back and fell onto the bed. My cheek felt as if it were on fire. For a horrible moment, I thought she was going to slap me again and again until my jaw fell off. I tried to muster a defensive spell, even though I knew resistance would be futile. Morag’s glower was more than enough to send my half-completed spell splintering out of existence.

“You are young and foolish and have a peanut for a brain,” Morag hissed. “Your family didn’t do you any favours by keeping you so … sheltered. How long do you think it would have been before you did something else stupid?

I tried to think of an answer, but nothing came to mind. Morag was right about one thing. I had been foolish. I’d made a string of mistakes, starting with bullying Cat and ending with an alliance with Stregheria Aguirre. I didn’t know, even now, if Stregheria had intended to keep her side of the bargain. The prospect of suceeding her as sole ruler of Shallot, mistress of magicians, had been very tempting. It had been so tempting that it had blinded me to the dangers.

And I wouldn’t have done any of it if I’d had a fair shot at power myself, I thought, feeling a twinge of the old bitterness. It isn’t as if the other Great Houses haven’t had Matriarchs over the years.

“Your friend would have led you into bad ways,” Morag hissed. “Or do you think you could enjoy a friendship without complications?”

“Yes,” I managed, somehow. My mouth hurt badly. I could taste blood. It was all I could do to talk. “We’re both outcasts …”

“And you’re from very different worlds,” Morag said. “You’re not meeting in Jude’s, little girl. You’re in the open, where the slightest mistake can destroy a reputation beyond repair.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Is my reputation ever going to be rehabilitated?”

“Probably not,” Morag said. “But we can live in hope …”

“You could leave,” I said. “If you can get down to the village, why can’t you go further away?”

“Because I am a Rubén,” Morag said. “And I will not throw that away.”

I felt a stab of pity, mingled with contempt. Morag wasn’t held prisoner by wards or compulsions spells or even iron bars. She was kept firmly in place by the prospect, one day, of being rehabilitated, of being allowed to put her past behind her and return home. Perhaps Uncle Ira was the same, although he’d been in exile long enough to suspect that the family would never allow him to return home. Morag could have left at any moment, if she was prepared to put the family behind her. It wasn’t as if she would have any trouble crossing the border and finding work somewhere in Galashiels.

She could have found her husband, I thought. It occurred to me to wonder if the tale she’d snapped at me was actually true. She could have left and searched for him at any moment.

“Get up,” Morag ordered.

I had to force myself to stand. My head felt woozy, as if I hadn’t slept enough. Morag might have slapped me hard enough to jar something loose in my head. Panic flickered through my mind as she took my arm and pushed me into a corner. I didn’t dare look around as I heard banging and crashing behind me. Morag was searching the room, opening my trunks and inspecting them one by one. I gritted my teeth, trying to calm my anger. Searching someone’s private room was a gross offense, as far as High Society was concerned. My mother would hesitate unless she had a very good reason to think she needed to search my chambers.

“I’m leaving your books on the table,” Morag said, after she went in and out of the bathroom. I had no idea what she thought I’d concealed in there, or where she thought I’d hide it, but … it wasn’t as if I’d tried to conceal anything. “You are not to leave the room.”

“I understand, Senior,” I said, trying to sound contrite. Uncle Ira had grounded me … it wouldn’t be so bad, except I still had no idea what had happened to Callam. He could be dead or injured or … a hundred horrible possibilities ran through my mind, each one worse than the last. “I …”

“Be quiet,” Morag ordered. I heard her stamping across the room, opening the wardrobes and peering inside. “You’ll be helping me wash clothes later.”

It sounded like a threat. I believed it was a threat. The clothes I’d found had proved resistant to cleaning charms, to the point where casting the spells actually caused the clothes to fall apart. Perhaps they were too old or, more likely, the charms that had been designed to help keep them clean had worn off in the long run. We’d have to wash them the old-fashioned way. I had a feeling it was not going to be fun.

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

“I told you to be quiet,” Morag said, sharply. “Now, for your additional punishment …”

I heard her casting a spell and braced myself. My limbs … changed, growing harder and harder … they were suddenly utterly immobile. I glanced down, just in time to see my hands turn to stone, an instant before I could no longer move a muscle. My neck had frozen … no, my neck had turned to stone. Morag had turned me into a statue!

No, I realised as a wave of strange sensations ran through me. She used a petrifaction curse.

I felt a wave of pure panic. Simply turning someone into a statue wasn’t pleasant, but a petrifaction curse was worse. Far worse. My limbs felt … weird, as if they’d gone to sleep; my brain felt oddly disconnected from my body, as if it wasn’t quite mine any more. I tried to muster a countercharm, but nothing came to mind. The sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant, at least not at first, but a few hours of being petrified would change that. I’d heard horror stories about people who’d been cursed so badly that they’d never been the same again.

Morag’s footsteps echoed across the room. I heard her opening the door, then pausing on the threshold. I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t see anything outside my field of vision. I silently thanked my ancestors, if any of them were looking after me, that I hadn’t blinked when my eyes had turned to stone. Being trapped in darkness would be worse than merely being petrified. All of a sudden, being slapped repeatedly didn’t seem so bad.

“You can spend the next few days meditating on the value of obedience,” Morag said. Her voice sounded odd in my frozen ears. I wasn’t sure how I was hearing at all. I’d asked Father how a transformed person could still see and hear and he’d told me that there were some things that were better not looked at too closely. “And on the dangers of allowing your reputation to be compromised.”

The door closed. I was alone.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I don’t know how long I stood there.

It was impossible, of course, to look at the clock. I could hear it ticking, of course, but I’d made sure that it wouldn’t chime every hour on the hour. I’d wanted to make sure I could actually sleep at night, yet now I wished I hadn’t been so quick to cancel the charm. I would at least have known how much time was passing, if I’d been able to keep count of the chimes …

… And time was passing so slowly.

I tried to think, to keep my mind occupied with complex equations or potions recipes or something - anything - that would keep me from dwelling on my predicament. But nothing I did was enough to keep my mind from returning to worrying about Callam. He could be dead, he could be injured … he could be bleeding to death, right now, in the middle of the gorse bushes with no one having the slightest idea of where to look for him. I cursed Morag savagely, promising myself that I’d make her pay if Callam died. He hadn’t done anything to me, certainly nothing like the whispered stories I’d heard from older cousins. Maybe Morag was right to be concerned, after what had happened to her, but … she was wrong. And I would do whatever it took to make her pay if he died.

The room seemed to get darker. Night was falling, I thought. Morag had closed the shutters … hadn’t she? I wasn’t sure. My mind felt as if it was slowly coming apart at the seams. I wanted to sleep, but I wasn’t sure I dared sleep. I wasn’t even sure I could sleep. The curse seemed to hold my body in suspension, even as my mind grew tired. What would happen if I fell asleep? Would I never wake up? Or would I be convinced I was nothing more than stone? Morag’s curse didn’t have any of the usual safeguards built into the spell, I thought numbly. It was quite likely that I’d be suffering the after-effects for days or weeks or even months to come. Morag and Uncle Ira weren’t going to take me to a mind-healer. They’d be more likely to leave me to work through the after-effects on my own.

And what, I asked myself, is Uncle Ira doing?

I tried, hard, to come up with an answer. Researching dark magic was one possibility, but why would he encourage me to study forbidden texts? Was he looking for a research assistant? He’d certainly been working to encourage me to develop my magic skills, even though he hadn’t spent as much time with me as I would have expected. Or did he expect me to continue his work? Or … what was he doing? I wondered, morbidly, if he intended to return to Shallot in triumph one day. Or if he’d eventually kill himself in a failed experiment that had been intended to prove that dark magic could be made safe.

It was growing harder to think clearly. My thoughts were splintering. The room was getting lighter … wasn’t it? Was it daytime already? Or was the lantern merely glowing a little brighter? Or …

The spell broke. I tumbled to the floor, screaming in pain. My body felt as if someone had beaten me to a pulp, my muscles spasming helplessly as they realised they were no longer locked in place. I forced myself to move, waving my arms and kicking my legs to get the blood flowing again. I had pins and needles everywhere, jabbing into my skin. It took everything I had just to stop screaming and force myself to stand. I wanted, I needed, a hot bath. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get one.

Move, you idiot, I told myself. Get that blood flowing.

My legs were so shaky that I half-expected to fall at any moment, but - somehow - I managed to stagger over to the window and peer outside. It was early morning, I thought, yet dark clouds were already moving towards the hall. I could see mist in the distance, slowly being banished by the sun’s rays. There was no sign of anyone on the grounds, let alone Callam. But then, he’d always been careful to stay out of direct sight of the hall. Anyone who saw him could hex him.

If he’s alive, I thought. It was hard to muster any emotion - my body was too tired - but the thought nagged at my mind. He might be dead.

I stumbled around for a long moment, then clambered slowly into bed. The duvet hadn’t been changed and the mattress felt uncomfortable, but I was too tired to care. Morag would probably tell me off for sleeping in my clothes, yet … I didn’t care about that either. I closed my eyes, knowing that sleep would come quickly. Thankfully, I didn’t dream.

When I awoke, it was dark outside and there was a small tray of sandwiches and a jug of water by the door. I stared at it blearily for a long moment, my tired mind unable to comprehend how it had gotten there. It took me longer than it should have done to realise that Morag had brought them, opening the door, entering the room and placing the tray there while I was asleep. It was a gross breach of etiquette, but so was using a curse on a young girl. Morag would never get a job with a record like that.

I sat upright and started to cast a spell to bring the tray to me, then thought better of it. My thoughts were a mess and my magic felt drained, as if I’d been casting hundreds of spells in quick succession. Morag wouldn’t bring me another tray if I managed to tip the contents of the first tray onto the floor. I forced myself to climb out of bed, crawl on my hands and knees to the door and start to eat. I dreaded to think what Mother would say if she saw me eating like a dog, but I was past caring. The sandwiches were bland, almost to the point of being nothing more than bread and butter, yet - to me - they tasted wonderful. My stomach felt as if I hadn’t eaten in days.

It might have been days, I thought, as I sat back on my haunches. I wasn’t sure what Morag had put in the sandwiches - it tasted vaguely like fish - but it had restored my energy. How long was it?

I eyed the clock, then the window. It was steadily growing darker outside, which meant … I’d been petrified for a day, then slept for another twelve hours or so? Or had it been two days? Or three days? Morag was certainly powerful enough to make the spell last for longer, if she wished. I didn’t think Uncle Ira would stop her. He’d told her she could punish me in whatever way she saw fit. I rubbed my arm, cursing her under my breath. I could still see her handprints on my bare skin. Standing, I made my way over to the desk … and stopped, dead. The dark magic books had been placed there, waiting for me. I could feel their essence polluting the air. It was a miracle I hadn’t sensed them hours ago.

She put them there, I thought, stunned. Does she expect me to read them?

I opened the drawer and dug through the small collection of salves for something I could put on my bruised arms, trying to ignore the books as much as possible. They were calling to me … but they hadn’t been calling to me until I’d realised they were there. I had to be imagining the pull. I had to be convincing myself that I wanted to read the books. Or … I could think of a few charms that would influence someone who didn’t know they were there, but none of them would actually wait for the victim to notice before going to work. They tended to get less effective if the victim was already on her guard …

… And yet, I wanted to read the books.

I told myself not to be silly as I rubbed salve on my arms, then walked into the bathroom and blinked in surprise. The bathtub was full. I checked the water automatically. It was cold, of course, but clean. I shook my head, unsure what to make of it. Morag must have filled the tub while I’d been asleep, just so I could have a bath. I was so drained that I was almost pathetically grateful, even after everything she’d done. And yet, I had to struggle to muster the magic to heat the water while I undressed. She’d left me feeling terrible.

The hot water made me feel better, but - when I dressed in a nightgown and returned to the bedroom - the books were still waiting for me. I hesitated, remembering a hundred warnings that I’d been given almost as soon as I started to study magic, then reached for the first book. Uncle Ira was studying dark magic, I told myself, and I might need to resist … I needed to know what he knew. I was rationalising it, and I knew I was rationalising it, but I saw no choice.

Not good, I thought, as I touched the book. The cover didn’t feel quite so vile, now I was going to read it. I had the feeling that that was deliberate. Not good at all.

I pulled the duvet over my knees, rested the book on the cover and opened it. There was no table of contents, nothing to suggest what I’d find inside. The book opened with a particularly nasty variant on the blinding hex and went downhill from there. There were instructions for building a doll that used - and abused - the Laws of Similarity and Contagion, potions to make someone an adoring slave, curses that would blight someone’s life for years to come … I shuddered as I skim-read the details, remembering an elderly uncle who’d had a disease no magic could touch. Had he been cursed? I read the section more carefully, feeling sick. The writer seemed to take an unholy delight in casting such curses and spoke of them in glowing terms, but he hadn’t bothered to suggest how they could be undone. Some of the darker spells seemed impossible, as if they defied the laws of magic as I understood them; some seemed practical, but they required a particularly depraved mind to even think about casting. All of a sudden, it was easy to understand why so many warlocks went insane.

They wouldn’t just have bad intentions, I thought, as I forced myself to read the details of a particularly gruesome rite. The author seemed very keen to tell his readers just how many atrocities he’d had to commit, just to gather the ingredients. They’d have to glory in their intentions. They have to …

My stomach heaved as the realisation struck me. I thrust the book aside and rolled over, throwing up into the chamberpot. I’d plotted to do something truly awful to Hound and Hart, I’d planned to smash them like bugs, to grind them like insects below my heel … was I any better, at heart, than the long-dead writer? Or was I just another monster? Cat had done nothing to me, save for existing, and I’d been horrible to her too. I deserved … I wasn’t sure what I deserved.

I stood, somehow, and placed the book on the table. It felt less malignant all of a sudden, as if it had done its dirty work. Or as if it had already got its hooks into me. The other book still felt unpleasant … I had the uneasy sense that it was waiting for me to give in to temptation and open it.

“Not today,” I muttered.

I washed my mouth out thoroughly, then returned to bed and turned off the lantern. This time, my sleep was far from dreamless. I thought I saw monsters lurking around the bed, wearing the faces of everyone I’d ever tormented; I thought I saw my family staring at me in dismay, shaking their heads as if they couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. And Callam … I saw his accusing stare on a dead man’s body, looking down at me. I snapped awake, drenched in sweat, then fell back into blackness before I could catch myself. It felt like hours - or days - before I saw the sunlight streaming in through the window and realised that I was truly awake. Surprisingly, there was another tray of sandwiches - and a large jug of coffee - waiting by the door.

“Thank you,” I said.

I reached out with my senses, probing the spells around me, but I couldn’t tell if I was being watched or not. The tracking spell was still all too clear, hovering around me like a particularly annoying bee. I didn’t think it was actually doing anything more than reporting my location, but I made a mental note to find a way to get rid of it anyway. I still had to go back to town, somehow. I had to find Callam. How long had it been? He might have been trapped as a rat for a week or … or what? Even if he hadn’t been injured when she’d kicked him into the gorse, he might have been accidentally killed by one of the townspeople - rats were regarded as vermin in Shallot - or deliberately put in a cage by the local bullies. I simply didn’t know.

Anything could have happened, I thought. Anything at all.

My heart twisted. Callam might hate me now. He wouldn’t have been hurt if he hadn’t been with me. Morag would blame him, of course. It was easier to blame the commoner than the well-connected noble girl. I felt a stab in the gut as I realised I’d probably benefited from that a lot when I’d been younger. Tutors had let me get away with all kinds of things simply because I had a powerful family. Now … even now, I still had a powerful family. Callam might hate me …

I reached for the tray, then stopped as a thought struck me. I’d never tested the door. I reached out, gingerly, and touched the doorknob. It twisted under my fingers, becoming a set of snapping teeth that reached out to bite me. I yanked my hand back, unsure if it was an illusion or not. It had felt real, but that was meaningless. I knew a dozen charms that wouldn’t do actual harm, yet would leave someone convinced that their fingers had been bitten.

And I couldn’t go out of the room anyway, I thought. The tracking charm will see to that.

I carried the tray back to the table, ate my breakfast and then opened one of the more conventional spellbooks. If I was lucky, there would be something to remove a tracking charm … or, perhaps, something that could be adapted to serve the same purpose. I didn’t find any, save for a handful of cancelation charms that didn’t seem powerful enough to strip the tracking spell from my body. Uncle Ira had done his work well. I made a mental note to check the books in the library, particularly the older books. I might just find something a more modern magician would ignore.

You might be wasting your time, a voice whispered at the back of my head. Uncle Ira has probably read those books too.

I ignored the voice as best as I could. I had to get back to the town. I had to find Callam. And yet, I couldn’t think of any way to leave. I might be able to blow a hole in the wall, although the wards were so unpredictable that I had no idea how they’d react, but the tracking charm would allow Uncle Ira and Morag to catch me before I reached the gates. And then … I had no idea, but if Morag had been willing to curse me to teach me a lesson, I doubted she’d be any nicer the second time around.

And they’re not going to go out of their way to make me happy, I thought. Perhaps I should have tried harder to befriend Morag. But what did the two of us have in common? She was an adult from a lesser branch of the family … and my mere existence was a slap in the face, as far as she was concerned. I rubbed my jaw, ruefully. They’re not going to send down to the town just to see if Callam is alright.

I shook my head, bitterly, as I opened another book. I didn’t know what to do. Uncle Ira was up to something, but what? And Morag … Morag hated me. I wanted to run, but where could I go? The tracking charm would allow them to follow me anywhere. I was stuck until I could find a way to get rid of it.

The door shook once, then opened. Morag stood there, her hands resting on her hips.

“Well,” she said. Her blue eyes met mine, challengingly. I looked down as quickly as possible. Eye contact now would be a very bad thing. “I trust you’ve learnt your lesson?”

“Yes, Senior,” I said, as contritely as possible. I stood, then dropped the deepest curtsey I could. “I … I’ve learnt my lesson.”

Morag snorted. “Whatever makes you think there’s only one lesson to learn?”

She turned away. “Come,” she said, picking up the basket of dirty clothes. “You have some hard work ahead of you.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Morag wasn’t joking.

I’ve never really had to wash my clothes before. At home, I’d used charms or the maids had done it; at school, the staff had taken away the dirty clothes and returned them, a day later, sparkling clean. But here … Morag seemed to take an unholy delight in watching me lathering my clothes, covering them with a foul-smelling substance she swore blind was soap and washing them thoroughly before hanging them out on the clothesline to dry. My hands were red and sore by the end of the day, even though I was feeling as though I’d actually achieved something. And yet, the thought of going through the same process time and time again was horrific. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the scullery maids.

We’re not paying them enough, I thought, remembering just how many muddy clothes I’d handed over to be washed when I’d been a child. I hadn’t thought much of the poor girls, back then. They’d been below stairs, too low to deserve my attention. Now … I made a mental note to ask Father to reward them when I got back home. They deserve a raise.

Morag didn’t seem to think that I deserved a rest, let alone a raise. She marched me into a set of bedrooms, once the washing was on the line, and put me to work cleaning them. I stripped the beds of old linen - thankfully, I knew how to do that from school - and put that in the pile to be washed, then replaced it with clean linen from a nearby basket. It seemed obvious that we were going to have guests, sooner rather than later, but Morag refused to be drawn on the question. Instead, she told me how to dust - and showed me how to do it - and then ordered me to scrub the windows, brush the floors and clean the bathrooms. The only upside was it kept me from thinking about Callam.

“We’ll be doing more of this tomorrow,” Morag said, after dinner. Uncle Ira was nowhere to be seen. We ate in the kitchens, alone. I was too tired to talk much. “And perhaps for the rest of the week.”

I barely had the strength to wash my hands, let alone take a bath, but Morag ordered me to wash thoroughly before I went to bed. My hands were still stinging, so I rubbed salve on them before and after the bath, then went straight to bed. I was too tired to dream, thankfully, but I didn’t have a good night’s sleep. I was woken by Morag banging on the door.

“Get up,” she ordered.

I looked at the clock. It was nearly ten o’clock, but … it wasn’t as if she’d ordered me to get up early. I sighed, changed into a rough dress that looked as though it had belonged to a real maid, splashed water on my face and followed her down to the kitchens. A plate of toast and a steaming mug of coffee was already waiting for me. I eyed Morag darkly as she strode around the cookers, checking a handful of spells. She could have told me she’d wanted me to get up early.

“The Master wants to see you, once you’ve eaten breakfast,” Morag told me. She sounded annoyed. I wondered just how much work she’d been planning to get me to do. She couldn’t have found me that helpful, but perhaps she’d been enjoying bossing me around. I feared for her maids if she ever opened an establishment of her own. “You can see him in the study.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or worried. I’d read one of his wretched books and that had been enough to convince me I didn’t want to read any more. Did he think we could just pick up where we’d left off, with him helping me to develop my skills? Or … or did he intend to administer extra punishment himself? Or … my blood ran cold as I realised he might have realised I’d lied about how I’d left the grounds. That discussion was not going to be pleasant.

Morag scowled at me when I tried to delay my departure, so I swallowed the remainder of my coffee in one gulp and started off down the corridor. It loomed large around me, as if it were very big and me very tiny. I understood now, I thought, why so many of my cousins had been nervous when they were called to see the Patriarch. To them, he was the ultimate master of their fate; to me, he was just father. I found myself walking slower and slower, so slowly I was almost walking backwards … I sighed and picked up the pace. There was no hope for it. Whatever it was, better to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Uncle Ira was sitting at a table in the study, reading a book. I blinked when I realised it was one of the newer tomes, the latest edition of Second-Year Potions. Uncle Ira had made a handful of notes on a pad, none of which I could read. He looked up, gave me a smile that seemed surprisingly warm, and motioned for me to take a chair facing him. I sat and waited, resting my hands in my lap. He’d placed a potions decanter in the middle of the table, wrapped in a protective charm. Whatever was inside the decanter, I thought, had to be powerful. I hadn’t seen such charms outside my father’s potions lab. And, despite them, I could sense the thrumming inside. The glass, next to the decanter, was practically quivering.

“I trust you have learnt your lesson,” Uncle Ira said. His smile widened until it was almost shark-like. I found it more than a little disconcerting. “And I trust your reading was educational?”

“It was disgusting,” I said, bluntly. He’d probably had a charm monitoring which books I’d read. The family library had something similar, although I wouldn’t have been able to get my hands on a dangerous book anyway. “How can any of those charms be used for good?”

“Imagination,” Uncle Ira said. “One may use a charm to inflict pain, my dear, but that same charm can also be used to test a person’s nervous system. It merely needs to be carefully rewritten to avoid causing permanent harm.”

I shuddered. I’d heard stories about men who’d been captured and tortured during the House Wars. They’d been rescued, sometimes, but they’d never been the same. Their bodies had been so badly damaged that they’d sometimes chosen death rather than life in pain. I didn’t want to think about my family doing the torturing, before the various wars had come to an end, but I had to admit it was possible. We weren’t always the good guys.

“And blinding someone?” I asked. “Permanently, even?”

Uncle Ira’s smile didn’t waver. “That charm can also be altered to repair a person’s eyes,” he said. “Or internal damage elsewhere, perhaps. Just because someone can use a hammer to cave in a person’s skull is no excuse to ban hammers.”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“A great many things don’t seem right,” Uncle Ira said. He sounded as though he was suddenly bored of the conversation and eager to move along. “What did you eat for breakfast?”

“What?”

“What did you eat for breakfast?” Uncle Ira’s voice was cold. “And what did you drink?”

“Toast, jam and coffee,” I said, reluctantly. I couldn’t imagine why he needed to know what I’d eaten. Maybe he’d given Morag orders to keep me on bread and water … except I couldn’t imagine her defying him. “I think I probably had a sip or two of water too.”

Uncle Ira either missed or chose to ignore the sarcasm. “That sounds suitable,” he said, more to himself than to me. “You should be ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked. “Uncle …”

Uncle Ira picked up the decanter, brushed the charms aside with a muttered spell and poured a small amount of the contents into the glass. I stared, awed. Outside the decanter, the potion was more powerful than ever before. It was a greenish-gold colour, practically shimmering with magic … there was something about it that drew the eye. I was awed and fearful at the same time. I’d never seen a potion that felt quite so striking.

He passed me the glass. “Drink.”

I put the glass to my lips, then hesitated. Father had told me, more than once, that I was not to drink anything unless I knew what it did. There were plenty of ways to use potions to control - or humiliate - someone and the family’s enemies knew most of them. Drinking the wrong thing could have the most unpleasant repercussions. Father had taken me to the Hospice. I’d seen some of the possible consequences …

“Uncle,” I said. “What is this?”

“Better you don’t know,” Uncle Ira said. “Drink.”

I put the glass down on the table. “I’m not going to drink it until I know what it is …”

Uncle Ira lifted his hand and pointed a spellcaster at me. No … my blood ran cold as I realised it was no ordinary spellcaster. It was a compeller. I’d seen one once, in the family museum, but that Device of Power had been neutralised long ago. This one was glowing with magic. I opened my mouth to protest, but it was too late. The compeller started to glow. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. My body jerked, as if someone had suddenly attached strings to my limbs and turned me into a marionette. I was suddenly no longer in control.

“Pick up the glass,” Uncle Ira ordered. “And drink.”

I struggled. I swear I struggled, screaming inside as I tried to resist. But I was no longer in charge of my own body. My hand advanced, jerkily, and picked up the glass. I screamed orders to my fingers, commanding them to drop the glass on the floor, but they refused to listen. I tried to reach for my magic, to force my legs to shove me away from the table, even to bite my own lip … nothing worked. The tiny compulsions I’d learnt to resist were nothing, compared to the compeller. I was forced to put the glass to my lips and drink.

Cold liquid flowed down my throat. It tasted … I wasn’t sure how it tasted. Potioneers made their brews foul deliberately, just to keep people from wanting to drink them, but this potion didn’t seem to have a taste. And yet, there was something different, right at the edge of my awareness. A flavour so subtle, perhaps, that I could barely discern it. Pure water had more taste.

Uncle Ira lowered the compeller. The control vanished. I let out a squawk of outrage and threw the glass at him, somehow unsurprised to see it deflected and slammed into the wall by a personal ward. I felt my anger build - how dare he? - and mustered the nastiest spell I could, throwing it right into his smug face. There was a brilliant flash of light, bright enough to force me to look away, but when I looked back he was unharmed. His wards had absorbed the spell without taking any damage at all.

“There’s nothing wrong with your raw power,” Uncle Ira said. He smiled, as if he’d just said something very funny. “But your focus leaves a lot to be desired.”

I glared at him, torn between outrage and fear. No one had ever used a compeller on me - or any of the children, as far as I knew. We’d been little brats, the terrors of the hall, but no one had ever forced us to behave. I’d never heard of compellers being used on anyone, save convicted criminals. Even then, it was disconcerting. Uncle Ira had crossed a line.

“You’ll learn,” Uncle Ira added. He was studying me as if I were a particularly interesting specimen for dissection. “I will teach you.”

“You …” I stumbled to my feet and looked around, knocking the chair over backwards in my haste to get away. “What was that potion?”

“Something rather special,” Uncle Ira said. He didn’t seem concerned by my anger. But then, he didn’t need to be concerned. We’d just established that the most dangerous spell in my arsenal was useless against him. It made me wonder if I’d really been as safe as I’d thought when I’d left the hall. “I think you and I will find the results quite interesting.”

“You … you …” I glared at him. Sweat was beading on my forehead. “What does it do?”

“Wait and see,” Uncle Ira said. He pointed at the chair. “Why don’t you sit down, like a good little girl, and wait to see what happens?”

I turned and fled, banging the door open and running down the corridor. Uncle Ira snorted in annoyance, behind me. I got nearly halfway to the stairs when I felt an invisible force wrap around my ankles, sending me sprawling to the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of me, just for a second. Uncle Ira didn’t give me time to recover. The force started dragging me back, even though I grabbed on to a protruding statue and held on for dear life. I rolled over as best as I could, then threw a spell at the door. It slammed shut. I threw a locking charm after it as the invisible force vanished - Uncle Ira had lost eye contact - then picked myself up and ran for the outside world. I half-expected the door to be locked, but it opened at my touch. There was no sign of pursuit as I ran across the grass and into the trees, jumping over a stream in my desperate bid to escape …

The tracking charm, I thought, as I started to walk towards the treehouse. I could feel the wretched spell, lingering around my magic like an unwanted smell. Escape was futile. He can find me wherever he wants.

I crossed the humpy terrain, stepped over the river and stopped underneath the treehouse. I’d hoped, even if I hadn’t dared put it into words, that Callam would be there, but there was no sign of him. There was no sign that he’d been there for a week, ever since we’d been caught in town. Callam might be dead …

… And my uncle had forced me to drink something that could be dangerous.

I sat down on a tree stump, swallowing hard to keep from crying. Uncle Ira had forced me to drink the potion and that meant … what? Was he using me as a test subject? I remembered the medical exam he’d given me, weeks ago. He shouldn’t have needed to bother unless … unless he intended to feed me an experimental potion and see what happened. He’d have to know everything from my size and weight to any allergies I might have … come to think of it, he’d also need to have a rough idea of how much magic I had. A really advanced potion needed to be tailored specifically to the drinker. Uncle Ira hadn’t used some of my blood to make it …

… Or had he?

The thought nagged at my mind. Could he have taken a blood sample? It wouldn’t have been that difficult. He couldn’t have asked for a sample, not without a very good excuse, but I could easily see a dozen ways he could take one. A sleeping charm, cast over me as I slept one night, would have kept me unaware as he used a needle to draw out the blood, then healed the wound. I wouldn’t have had the faintest idea that he’d taken a sample. Or … I didn’t want to think about the other possibilities.

I need to get out of here, I thought. I could go to the river, wade through the water and escape, assuming that Uncle Ira hadn’t found and closed the loophole. And yet, the tracking charm would alert him the moment I crossed the boundary line. I was morbidly sure that the charm included a spell to keep me from getting any further away from the hall. There’s no way to get out.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling … odd. My body felt unusually tense, as if it was waiting for something to happen. I looked around, carefully. The air seemed very quiet. I reached out with my senses, as best as I could, but picked up nothing more than stray flickers of magic darting through the air. Uncle Ira didn’t seem to be anywhere nearby. I was glad of that, even as I reached inward and touched my own magic reserves. We’d already established that he could do anything he liked to me …

My power surged. I jerked, almost falling off the tree stump. My hands were prickling with potential, a sensation I’d felt once - when I used magic for the first time - and never again. I could feel every last inch of my body as my power expanded. The ground seemed to shake under my feet. I was suddenly very hot, sweat trickling down my back as I gasped for breath. My mouth was dry, my throat … my throat was parched. I needed a drink. I needed water, desperately. I’d have to take it from the stream.

I forced myself to stand, somehow. The warmth was getting worse, as if I was standing in front of a fire. My hands were sweaty, yet prickling … I looked at them, suddenly unsure they were my hands. They seemed small and delicate, not powerful. And yet, I was sure I could see lights below the skin. My hands were glowing …

… And then the world exploded into flames.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I threw back my head and screamed.

The world was burning. I was burning. Flames were everywhere, raging everywhere. My magic was on fire … I was on fire. The pain was so intense I couldn’t think straight; I tried, somehow, to cast a counterspell, but nothing happened. I’d been poisoned, I’d been cursed, I’d been … I stumbled forward, dimly aware of the damp forest catching fire. The heat was so incredible that I could imagine firestorms sweeping down the valley to Kirkhaven and northwards to Caithness. What had Uncle Ira done?

I stumbled forward, trying to find the stream. My vision was so blurred that I wasn’t sure if I was headed in the right direction, and I didn’t know if the stream was big enough to put out the fire, but … I tripped, landing face-first in the water. My clothes were instantly drenched in cold liquid, yet the flames refused to die. I could feel the fire turning my skin to ash, I could feel my bones starting to crack under the heat, I could feel … I was choking on boiling water. The heat grew ever stronger …

Strong arms caught me. I struggled desperately, too maddened to care who’d found me or why. The flames were everywhere, burning me … they’d burn my rescuer too. I couldn’t understand how he could touch me. My skin was on fire. But, somehow, I was hauled out of the stream and held, tightly. The feeling was so gentle that I found myself starting to relax, despite the flames. And yet … my head started to swim. I was on fire and I wasn’t on fire and I was on fire and … it made no sense.

“Isabella,” a gentle voice said. “What happened?”

I blinked in shock. “Callam?” It was Callam. It had to be Callam. “What …” - I remembered that I was on fire and started to shake - “get away before you get burnt!”

The flames surged again, as if they were trying to hurt us both. Callam didn’t let go.

“You’re losing control of your magic,” he said, urgently. I could hear the alarm in his voice. His arms tightened around me. “You have to regain control!”

I closed my eyes for a long moment and concentrated. The flames were burning through me, yet … they were part of me. I screamed again, helplessly, as fire raced along my thoughts, my concentration fading as the pain grew worse and worse until I thought I was on the verge of death. And then the flames exploded out of me and I sagged back into his arms. My eyes were so tightly closed that I couldn’t open them. I … I couldn’t think.

“Isabella,” Callam said. “Can you hear me?”

I forced myself to open my cracked lips. “I’m burning,” I said. My skin felt as if I’d scalded myself. “I …”

“You’re not burning,” Callam said, reassuringly. His voice seemed to be calling to me. I welcomed it, even as my head started to pound. I was suddenly very hungry. “Can you open your eyes?”

“I … I don’t know,” I said.

My eyelids opened, just a fraction. Blinding white light stabbed into my eyeballs. I slammed them closed again, then lifted a hand to cover my eyes before opening them again. Someone was shining a light into my eyes … no, that was the sun. It was so bright that I was sure I was going to get sunburnt. I’d been sunburnt before, when I’d been playing on the beach as a little girl, but not here. The sun had never been so bright at Kirkhaven.

I was suddenly aware, very aware, that Callam’s arms were wrapped around my shoulders … and cold water was washing against my bottom. He held me gently, his arms somehow reassuring despite the flashes of pain sparking randomly all over my body. I felt like I had swallowed poison, or something worse. What had been in that potion? I looked down at my sodden dress, so confused it was hard to focus my thoughts. I’d been burning. But there was no trace of fire.

Callam looked down at me. I stared back, wondering why I was so surprised to see him. He was my friend, wasn’t he? And then I remembered that Morag had turned him into a rat … I’d thought he was going to die. I looked at him, trying to see if he’d been injured. But it looked as though he was unharmed. How long had it been?

“What happened?” Callam said. “Isabella, what happened?”

“I’m not sure,” I temporised. “Can you help me stand up?”

He shifted position and touched my bare skin … and I screamed in pain. He’d touched me lightly, but it felt as if he’d stabbed me with a knife. I recoiled, nearly rolling out of his arms as he jerked backwards. My skin was so sensitive that even the slightest touch hurt. I couldn’t even touch the ground to push myself up and out of the water without hurting myself.

“Don’t touch my bare skin,” I grunted, somehow. “Try to push me up.”

It was probably the most undignified thing I’d ever done, but - somehow - we managed to get me to my feet. His touch didn’t hurt so much when there was a layer of cloth between his skin and mine, although it still felt as though my skin had been sunburnt. I inspected my hand as I stood, half-expecting to see a bloody stump. My skin was pale and unmarked - there wasn’t even a bruise - but I could feel the pain throbbing under the skin. I cursed Uncle Ira under my breath, savagely. What had been in that potion?

I leant against Callam, fighting to catch my breath. I’d never heard of anything that set someone on fire … no, convinced someone that they were on fire. The potion had started me off and my imagination had done the rest. I would have died if Callam hadn’t come along. And yet, I couldn’t understand why Uncle Ira had forced me to drink the potion. If he’d wanted to kill me, and perhaps he’d grown sick of having me as a house guest, there were easier ways to do it. Callam would make an ideal scapegoat for my untimely demise.

“What happened to you?” I managed. My mouth was still dry. I felt as though I’d retched out meals I’d eaten years ago, although I had no conscious memory of being sick. “I thought … I thought you were dead.”

Callam shrugged, modestly. “I ran through the undergrowth until I came to a clearing and waited for the spell to wear off,” he said. “It didn’t take that long. And then Dad wasn’t too happy with me. He thought I’d got you in trouble.”

“I got myself in trouble,” I said. “Morag … doesn’t like me very much.”

I frowned as a thought struck me. “How long did it take for the spell to wear off?”

“Only an hour or two,” Callam said. “I was back home in time for tea.”

“Interesting,” I said. Morag was a strong magician. She should have been able to turn Callam into a rat for a week, perhaps longer. The world record was two weeks, if I recalled correctly. She didn’t need a spellbinder to keep the spell in place for a week. And yet it had worn off very quickly. I felt a surge of hope, mingled with fear. If Callam was a Zero … what then? “What did your father say?”

“He wasn’t happy,” Callam said.

I winced. Callam’s father had probably grounded him too - or worse. I had the sudden mental image of him washing clothes and nearly giggled, despite the pain. Boys wash clothes? That would be the day. I’d once had an older cousin who’d been teased for washing his own armour, even though he’d insisted that it wasn’t the same thing. But then, a good magician always took care of his tools. Father had made that clear years ago.

Callam turned me around, slowly. I stared in horror. The treehouse was gone. A number of trees lay on the ground, as if they’d been smashed down by an irresistible force. I didn’t want to look at Callam as I took in the splinters of wood and metal lying on the ground. It had taken him months to build the treehouse and now it was nothing more than sawdust. The ground below my feet was blackened and burned. I swallowed, hard. The fire had been real after all.

And yet I wasn’t burnt, I thought. My dress was wet and muddy, but intact. My skin was pale, yet unharmed. What happened to me?

“I’m sorry,” I said. Callam was going to hate me now. I knew it. “I …”

Callam squeezed my shoulder, gently. I flinched, expecting another surge of pain, but this time it felt normal. “I heard the screaming,” he said. “What happened?”

“Uncle Ira forced me to drink a potion,” I said, dully. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had no choice. Thankfully, Callam wouldn’t understand the implications of being forced to drink. A magician who appeared to be vulnerable to a compeller could expect to become a laughing stock in Shallot … I ground my teeth at the thought. I’d like to see everyone who laughed at those poor victims actually resist a compeller. “It … it did something to my magic.”

Callam’s eyes opened wide. “He forced you to drink it?”

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t want to go into details, but they came spilling out anyway. The ghosts, the potions experiments, the dark magic books … and the compeller. I wanted, I needed, to talk to someone. “I don’t know what he’s doing.”

“I think you shouldn’t go back,” Callam said, when I’d finished. “What is he doing?”

“He wasn’t quite clear,” I said. My head was still aching. I wasn’t in the mood for deep thought. “He said … he didn’t really say. He just claimed he’d been kicked out of the city for trying to make dark magic safe to use.”

“And he forced you to drink a potion,” Callam said. “Are you safe there?”

I glared at him. “I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

“He’s forced you to drink a potion that caused your magic to go haywire,” Callam said. “What will he do next?”

I froze as a nasty thought occurred to me. What if … what if the potion destroyed magic? What if my magic had been burnt out of me? I’d told Uncle Ira about Cat … he knew, now, that a person without magic could be very useful. What if … I concentrated, despite the throbbing pain, and tried to cast a spell. My magic responded. Weakly, very weakly, but it was there. I nearly sagged against him in relief. Cat might have been very useful - she was very useful - but she was also uniquely vulnerable. The kidnapping had proved just how easy it was to catch her off guard.

“I don’t know what he’ll do,” I said.

“Then don’t go back,” Callam said. “Go somewhere else.”

I looked at him, bleakly. “Where?”

Callam hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted, finally. “My Dad might have an idea …”

I shook my head. “He put a tracking charm on me,” I said. I couldn’t feel the wretched spell any longer, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. I’d have to wait until my head was clear to feel it out. “If I cross the wall, he’ll know.”

“You could just keep running,” Callam said. “Or … we could steal some horses and ride away.”

“Hah,” I said. “Do you know how to ride?”

“No.” Callam looked down at the scorched earth. “Do you?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t have a horse. And where would we go?”

My mind raced. I didn’t know how to get to Caithness … and what would we do, when we got there? The family’s representative would probably refuse to even speak to me. I knew how they thought. They’d be too low on the family’s totem pole to risk challenging my exile, even by something as minor as speaking to me. I had no idea how to ride back to Shallot … and, even if I managed to find the right road, Uncle Ira would have no trouble sending a message ahead of me. I’d be grabbed by the armsmen and returned to Kirkhaven, without even having a chance to speak to someone who might take me seriously.

And we don’t have horses anyway, I reminded myself, crossly. Walking was an even worse idea. And what will happen if I cross the line?

“You could send a letter,” Callam said. “Is there no one who would listen to you?”

I hesitated. The standard rules regarding exiles insisted that the exile was to have no contact with anyone back in Shallot. I was entirely sure that most of my former friends, my fair-weather friends, would simply discard any letter I sent them without bothering to read it. An exile has no friends or family, for fear it might rub off. Akin might read a letter, if I sent it, but would it get to him? A letter sent to the hall would be inspected by the Arbiters, of course; a letter sent to Jude’s might be redirected straight to the hall. If the Arbiters opened the letters …

“I don’t know,” I admitted. What would the Arbiters do with a letter from me? “I don’t know anything any longer.”

I slumped to the ground and sat in the mud. It was starting to look as if I had no choice, but to go back to the hall. Uncle Ira would have no trouble finding me, when he grew tired of waiting for me to slink back to him. He’d probably sensed the magic surge from miles away. He knew his potion had done something. I wondered, sourly, just what it had been intended to do. It seemed alarmingly elaborate for a torture potion.

He could just have thrown me down the stairs if he wanted to hurt me, I thought, grimly. Or beaten me halfway to death with a chair. Or …

“I need to plan an escape,” I said. The longer I stayed here, the greater the chance that Uncle Ira would do something I wouldn’t survive. If he was prepared to force-feed me an untested potion, where would he stop? “And that isn’t going to be easy.”

“I’ll help,” Callam said, at once. “What do we do?”

“I’ll need to think about that,” I said.

I wasn’t sure I wanted Callam involved. Uncle Ira knew about him now. He’d be the first suspect when I fled, if only because he was the only person I knew in Kirkhaven. Uncle Ira would have no trouble grabbing one of Callam’s sisters and using her for a location spell. My heart sank as I realised he might not need to go to such trouble. Uncle Ira and I might be close enough on the family tree for him to use his - or Morag’s - blood to track me down. I would have to put a lot of distance between us if I wanted to escape.

There are adoption rites, I thought. If I changed my blood …

I swallowed, hard. Was I really that desperate? Yes, I was. Uncle Ira’s experiment had nearly killed me. It would have killed me, if Callam hadn’t been there. And yet, the thought of giving up my blood was unthinkable. I might be an exile, barred from returning home, but I was still part of the family. I thought I understood, now, why Morag had stayed at Kirkhaven. She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, that she would never be welcomed back to Shallot. I didn’t want to admit it either.

“Pack a bag of food,” Callam advised. He looked around for a long moment. “We could hide out in one of the cottages, couldn’t we?”

“Not for long,” I said. The intact cottages were nice enough, I supposed, but Uncle Ira would have no difficulty tracking me down. I was definitely trapped. There were just too many problems for me to overcome before I could escape. “But you’re right. I’m going to need food and supplies.”

I heard a rumble of thunder in the distance. Clouds were pouring over the distant hills and sweeping towards us with a majesty that dwarfed any petty human concerns. Light pulsed through them, beaming down towards the ground. It was almost pretty. I remembered, years ago, stories about warlocks who’d tried to manipulate the weather. The stories had almost always ended badly. And yet, the Eternal City was supposed to have basked in eternal sunlight.

They probably had an Object of Power that could control the weather, I thought, as I forced myself to stand. My hair was hanging down, my braids long gone … normally, it would have been an emergency, but I was too tired to care. Cat will make one herself, sooner or later.

“What are you going to tell them?” Callam put a gentle hand on my arm. “About what the potion did, I mean. You’ll have to tell them something.”

I frowned. “I’ll play dumb,” I said. If Uncle Ira had sensed the magic … I’d have to tell him everything, save for Callam’s involvement. I didn’t want him closing the gap in the wards before I had a chance to escape. “And you make sure you’re well out of sight until you’re through the wards and halfway home.”

“I could come with you,” Callam said.

“Don’t,” I told him. I appreciated the thought, but Uncle Ira would be quite within his rights to do something thoroughly unpleasant to a trespasser. “I’ll … I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I looked at the remains of the treehouse. “And we’ll build a new one,” I promised. “Bigger and better.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Callam said. He sounded concerned. “Be more worried about your life.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I wasn’t sure what to expect as I made my slow way back to the hall, thunder rumbling in the distance as if the skies were just waiting for me to get inside before they opened and unleashed a downpour. Uncle Ira was probably going to be utterly livid at me for escaping … never mind that he’d forced me to drink an experimental potion that had driven my magic haywire. It was all I could do to keep walking, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, until I was standing in the hall. I had no choice, I kept telling myself, but to return to Kirkhaven Hall. And yet, I wanted to run. Perhaps I could hide out in the cottages …

Not forever, I told myself, as the first drops of rain splattered down to the ground. I cursed and forced my aching body to run the rest of the way. I can’t hide forever.

My thoughts ran in circles. Uncle Ira could track me down as long as I had that wretched tracking charm woven into my magic. Even if I managed to get rid of it, we might be close enough on the family tree for him to track me anyway. And he might have a blood sample he’d taken without my knowledge. That wouldn’t last forever, unless he’d worked it into a Device of Power, but it was still a problem. And then I had to find a place to go …

Perhaps I need to find a way to fight back, I thought. But how do I fight a fully-trained magician?

I reached the door and stepped inside, sagging against the stone walls. Morag wouldn’t help, of course. I had no doubt she was effectively Uncle Ira’s servant, no matter what she said. It was vaguely possible, I supposed, that he’d layered compulsion spells on her, but … I didn’t think that was likely. Morag was a grown adult. A single slip would be enough for her to break free and escape. No, I couldn’t trust her. And there was no way I could be sure a letter would get back home.

A thought struck me. What if I wrote to Cat? Better yet, what if Callam wrote to Cat? He didn’t have a family seal. There would be nothing to suggest that the letter had been dictated by an exile, would there? Uncle Ira or the Arbiters would have to actually open the letter to discover the contents and there would be no reason for them to think the letter had anything to do with me. Cat could tell Akin and Akin could tell Father and … I didn’t know what Father would do, but I was sure he’d come to my aid.

Unless Uncle Ira has someone watching the mail for anything going to Shallot, I thought, glumly. Uncle Ira was the local lord, wasn’t he? Keeping track of the postal service was one of his duties. I’d never seen any hint he actually did anything, but … I could easily imagine him putting one of his clients in the local post station. He might want to inspect anything going out of the area.

I shivered as ice ran down my spine. How many people in the area would want to write to Shallot, anyway? It was tempting to believe that Rose’s parents lived nearby - Rose was a striking redhead - but there couldn’t be many others. Any letter going to Shallot might be opened for inspection, whoever it was addressed to. And any charm I might use to make the letter unreadable by anyone other than the intended recipient would be noticeable. Uncle Ira might simply arrange for the letter to vanish somewhere down the line if he couldn’t break the spell and read it for himself.

The cold sensation grew worse. I was trapped.

I gritted my teeth, then forced myself to walk through the inner door. Morag was standing by the stairs, waiting for me. Her eyes were cold and hard. I studied her for a long moment as she glowered at me, trying to determine if she was under a spell. But it was impossible to discern anything. Her magic was wrapped around her like a protective shell. I suspected that even Uncle Ira would have trouble putting any kind of spell on her.

“He’s waiting for you in the study,” Morag said, coldly. “I suggest you hurry.”

I nodded, an act of unpardonable rudeness, and walked past her. Morag said nothing, somewhat to my surprise. I’d known Grande Dames who would be utterly horrified if I didn’t curtsey to them. But then, I was fairly sure that Uncle Ira had made it clear that I was to be sent to him at once. Morag didn’t have time to take me down a peg or two.

Uncle Ira was seated in the study, reading an old leather tome. I didn’t have to look at it to know the book was on the proscribed list. Pure evil pervaded the air like a physical force. I forced myself to sit down, clasping my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. It was still hard to grasp that I hadn’t been really burning. My hands were intact, utterly unharmed, yet I was convinced they should have been burnt to a crisp. I told myself, firmly, that I should be grateful. I’d heard too many horror stories to take them lightly.

“Well,” Uncle Ira said. His voice held a hint of fake cheer, the sort of cheer I’d learnt to hate as a young girl. “That was an interesting experiment, wasn’t it?”

“… Yes,” I said. “It was very educational.”

“Good,” Uncle Ira said. “So … what happened?”

I hesitated, carefully getting my story straight. I had to tell him as much as possible without giving him the impression that I was keeping things to myself. If he broke out the compeller and forced me to talk, I knew I’d tell him everything. And then … I didn’t want to think about what would happen then. Callam would be barred from the grounds, I’d probably be told to stay in the hall and my escape plan would fall apart before it was even properly composed, let alone put into action. I had to be very careful.

“I was burning,” I said. “My magic was on fire.”

“Good, good,” Uncle Ira said. “And then what happened?”

I glowered at him. That was good? I’d nearly died!

“My magic burst out of me,” I said. “It knocked down a hundred trees” - thankfully, there wasn’t enough left of the treehouse to prove it had been relatively new - “and left me nearly dead. It took me hours to force myself to get up and come home.”

“It was a result,” Uncle Ira said. “You were burning, you say?”

“I thought I was on fire,” I said. “And the ground around me was scorched.”

“But your clothes were unharmed,” Uncle Ira said. He looked me up and down. “Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

I scowled as darkly as I dared. Interesting was not the word Mother would have used to describe my appearance. I was muddy and damp and smelly and my hair was down … Mother would have thrown a fit. I was surprised Morag hadn’t thrown a fit. She’d probably wind up having to wash the dress. She might even have to help me with my hair. It had been far too long since I’d had a proper shower, or seen a hairdresser.

Uncle Ira was still speaking. “And how do you feel now?”

“Better,” I said, sullenly. I didn’t want to speak to him at all. “My head still hurts, but … everything else feels better. And I can still do magic.”

“One would hope so,” Uncle Ira said. He was scribbling notes in a notebook, barely looking at me. “What sort of spells have you cast in the last hour or two?”

“None,” I said. It was more or less true. “I couldn’t muster the magic to do anything.”

“Cast a light-spell,” Uncle Ira ordered. His voice suggested, very firmly, that I didn’t have a choice. “Now.”

I gritted my teeth, then started to recite the words. My fingers felt stiff and unwieldy and it took me two tries to actually cast the spell, but a wobbly ball of light shimmered into existence above my fingertips. It oscillated wildly, the glow brightening and dimming seemingly at random. Uncle Ira watched it with an odd kind of fascination, as if he’d never seen anything like it before. I was more annoyed that the spell hadn’t worked properly. I’d been using it since I was six and it had never behaved so badly. It looked almost as if I’d overpowered it.

“Interesting,” Uncle Ira said, as the light finally snapped out of existence. I could feel the spellform evaporating into nothingness. “Hold still.”

He cast a stream of spells at me before I could say a word. It wasn’t the first time someone had used magic to find out what was wrong, but these spells felt odd. My skin crawled as the magic sparkled over me, withdrawing slowly back to the caster. Uncle Ira looked surprisingly satisfied as the last of the spells faded away. I hoped that meant he wouldn’t want to carry out a more formal medical exam. I didn’t think I could stand it. I’d had my magic poked and prodded enough for one day.

“Very good,” Uncle Ira said. He opened a drawer and removed two vials, holding them out to me. “You might want to drink these.”

I eyed them, nervously. They were both clearly marked as energy and recuperation potions, but … but I had no idea if that was true. Uncle Ira, like most Potions Masters, was a fanatic about proper labelling, yet … would he try to trick me into drinking something that wasn’t what it said on the tin? I found it hard to believe. A man who had been happy to compel me to drink one potion wouldn’t need to trick me into drinking two more.

“You’ll feel better after you drink them,” Uncle Ira said. I checked the labels again, just to be sure. They dated back several months, long enough for me to be fairly sure they were untouched. The seals hadn’t been opened. “And then you can go get something to eat.”

I opened the first vial, took a careful sniff and then drank it carefully. It tasted right, if nothing else. The second vial followed the first. I gritted my teeth at the taste - I wished for a glass of water - then sat back in my chair as the potions went to work. The sudden rush of energy was almost euphoric. I reminded myself, sharply, that such potions could be highly addictive. Uncle Ira wouldn’t let me drink any more for days, if not weeks.

Uncle Ira watched me for a long moment. “Tomorrow, I want you to write a detailed account of everything that happened since you drank the potion,” he said. “And I don’t want you to leave anything out.”

Hah, I thought. I wasn’t going to mention Callam. And if you’re giving me homework …

I leaned forward. “Uncle … what was that potion?”

“An experiment,” Uncle Ira told me. “A very interesting experiment indeed.”

“I see,” I lied. An experiment. He’d put my life at risk for an experiment. “And what was the potion meant to do?”

“Better you don’t know,” Uncle Ira said. “Go eat. And then go straight to bed.”

I met his eyes. “Uncle, if you’re forcing me to drink the potions …”

“It’s better that you don’t know,” Uncle Ira repeated. His voice was suddenly so hard that I was half-convinced he was pointing the compeller at me, even though I could see both of his hands. “Now, go eat.”

He pointed his finger at the door, then turned back to his book. I sighed and forced myself to stand. The potions had given me a boost, but I knew I’d feel worse when they wore off. I’d have to be in bed by then or I’d probably collapse on the floor. I hoped I’d have time to wash before I went to bed. Morag would not be amused if I stained the sheets with mud. I’d already done enough washing to suit me for the entire year.

It wouldn’t be that hard to get sheets that could be washed by magic, I thought, as I made my way down the stairs. There were plenty of ways that life could be made easier for the hall’s unfortunate residents. They could be purchased in Shallot or Caithness and sent here.

Morag looked up from her stove as I entered the kitchen. “Your dinner is on the table,” she said, nodding to a small table set against the window. She looked tired, but slightly calmer than she’d been in the hall. “Eat up, then go to bed.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said. I didn’t want to be polite, but I was in no state for a fight. There were questions, hundreds of questions, that I wanted to ask her, yet … I wasn’t sure I could trust the answers. What was Morag doing with Ira? “What did you cook?”

“Soup and stew, for you,” Morag said. I wondered, rather sourly, what she’d cooked for Uncle Ira. “You can help me cook something different tomorrow.”

Great, I thought, sarcastically. Did she think that everything could go back to normal? As if I didn’t have enough to do.

I sat down at the table and stared out of the window. Rain was falling in torrents, lashing against the glass. I hoped Callam had made it home before the rain really started. I’d seen the clouds rolling down the valley enough to be sure they’d chased him home. But … I glanced at Morag’s back, not bothering to hide a moment of triumphant glee. She’d hoped to hurt my friend, but Callam had survived without a scratch. I wanted to rub her nose in it, yet it would be far too revealing. I would have to content myself with some secret gloating about her failure.

Unless he really is a Zero, I thought. None of the spells I’d cast on Cat had lasted as long as they should, although I didn’t think there was a flat limit. And how am I going to test it?

I ate the food slowly as I considered the problem. There were spells to gauge a person’s magical power - and aptitude - but it was clear they hadn’t worked very well on Cat. Her family wouldn’t have sent her to Jude’s if they hadn’t believed she did have a spark of magic that could be fanned into a flame. Logically, if she’d had no magic, she would have been exiled to a country estate, somewhere she couldn’t embarrass her family and call their bloodline into question. They certainly wouldn’t have risked sending her to a school where she might have been accidentally killed at any moment. I was uneasily aware that low-magic children did tend to mysteriously disappear off family trees, but never so publicly. Cat’s parents had taken a huge risk.

But if we can’t tell the difference between a low-power magician and a no-power magician, I thought, how can we hope to find other Zeros?

One answer seemed simple enough. Cast a spell on Callam, one carefully timed to last for a few hours, then sit back see how long it actually lasted. I wondered, wryly, if Callam would let me turn him into a frog. Or merely fix his feet to the ground so we could keep chatting while we waited to see when the spell actually wore off. Or … there were a handful of charms I’d learnt to give people spots and other blemishes, but I had a feeling those would last longer. I wasn’t sure why.

Maybe I could just see if he could forge an Object of Power, I thought. Callam was good with his hands. He’d built a whole treehouse by himself. My help had probably been more of a hindrance. I couldn’t imagine him having any problems with forging. But how do I teach him to forge?

I shuddered. I didn’t think I could get him into the hall. There was a blacksmith in Kirkhaven, but he probably wouldn’t take Callam as a pupil. He might let us borrow his tools, if we asked nicely or found some way to pay him, but … it wouldn’t be enough. Akin might be able to teach Callam to forge … I wasn’t sure I could. It simply wasn’t one of my talents.

Discuss it with him, I thought, practically. My heart sank. And what if it gets his hopes up, for nothing?

I winced as I finished the stew. I understood, all too well, just how hard it could be when one’s hopes crashed into bitter dust. I’d let my hopes - and then my anger - rule me at the worst possible moment. Callam … couldn’t do anything like as much damage, I thought, but it could still be very bad. Perhaps he’d give up altogether.

Morag cleared her throat. “Don’t worry about washing up,” she said. “Go to your room and sleep.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said, too tired to be properly grateful. The potions were starting to wear off, evidently. My body was insisting that it needed sleep. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I staggered up the stairs to my room, resolutely ignoring the faint hints of magic brushing through the air. My room felt almost welcoming as I stumbled inside, barely managing to remove my dress before I collapsed on the bed. I knew I should wash my face, and clean my teeth, but I couldn’t muster the energy. I was asleep almost before I landed on the mattress …

… And my dreams, when they came, were far from pleasant.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

There was no sign of either Uncle Ira or Morag the following morning, somewhat to my surprise. I’d expected the former to ask questions about what the mystery potion had actually done, now I’d had a proper rest, while the latter would probably be angry about the state of my dress. Instead, I had a long soak in the bath and a peaceful breakfast in the kitchen before I made my way down to the library. I already knew I wouldn’t find answers in the newer textbooks. Too many schoolchildren tried to avoid tracking charms for the tutors to simply give away the answers.

I checked the room was empty, then sat down cross-legged on the floor and concentrated on feeling out my magic. It felt weirdly skittish, as if whatever the potion had done wasn’t over yet, but it was reassuringly present. I smiled, despite the situation, and carefully searched for the tracking charm. It took me long enough to find it that I was starting to think it hadn’t survived the magic surge by the time I stumbled over a trace of its presence. My blood ran cold as I realised just how thoroughly it had worked its way into my magic. A day or two longer and I wouldn’t have been able to find it at all.

It looks too simple to keep a close eye on me, I told myself, as I carefully fixed its location in my mind. And getting rid of it is going to be a nightmare.

I groaned as I turned back to the books on advanced charms and started to flick through the pages. Thankfully, whoever had written these books had included an index with a handful of short notes on each spell. Most of the suggestions were useless, but I didn’t waste time figuring it out for myself. A handful needed someone else to cast them on me and I didn’t have anyone who could. I didn’t think that Granny McVeigh could or would cast the spells. She’d certainly want a clearer explanation of why I wanted to evade a tracking charm before helping me to remove it. At the end, I was left with two ideas … and both of them were going to be tricky.

I’d have to brew the right potion for this one, I thought, as I scanned the recipe. It insisted on brewing a particular potion, then adding the mixture to a hot bath and soaking in it for nearly an hour. I was fairly sure I could get the liquid up to my room without being noticed, but it looked as if the potion itself took a week to brew. Why don’t they want something that can be brewed quickly?

I copied down the recipe anyway - I didn’t think Uncle Ira watched my work in the potions lab that closely - and then checked the second set of instructions. It called for a forged doll - really, a handful of metal sticks that looked vaguely humanoid - that would be imbued with the essence of the spellcaster. The tracking charm would shift onto the doll, which could then be either left somewhere - in hopes of convincing the tracker that the original victim hadn’t moved - or simply destroyed, taking the tracking charm with it. I didn’t think the ritual looked that difficult, although it was going to be more than a little humiliating. I copied it down, checked the clock - I’d been reading books for nearly three hours - and then hurried down to the workroom. The sooner I got started, the better.

Father would probably not approve, I thought, as I started to forge the doll. Calling it a doll was laughable, but the spellbook was clear on that point. This spell is borderline dark.

I frowned at the thought - I was doing what Uncle Ira wanted me to do - then kept working. Akin would have found it easy, I was sure; I found it hard to keep everything together long enough for the spells to blur into one. I had no idea if Cat would be able to make a doll or not - she could probably make something better - but I didn’t care. Rumour had it that Cat had forged something that had destroyed every spell on a girl’s body. I wanted one of those. In hindsight …

No, I told myself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and work.

The doll rapidly took on shape and form. It looked more like a miniature scarecrow than a doll, but it would have to suffice. I checked everything carefully, time and time again, then packed the doll into a bag. I didn’t dare perform the ritual in the hall. Uncle Ira might be strikingly lax about some things, but I didn’t think he’d let me get away with performing a borderline ritual in his home.

Wait for Callam, I reminded myself. And then he can watch as you perform the spell.

I concealed the bag near the side door - I was fairly sure Morag wouldn’t notice - then went back to the library. There was usually a collection of maps in a library, if I recalled correctly; there’d been a vast collection of detailed maps and charts in the family’s country estate. I found a handful of maps that were only fifty years old and spread them out on the table, silently thanking Aunt Cecelia for teaching me to read a map. It took me longer than it should to find Kirkhaven Town, but once I did it wasn’t hard to locate the hall. My heart sank as I read the notation. Unless something had changed in the last fifty years, Uncle Ira was the de facto landlord for miles around. Pretty much everyone held their lands from him - or at least from the family. It wasn’t hard to convince myself that they’d take his side, if push came to shove. Uncle Ira could turn them into dispossessed wanderers with the stroke of a pen.

Dismissing the thought, I traced out the handful of roads on the map. Caithness, the largest city within view, was roughly fifteen miles away as the crow flew, but probably further away by road. The shortest road twisted and turned around the hills, probably doubling or tripling the distance between Kirkhaven and Caithness. Callam had talked about townspeople going to Caithness for a week or two, but I’d thought he was joking. I didn’t think he was joking now. I wouldn’t be able to walk to Caithness in less than two or three days.

I found myself something to eat, then wandered out onto the grounds, taking the doll with me. Callam had said he’d be back, hadn’t he? I hesitated, then hurried towards the treehouse - or, rather, where the treehouse had been. Up close, it was impossible to hide the fact that something had happened. The air stank of tainted magic, there was a faint smell of burning and, as I looked over the stream, the trees had been knocked down and the ground had been charred by a tremendous force. I felt a moment of admiration for Callam. He’d seen me lose control, he’d seen the firestorm I’d unleashed … and he’d run into the middle of it to save my life. I promised myself, silently, that I’d repay him one day.

The wind shifted, blowing the stench towards me. I covered my nose, suddenly convinced that no amount of magic would keep the smell from my nostrils. Gritting my teeth, I scrambled down the embankment, hopped over the dry stream and walked around the edge of the charred zone. The magic was stronger here, marking what I’d done. I shuddered in disgust. Whatever Uncle Ira was doing was dangerous.

I heard someone scrambling through the trees and turned, readying a spell to fight or hide if it wasn’t Callam. He appeared a moment later, his eyes wary. I held up my hands, then beckoned him closer. He was trying to hide it, but I could see the dismay in his eyes when he looked at the remains of the treehouse. It had been pathetic, compared to the one back home, but it had all been his own work. I understood, better than I cared to admit. He’d put a lot of himself into the work.

“Isabella,” Callam said. “What happened?”

“Uncle Ira was more concerned with listening to my story than shouting at me,” I said, as I surprised myself by giving him a quick hug. “I didn’t mention you.”

Callam looked relieved. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t want him banning you from the grounds,” I told him. There were a lot of nastier things Uncle Ira could do, but I didn’t want to talk about them. “And I need your help.”

“Anything,” Callam said.

I grinned at him. “I want you to fetch me a ray of light from the moon.”

His mouth dropped open. “What …?”

“Kidding,” I said. He stuck out his tongue at me. “But I do want you to keep an eye on me as I perform a spell.”

“I don’t know what I can do to help,” Callam said, as we made our way deeper into the forest, the trees pressing in around us as if we were far from welcome. I had no idea what would happen if I tried the ritual so close to the tainted magic, but I didn’t want to find out the hard way. “I don’t know anything about magic.”

“You managed to calm me down yesterday,” I reminded him. We found a clearing and stopped. I checked it for wild magic as I spoke. “Without you, I’d be dead.”

“Your uncle is a very dangerous man, isn’t he?” Callam looked down. “Is there no way to get a letter out?”

“How many people write letters here?” I sat down on the grass, silently grateful that I’d worn heavy trousers. “And how many of them send letters to Shallot?”

Callam grimaced. “None. Half the people here don’t even know how to read and write.”

I pulled the doll out of the bag and checked the connections, again. “I’m going to perform a spell,” I explained, as I drew the rest of my tools out of the bag. “Just … stay back and watch.”

“I’ll do my best,” Callam said. “What does the spell actually do?”

“It should get the tracking charm off me,” I said. “But I don’t know for sure.”

I took a small knife and made a small cut in my skin, then carefully dabbed the blood onto the doll. A shiver ran down my spine as the makeshift head started to turn, slowly looking up at me. I wasn’t quite breaking any laws, but I was walking right up to the line … I heard Callam suck in his breath, behind me, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off the doll. I lay back on the ground, rested the doll on my chest and started to chant the spell. Power flowed through me, pain following in its wake. I cursed my own mistake as the spell grew stronger - it needed more magic than I’d expected - but I didn’t dare stop. Blood magic was always dangerous if allowed to get out of control.

The power surged. I gritted my teeth as magic flowed into the doll. The tracking charm shivered, then followed the magic. For a moment, I had the weirdest sense that I was in two places at once, that I was both looking at the doll and looking at myself. And then the magic suddenly stopped. I lay back, gasping for breath. The doll was suddenly so heavy that it was pressing me down, choking the life out of me. Thankfully, Callam realised the problem and removed the doll before it was too late.

“Thank you,” I said, as he passed me a canteen of water. I sat up and sipped, allowing the cool liquid to flow down my throat. “I … just put the doll on the ground.”

“Very good,” Callam said. “What now?”

“We wait,” I said. I closed my eyes for a long moment. The spell had taken more out of me than I’d realised. “Did you bring anything to eat?”

Callam laughed and passed me a sandwich. We ate together in companionable silence. I forced myself to think, despite my exhaustion. If Uncle Ira had been monitoring his tracking charm, he might realise I’d shifted it to the doll. If he did … I’d have to tell Callam to hide, then face the music. And if he hadn’t been monitoring it, he might not realise that anything had changed at all. I wondered, sourly, just what the charm had been intended to do. Now it was no longer on me, perhaps I could examine it properly. I’d just have to be careful I didn’t accidentally destroy it.

“I hope you didn’t get in too much trouble last week,” I said. “I’m sorry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Callam assured me. “My Dad didn’t try to poison me.”

“Uncle Ira didn’t have to brew something so elaborate if he merely wanted to poison me,” I said, slowly. “A man like him knows plenty of killing magics. No, he had something else in mind. He was experimenting on me.”

Callam sucked in his breath. “On you? On his niece?”

“I’m a little further away from him on the family tree,” I said. I muttered a curse under my breath. The only family tree I’d found in the library was one that was nearly two hundred years out of date. It included a couple of people called Ira, but both of them had died well before Uncle Ira had been born. “But yeah, he experimented on me.”

“Dad never did that to me.” Callam sounded shocked. “I mean, he did test his teaching techniques on me, but … that only gave me a headache. It didn’t kill me.”

My lips twitched. I’d once protested that advanced magical equations were designed to suck the life out of my body. Father hadn’t been impressed. He’d ordered the tutors to work harder until I could finally talk knowledgably about the concepts. It had helped me get ahead at school, when the time came to go, but I’d resented it bitterly at the time.

“Why?” Callam looked at me, sharply. “What was the experiment for?”

I shook my head. My magic had gone haywire and I’d nearly died, but - as far as I could tell - nothing else had happened. Unless … I thought back to the charred ground and destroyed trees. Had I had a magic boost? Had he somehow enhanced my powers? Or had he merely forced everything I had to surge out of my body? I couldn’t help wondering what the long-term effects would be. Everyone knew that magic powers grew stronger with use. What would I be in a year or two, if I kept taking the potion?

Mad, probably, I thought. I don’t think I could go through that again.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, reaching out with my magic. There was no sign of Uncle Ira or Morag, storming towards us in righteous rage. It looked as if we’d gotten away with it, although the real test would come when we crossed the boundary line. I stood, carefully picked up the doll and led the way towards the gatekeeper’s cottage. Someone might believe that I’d spend a few hours there without moving much, although they might wonder if they noticed I wasn’t moving at all. I thought about adding a pair of locomotive spells to the doll’s legs, then shook my head. Accidentally destroying the doll would be a deadly mistake.

“What now?” Callam sounded relieved. “Do you want to play chase …?”

“No,” I said. “I want to go down to town.”

Callam stared at me. “Is this a good idea?”

“… No,” I said. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”

I hadn’t brought any wellies, but I didn’t care. I splashed though the water, ignoring the cold, and pushed my way through the gap in the wards. Nothing happened as I reached the far side; nothing happened as I climbed up the embankment and settled down to wait. Callam followed me, looking more concerned for me than himself. I felt a rush of affection. My old friends would have put themselves first.

Take that, Uncle, I thought, vindictively. It wasn’t much, but at least I had the satisfaction of knowing he hadn’t terrified me into submission. You can’t keep me prisoner forever.

We waited long enough to be sure Uncle Ira wasn’t coming after us, then started the walk down to town. The weather seemed warmer, all of a sudden; the lands seemed more beautiful on the far side of the walls. I saw a pair of butterflies fluttering through the air and smiled, even though I knew not to get too attached to them. Butterflies were used in a number of potions. I’d had to prepare them myself.

“We don’t want to be seen too openly,” Callam reminded me, as we reached the town. “I …”

He stopped as someone ran up towards us. I tensed, readying a spell, then relaxed - slightly - as I realised it was a stranger. A redheaded girl, a year or two older than me … she looked so much like Rose that I wondered if they were related. It was certainly possible. The look she shot at me - half-surprised, half-fearful - made me feel more like turning her into a frog than asking any polite questions about her family. I wondered, sourly, what the rumour mill was saying. Half the town had seen Morag dragging me back to the hall.

“Callam,” the girl said. “You have to get to the schoolhouse. They’re organising search parties now.”

Callam blinked. “For me?”

“No,” the girl said. The hint of scorn in her voice was enough to make me really want to turn her into a frog. “For Hart and Hound. They’ve gone missing!”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Astonished, I followed the girl - who turned out to be called Raven - and Callam down to the schoolhouse. A handful of men and older boys were already gathered and being bossed around by an older woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Granny McVeigh; two middle-aged women were sobbing together, surrounded by a small army of young girls and toddlers. I guessed they were Hound and Hart’s mothers.

“They went out to watch the sheep in the morning,” Raven said, as we reached the schoolhouse. “Bill went up there to give them their lunch and there was no sign of them.”

“They probably decided to run off and give everyone a scare,” I muttered.

Callam shook his head as Raven pretended not to hear in a manner that left no doubt she had heard. “They’d be beaten bloody if they played games like that,” he said. “Watching the sheep is important. There are wolves in these hills.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him. Hound and Hart hadn’t struck me as smart enough to watch the sheep without playing games. They’d been stupid enough to earn my eternal disdain, simply for ratting me out to Morag. Had they thought that Morag would literally kill me? Or make it impossible for me to take revenge? Or had they even bothered to think at all?

“Callam, I want you to join Gavin’s search party,” the older woman said. She looked so much like Granny McVeigh that I couldn’t help wondering if they were sisters. “You’ll be responsible for searching …”

“I have an idea,” I said, quickly. “Why don’t you use magic to find them?”

The woman looked at me as if she wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Magic,” she repeated, finally. Her voice suggested she thought I was a complete idiot, but didn’t quite dare say it out loud. “And you think we know how to use magic to find someone?”

“I do,” I said. I wouldn’t have put myself out for a pair of sneaks, but … I wanted to spend the afternoon with Callam, not go straight back to the hall. The longer I stayed outside the grounds, the greater the chance that someone would check on me. “Do you have someone who shares their blood? A sibling?”

“They both have siblings,” Callam said, quietly. He looked at the elder woman. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” the woman said. She nodded to the crying mothers. “Go join them. I’ll be over in a moment.”

Callam nudged me as the woman resumed sending out search parties. “Are you sure you can make the spell work?”

I nodded. Father had drilled it into our heads before he’d let either Akin or myself leave the hall. It was a relatively simple spell, one that pointed to a sibling or parent … I’d practiced it enough to be confident. I was surprised that Callam’s father hadn’t thought to try it. Perhaps he’d been told not to use magic or … perhaps he was already searching for the boys. The spell didn’t need that much magic to cast.

The mothers looked old, so old that I thought - just for a moment - that they were grandmothers. Having kids like Hart and Hound would wear anyone down, I thought, but … they were almost too old. But then, they didn’t have cosmetics or glamour magics or anything else the Grande Dames used to hide the onset of old age. They probably worked harder too, I thought. Callam had told me enough about life in Kirkhaven that I was very glad I hadn’t been born there. Rose had been very lucky to escape her hometown, if it had been anything remotely like this.

I nodded politely to the mothers, neither of whom seemed to know what to make of me either, then waited for the older woman. The kids were sombre, save for the toddlers who were too young to understand what was going on. They were running around in circles, despite a series of increasingly inventive threats from a desperate-looking girl a year or two younger than me. I remembered Sandy and felt a stab of sympathy. The poor babysitter would probably get the blame for the toddlers being … well, toddlers.

And I helped make sure that Sandy had a very hard time, I thought. I hadn’t been the worst thing to happen to the older girl - that had been Cat’s kidnapping - but I hadn’t made her life any easier. I couldn’t help feeling guilty. She’ll probably have to change her name if she wants to find work somewhere outside the city.

The older woman stomped over to us. I couldn’t help noticing that, despite her age, she was astonishingly muscular. Morag looked strong, but this woman was stronger still. Her heavyset build - her hands were about the size of frying pans - was very intimidating. I found it hard to meet her eyes.

“Well?” Her voice was very sharp. “What do you think you can do?”

“I need a needle,” I said, briskly. “And I need a blood sibling.”

The elder woman pointed a finger at a young girl. “Sara, attend to Her Ladyship,” she ordered. “Jan, give her one of your needles.”

Sara looked as if she didn’t want to move, her body jerking as if someone was forcing her to stand up. She was young, probably around seven or eight, with straggly red hair that defied her braids. Her face was pretty enough, but there was a nasty scar on her cheek and she moved as if she expected another blow at any moment. My jaw ached in sympathy. Sara’s mother clearly had a lot in common with Morag.

“Here, My Lady,” Jan said. She was the same age as me, I thought, but there was something about the way she moved that suggested I was older. “It’s my finest needle.”

I took the needle and inspected it, thoughtfully. It was very plain indeed, compared to the needles Mother had taught me to use. I’d never really had the patience for sewing - and it wasn’t as if I’d ever had to make my own dresses - but I knew the basics. It would do, I hoped. No one had charmed it to sew without human supervision.

“Stand there,” I ordered Sara. I held the needle above her head, feeling for the sympathetic resonance. It was a lot easier to cast this spell on myself than someone else, but I wasn’t related to either of the missing bullies. “I’ll be casting the spell in a moment.”

“Will it hurt?” Sara sounded as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with it. “I … will it find them?”

“It should work,” I said. Sara shared her brother’s blood. Assuming they were together, the needle should point right to them. “And it won’t hurt at all.”

I glanced at Callam, who gave me the thumbs up, then cast the spell. The needle jerked out of my hand and started to spin above Sara’s head, whirling around like a mad thing. My eyes narrowed as the needle sped up, rather than slowing down. The bullies were alive - the spell wouldn’t have worked if they were dead - but there was no way to take a bearing. It was almost as if something was interfering with the spell.

Sara giggled. “That feels nice,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“You and your brother share the same blood,” I said. “How many other siblings do you have?”

“None,” Sara said. “There’s just me and him.”

Poor girl, I thought. Akin had never tried to boss me around - I’d certainly tried to boss him around, although he had an annoying habit of nodding in agreement and then doing his own thing anyway - but I’d known girls who’d had domineering older siblings. It didn’t seem to matter if they were brothers or sisters. They bossed their younger sisters around mercilessly, as if age gave them authority. Hart - or Hound - would be very bossy indeed.

The needle kept spinning. “It isn’t focusing on a single point,” I said. “I don’t know where they are.”

Callam cleared his throat. “But … we could just triangulate a line …”

I pointed to the needle. “We can’t get a line,” I said. I’d intended to fix the charm in place so the needle would always point to Sara’s brother, then give it to the search party. They’d have no trouble following the needle to the missing boys … if, of course, the needle was actually pointing at the wretched brats. “The magic isn’t working.”

“So it’s useless.” The older woman sounded pleased. I wondered, sourly, just what sort of disputes she’d had with Granny McVeigh. “You can’t find them.”

“I know they’re alive,” I said, putting tight controls on my anger. Snapping at her wouldn’t help. “There is a resonance between Sara and her brother. But I can’t get the needle to focus on them.”

The old woman snorted. “Thank you for your help, Your Ladyship,” she said. “Callam, remain here until the final search party is assembled. You can join it.”

Callam nodded, tightly.

I looked down at the needle, still spinning over Sara’s head. There was a resonance. There had to be a resonance. And yet … the needle wasn’t slowing down at all.

Callam nudged me. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I knew I sounded frustrated. I just didn’t care. “They’d have to be behind powerful wards for the needle not to be able to give us a rough location. “

I plucked the needle out of the air and cancelled the spell, then passed it back to Jan. It was hard to keep my face from reddening. I was probably the most powerful spellcaster in the town - Uncle Ira and Morag were a long way away - and I’d just embarrassed myself in front of everyone. And yet … it hadn’t been my fault. The spell had worked. It just hadn’t been able to provide a location.

“They could have gone into one of the old mines,” Sara said. “They’re stupid that way.”

“Sara,” her mother snapped.

Callam lowered his voice. “They have been acting weird since the day … since you turned them into frogs,” he said. “Everyone knows what happened, even if few people dare mock them. A little girl beats them both at magic.”

My face heated. “I’m not little!”

“Hart is sixteen,” Callam said. “And you turned him into a frog.”

I shrugged. There were few teenagers in Shallot who wouldn’t know how to counter that spell. I dreaded to think what would happen if I’d tried that spell on an upperclassman. I’d have been lucky if I was only given lines to write until my wrist fell off. He’d have been more likely to laugh at me, then give me detention for the rest of the year. Even Sandy wouldn’t have had any trouble teaching me a lesson, if she’d really lost her temper. An older student would have fewer qualms about punishing me.

“Maybe they just ran off to join the army,” Callam commented. “A talent for mindless violence and a willingness to hurt people … I’d say they were qualified.”

“Maybe,” I said. The family armsmen probably wouldn’t accept someone like Hart or Hound, but the king’s army might have different ideas. “Or maybe they just ran off to sea.”

It was an amusing thought. If I’d really taught them a lesson, if I really had turned them into laughingstocks, they’d never be able to get away from it, not as long as they stayed in the region. Kirkhaven wasn’t the only town - there were plenty of smaller towns and villages within walking distance - but there wasn’t anything that spread faster than rumour. The tale had probably reached Caithness by now. Hart and Hound would have to go a long way away to escape the stories. Perhaps they really had gone to sea.

I sobered as I realised, bitterly, that they weren’t that different from me. Maybe - just maybe - I’d be welcomed back home. But no one would forget what I’d done. No one would ever let me forget it either. Perhaps I should run away to sea. The great clipper ships that travelled between Shallot and Hangchow were notorious for not asking too many questions about prospective crew. No one would take much notice of me as long as I used a false name and worked hard.

“But if they went to sea,” Callam said, “why can’t your tracking spell find them?”

“Good point,” I said. Hart and Hound might have decided to put as much distance as they could between themselves and Kirkhaven before their absence was noted, but the spell should have still given us a bearing. “I don’t know.”

“Magic sometimes behaves oddly, up here,” Callam said. “Perhaps your spell is simply having problems coping with them.”

I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again as someone shouted Callam’s name. The final search party was assembling by the schoolhouse, mostly composed of older men with a couple of teenagers. I silently wished them luck. If Hart and Hound had had an accident, rather than simply running away to join the army or go to sea, they’d have to be found before they bled to death. But I still didn’t understand why my spell had failed.

Maybe they purchased a concealment charm from a passing peddler, I thought. But the blood-link should still have worked.

“I need to go.” Callam looked concerned. “Will you be alright walking back to the hall?”

“Yeah,” I said. I wanted him to come with me, but I wouldn’t be doing him any favours if he insisted. The locals would say he’d shirked his duties. “Good luck.”

Callam looked, just for a second, as if he was wishing for bad luck. I didn’t really blame him. Hart and Hound had been thoroughly unpleasant to him and everyone else. Callam wouldn’t really want to find them. I suspected that most of the villagers felt the same way. But their parents would want to know what had happened to them, if nothing else. I told myself that I should feel sorry for the families, if not for the missing bullies. They needed to know what had happened to their children.

I waved him goodbye, then turned and walked back up the track towards the hall. I kept a wary eye out for trouble as I headed further up the path, half-expecting Morag to jump out of the bushes as I neared the hall. The river felt colder than ever before as I splashed through the water, silently kicking myself for not bringing my wellies. I made a mental note to hide a pair of them under a bush or add them to the emergency kit. I really didn’t want to have to waste time changing my trousers when I was trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and the hall.

And I need to find a way to obscure the blood-link, I thought. I wanted - I needed - to know how Hart and Hound had done it. There was no way they’d done it on their own. A fifth-year magic student would have problems hiding from a resonance spell. Did they find a forbidden book? Or did someone give them a Device of Power to mask their blood?

I mulled it over as I collected the doll, placed it back into my bag and walked back to Kirkhaven Hall. Whatever they’d done to mask their blood might work quite so well against a blood relative. Sara might have been able to find them, if she’d cast the spell … I considered, briefly, trying to teach her. And whatever they’d done might not be enough to stop Uncle Ira tracking me down. I needed something a bit more powerful if I wanted to hide from him.

I’ll have to go back to those books, I thought, as I entered the hall and made my way up to my room. I’d have to shrink the doll and carry it at all times. Uncle Ira might notice that I wasn’t carrying the tracking spell any longer if I left it in my room. If I can find a way to obscure my blood, just for a few days, I should be able to get to Caithness.

I returned to the kitchens, where Morag was cooking something that smelled heavenly. She looked up at me and scowled, as if I’d done something to offend her. I wondered, vaguely, what it was that I was supposed to have done. I hadn’t seen her all day. She could have left a note if she’d wanted me for something.

“Ah,” Morag said. “You can chop these potatoes for me, if you can find time in your busy schedule.”

“Yes, Senior,” I said, trying to conceal my annoyance. I was tired. I’d had a long day. “Are these for dinner?”

“No, I thought I’d cook the potatoes before planting them to save time,” Morag said, sarcastically. The look on her face dared me to laugh. “And then you can wash the cutlery before using it, just to keep us from having to wash it after dinner.”

I swallowed a number of remarks that would probably have earned me another slap. “Yes, Senior.”

“And be down here tomorrow morning at nine,” Morag added, as she shoved a bag of potatoes at me. They looked as if they’d only just been pulled out of the earth. “You and I have a lot of work to do.”

I groaned. I had research to do. And I needed to put together a bag of supplies. And …

“The master has given his permission,” Morag said. She gave me a bright smile that somehow lacked any warmth. “And besides, you might enjoy it. You might even find it educational.”

Chapter Thirty

The next three days were a nightmare.

I’d hoped to get out of the hall, long enough to meet Callam, but Morag and Uncle Ira kept me busy all day. When I wasn’t helping Morag get more rooms ready for guests, I was brewing a number of different potions for Uncle Ira and answering his increasingly pointed questions about what had happened when he’d forced me to drink his potion. I had to struggle to keep the story straight, without mentioning Callam. I had no idea what my uncle would do if he knew the truth, but I didn’t want to find out the hard way.

I awoke on the fourth day, convinced that I had forgotten something.

It nagged at my mind as I climbed out of bed and splashed water on my face. I had forgotten something, but what? Had someone used a memory charm to make me forget? I felt a flicker of fear as I undressed and inspected every last inch of my body, looking for signs that someone had taken a blood sample in the night. It was technically illegal to use memory charms on children, but Uncle Ira had already crossed the line time and time again. If he’d taken a sample, if I’d woken up and he’d made me forget …

I returned to the bed, sat down and tried to meditate. Father had taught me a few tricks for outwitting and eventually breaking memory charms, but he’d warned me that they weren’t always reliable. Memory charms didn’t just take a gap out of someone’s memory, if I recalled correctly; they encouraged the victim’s mind to craft its own memories to fill the gap. If I’d been half-asleep, my brain numbed by fatigue, it would be hard to spot the false memory. The thought pained me as I closed my eyes and concentrated, thinking back to the point where I’d gone to bed. It wasn’t easy to tell if something had happened during the night.

Perhaps it didn’t, I thought, as I pulled on my shirt and trousers. Uncle Ira hadn’t given me any tasks yesterday, which might or might not be a good thing. I had work to do, but Morag might also have work for me to do. I could just be imagining it.

I walked down the stairs, expecting to run into Morag at any moment. But the kitchen was dark and cold, without even a fire in the grate. I muttered a heating charm, then found myself some eggs and cooked them hastily. Morag was a good teacher, I supposed, when she wasn’t snapping and snarling at me. She’d taught me quite a few tricks I hadn’t learnt in potions class.

And the eggs don’t taste like they’re rotten either, I thought, as I finished eating and put the plates in the sink to wash. It’s a vast improvement.

I sighed as I slowly walked back to my room. There were times when I thought I could almost enjoy living at the hall … and times when I just couldn’t wait to get away. Uncle Ira was both a good teacher and a looming menace … on one hand, he’d taught me all sorts of spells and potions I normally wouldn’t have been allowed to touch, but - on the other hand - he’d fed me a potion that had almost killed me. I wished I knew what he was doing. It might have made everything far more palatable.

Or it might turn out to be something truly bad, I told myself. There was no point in deluding myself. You already know he’s been experimenting with the Dark Arts.

I took a breath as I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me, then picked up the rucksack I’d found on the fourth floor. It was a rough, crude design, lacking the charms to make it feather-light no matter what I put inside, but it had one great advantage. It didn’t look like something that would belong to me, certainly not in Shallot. I’d be ruthlessly mocked if I carried it on the streets. Morag would not think of me if she stumbled across the bag.

Unless she sees the contents, I thought. That might be all too revealing.

I opened the bag and carefully packed two whole changes of clothes; shirts, trousers and underwear. Morag knew I was wearing trousers these days, but … hopefully she’d think they belonged to someone who had left the hall long ago. I added one of the maps I’d found in the library, followed by a couple of potions vials and a spellcaster. Getting to Caithness was not going to be easy, but I thought I could do it. If worse came to worst, I could use magic to steal a horse or compel a rider to take me to the city.

Leaving the bag on the bed, I walked to my trunk and opened it, digging through the clothes until I found the case hidden underneath. The locking charm fell open at my touch, allowing me to reach inside and take out the necklace. It was inordinately bright, glittering under the sunlight … I wondered, suddenly, just what I’d been thinking when I’d bought it. Golden chains, a dozen rubies, a design that was really too elaborate for my tastes … my current tastes. I’d wasted a great deal of money on buying it. I was surprised Mother and Father hadn’t made me take it back to the shop.

It’s also the only thing I have of any value, I thought. Callam had told me that coins were rare in the district. The farmers used a bartering system when it came to trading with the towns. Uncle Ira isn’t going to give me any pocket money. Where would I spend it?

I scowled at the thought. I had no way to reach my family accounts, even if I still had access to them. And even if I did have access, the money might be useless. What would the townspeople do with a handful of coins? They might take them to Caithness, I supposed, but … they wouldn’t be worth much in the short term. I had a feeling that selling the necklace was the only way I’d be able to get money, if I could find a buyer. There probably wasn’t anyone closer than Caithness who could afford it.

I took one last look at the necklace, then closed the case, restored the locking charm and buried it in the rucksack. It would be safe enough, unless someone moved the clothes and uncovered the box. I added a pair of nasty hexes to discourage anyone from trying, then carefully picked up the bag. It felt heavier than I’d expected for a bag carrying nothing more than clothes and a handful of tools. I added a charm to make it lighter, then placed it in the corner of the room. I’d have to hide it outside the house before the end of the day. The last thing I wanted was Morag deciding to search my room again.

There was still no sign of Morag or Uncle Ira when I crept downstairs, so I walked into the library and started checking the spellbooks for charms that might blur or cut the blood-link between me and my family. There were fewer spells than I’d expected, mostly variants on the standard obscurification charm … I doubted they would slow Uncle Ira down for long, not if he was desperate to find me. The only promising spells were adoption spells, ones that changed my blood permanently, but they needed an adult to cast. They were simply too complex for me.

And they’d need someone to adopt me, I thought. I didn’t know anyone who would, let alone could. Callam’s father probably couldn’t cast the spell. Anyone else … why would they want to adopt me? The spell would bring obligations with it, obligations that could not be easily avoided. I might have to rely on the obscurification charms.

I gritted my teeth as I read my way through the different sets of instructions. One was so far beyond me that I almost hurled the book across the room in frustration. My father might be able to cast it, but I couldn’t. Another spell relied upon a Device of Power I couldn’t hope to forge, while a third … I read the instructions carefully. It would need a potion, but I thought I could brew it. The real problem would be testing it. I wouldn’t know it was working until I made my escape.

And by then it would be too late to think twice, I thought, as I copied down the instructions. I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I reached Caithness, but … but there had to be something. The family’s agent would contact Father, surely? Or even the Arbiters. If they sent someone to see what was going on, I could tell them everything. Or maybe I should just walk across the border and vanish.

I contemplated the possibilities for a long moment. Kids my age went into service all the time. I knew enough magic to be really useful to someone, if I changed my name and crossed the border. And yet, could I cope? Was I really desperate enough to abandon the chance of going home?

Yes, I thought. Uncle Ira had nearly killed me. Who knew what would happen next? I can’t stay here.

I walked into the potions lab, sorted out the ingredients and went to work, carefully brewing the obscurification potion. The recipe looked simple, on the face of it, but the timing had to be handled perfectly. I talked myself through it, time and time again, as the liquid started to bubble. It took me four tries to brew the potion successfully and, even then, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d done it properly. I couldn’t think of a way to test it.

“It’s good to see you applying yourself,” a voice said.

I jumped and spun around. Uncle Ira was standing there, looking inordinately amused at my reaction. How had he sneaked up on me? That was Morag’s trick! I should have heard him coming down the corridor, unless he’d cast a muffling charm on his feet. Or … I reached out to test the wards and noted that someone had strengthened them over the past few days. It was quite possible that they blocked anything that might distract me.

“Thank you, Uncle,” I managed. I had to fight to keep my face straight. Uncle Ira was the last person I wanted to see right now. Morag might not have recognised the obscurification potion, if she’d glanced at the yellowish liquid, but I wasn’t so sure about Uncle Ira. He was a Potions Master. “I’m just experimenting with advanced potions.”

“A very good idea,” Uncle Ira said. He looked around the lab, then back at me. “I’ll be leaving the hall to purchase more supplies in a week or two. Let me know if you need anything.”

My heart leapt. “Where are you going?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that,” Uncle Ira said. “And” - he smiled at me, rather dryly - “I’m afraid I can’t take you, either.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to look disappointed. “How long will you be gone?”

“Not long,” Uncle Ira assured me. “Morag will keep you busy, I am sure. I’ll leave behind some tasks for you, just to make sure you keep your hand in. I’d like to get you up to a fifth-year level by the end of the year.”

I was sure he was being far too optimistic for his own good - I hadn’t been a good potions student before I’d been sent into exile - but I kept that thought to myself. It was nice of him to think so highly of me, yet it didn’t matter. I didn’t think I could reach the same level as Sandy and her peers by then, but I could take advantage of his absence to make my escape. It would take hours, perhaps days, for Morag to realise I was gone and put out an alert. By then, I could be in Caithness.

Unless he’s going to Caithness too, I thought. We might run into each other on the road.

Uncle Ira turned, motioning for me to follow him. “I’ve read your last set of exercises for the correspondence course,” he said. “You appear to be doing well, but you could be doing better.”

That’s because you keep giving me new potions to brew and Morag keeps putting me to work on the hall, I thought, crossly. I wasn’t fool enough to say that out loud. I don’t have time to work on my exercises when I’m too busy working for you.

“Thank you, Uncle,” I said, instead. “I’ll work harder.”

Uncle Ira gave me a sharp look. “See that you do,” he said. “A good grounding in charms is essential for future studies, particularly if you go into alchemy. It combines both potions and charms.”

I scowled at the floor. “Can I find anyone willing to teach me alchemy?”

“You might be surprised,” Uncle Ira said.

I doubted it. Potions Masters were relatively common … Alchemical Masters, not so much. I thought it was the hardest mastery to gain, even though the rewards were immense. Father’s second cousin was the only Alchemical Master in the family and he had a position of considerable power. I silently kicked myself for not considering that path to power. They’d have to overlook my gender if I turned myself into an Alchemical Master. And I could have done it, a year ago. Now, I didn’t think there was an Alchemical Master in the city who’d have me as an apprentice.

Uncle Ira led me up the stairs and into the dining room. Morag had been busy, I noticed; the walls had been scrubbed clean, the carpet had been brushed and a number of paintings had been carefully placed around the room, concealing damage that might otherwise have caught the eye. I felt a flicker of pity, mingled with relief. Morag had worked hard to prepare the room for us.

“Be seated,” Uncle Ira said, as he rang the bell. “I will be having guests tomorrow.”

I blinked. It was fairly obvious that someone was coming - probably several people, as Morag had forced me to clean a number of rooms - but who? And why was Uncle Ira telling me this now?

“I expect you to remain out of sight at all times,” Uncle Ira added. “When you are in the hall, you are to remain in your room or the kitchens; when you are in the grounds, you are to stay away from the driveway. I don’t want my guests to get even a sniff of your presence. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said, swallowing the urge to make a joke about soap and water. “I … who’s coming?”

“Never you mind,” Uncle Ira said. “Just make very sure you stay out of sight.”

“Or less pleasant measures will be taken to keep you concealed,” Morag said, from the doorway. She pushed a trolley of food into the room. “You won’t enjoy them.”

“You could take me down to the town,” I said, before I could think better of it. “That would keep me out of sight.”

“I could also turn you into a statue again,” Morag pointed out, nastily. “Or a tree. No one would notice a new tree in the forest.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, quickly. “Senior, I’ll stay out of sight.”

“Glad to hear it,” Uncle Ira said. “Morag, you may begin serving the food.”

Morag did as she was told. I nodded my thanks as she ladled chicken stew onto my plate, my thoughts spinning in all directions. We had guests? Who were they? Why were they coming now? And … why did Uncle Ira want me to stay out of sight? Visitors from the family would know I was there, wouldn’t they? Uncle Ira wouldn’t be able to hide me away. I felt a flash of hope - maybe it was Father - before it faded into nothingness. Uncle Ira couldn’t have kept me from my father.

He’d be doing other things to keep me from talking instead, I thought.

I’d hoped to return to the lab after lunch, but Morag snared me before I could escape and put me to work. She had me peeling potatoes, slicing up vegetables and even dissecting a raw chicken for curry. I would have found it fascinating if I hadn’t been so desperate to get away. I wanted to hide the bag in the cottage before it started to get dark, then do as much research as possible while waiting for Uncle Ira to leave. If I was really lucky, I might find something that would allow me to be sure I couldn’t be tracked with magic.

Cat could probably forge something to do the job, I thought, as we ate a quiet dinner before bed. It was a bitter thought. I wish I had that talent.

I wondered, again, if I could teach Callam to forge. But I couldn’t see any way to do it without bringing him into the hall … and I couldn’t do that without setting off the alarms. I considered the problem again and again, as I made my way up to my room, but nothing came to mind. There just was no way to get Callam into the hall, not without Uncle Ira’s permission. And I was sure that permission would not be forthcoming …

Of course not, I thought. Uncle Ira might not be particularly concerned about my reputation, but Morag would be. We won’t be chaperoned …

I stopped, dead, as I realised what I’d forgotten. The date. I’d forgotten the date. I’d forgotten its significance. It was my birthday. And no one had remembered.

Not even me.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Today’s your birthday?”

“Yesterday,” I said. Callam was working on a new treehouse, cutting down logs and splitting them into planks. He’d clearly been busy for several days. “No one remembered.”

Callam glanced at me, sweat clearly visible on his face. “Did you tell them?”

“No,” I said. I wondered just how I’d managed to lose track of time quite so badly. Back home, I’d have had a large party. My parents would have thrown open the grounds for my friends - and the girls I’d had to invite for political reasons - and Akin and I would have been prince and princess for the day. “I thought they knew.”

And I forgot myself, I added silently. But I wasn’t going to admit to that.

“You didn’t tell me,” Callam pointed out. He met my eyes. “Do you want your uncle giving you birthday presents?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just …”

I shook my head. Back home, Akin would have hosted a party on his own. Mother would probably have stood over him as he wrote the guest list, insisting that he added a number of people he would probably never have invited without being prodded. I wondered how many of my former friends had been invited and how many of them had actually gone. Cat would be going, of course. Her presence would probably draw a number of fair-weather friends to the grounds. Mother wouldn’t be telling everyone that she only ever had one child, I hoped, but many of my distant aunts would be insisting that I’d simply never existed. I was the family shame.

And it hurt. More than I cared to admit.

Callam put down the wood he’d been carving. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you a present,” he said, seriously. “What would you like?”

“Something that helps me get out of here,” I said, kicking myself. Callam probably couldn’t afford a real present. I should never have raised the subject. “Or … I don’t know.”

“We could go for a walk,” Callam said. “There are some places we could visit.”

I looked up, interested. I’d been told to stay out of sight all day. I’d even made sure to pack a large lunch for myself - sandwiches and bottled water - just to make sure I didn’t have to go back to the hall in a hurry. There was nothing stopping us from going on a long walk outside the grounds, as long as Uncle Ira didn’t check on me personally. And I had a feeling he was going to be busy. I’d sneaked a look at the front of the hall as I’d waited for Callam and a handful of carriages had been parked outside. The horses and drivers had been having a picnic on the lawn.

“Sounds like a plan, as long as we stay out of sight,” I said. “Where do you want to go?”

“There’s an old city not too far away,” Callam said. “It’s in ruins. Most people won’t go near it. But I’ve been there.”

I frowned. “An old city?”

“It’s very old,” Callam said. He held out a hand. “Interested?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why not?”

I hid the doll on the far side of the grounds, then followed Callam as we walked around to the river and through the gap in the wards. The water felt colder, somehow, but I ignored it. Callam simply kept walking, allowing his trousers to keep dripping dry as he moved. I felt better, somehow, as we found another path and headed up it. My navigation skills weren’t all that great, but I had the feeling that we were moving further away from the town.

“We are,” Callam confirmed, when I asked. “We have about forty minutes of walking ahead of us.”

I groaned, but kept moving anyway. I’d played netball at Jude’s - I felt a moment of bitter remorse for the strings I’d pulled to get on the team - and yet, it simply hadn’t been any real preparation for a long walk. I silently thanked Callam for the walks - and chases - we’d had around the estate. Even so, my muscles were aching within ten minutes. Sweat ran down my back as the sun grew hotter, brilliant rays of light driving away the shade. I’d never been so hot in my life. Even the seaside hadn’t been so bad.

The landscape changed rapidly as we came out of the valley and strode down a path that was only barely discernible from the surrounding lands. It was curiously desolate, the open spaces broken only by patches of trees and gorse bushes; I could see a handful of stone cottages, scattered across the land, but there was no one in sight. One of the cottages, the only one by the path, had clearly been abandoned hundreds of years ago. The wind and rain was slowly tearing it apart.

I looked at Callam’s back, wondering how he managed to keep going. “Did … did they find the brats?”

Callam shook his head without turning. “No,” he said. He slowed his pace to allow me a chance to catch up. “They didn’t find any trace of them.”

I glanced at him. “Wild animals?”

“They should have found something,” Callam said. “No sheep were gone, you see. Bill didn’t have any trouble rounding the beasts up and marching them back to town. I’d expect a wolf to be more interested in devouring the sheep than those two.”

“The poor wolf probably got a bellyache,” I said.

“A wolf wouldn’t have eaten the bones,” Callam told me. “There should be some trace of them left. Either they ran off or …”

He stopped and pointed into the distance. “Do you see that?”

I followed his finger, gasping for breath. The land was … unchanged. No, the grass was slowly changing colour. It was a greenish-yellowish near us, but in the distance it was almost pure green. I could see butterflies and birds flying over the green grass, yet … there was something odd about it. It took me a long moment to realise what it was. The birds were trying to stay well away from the green grass. They swooped down over the yellow grass …

“That’s the mire,” Callam said, quietly. “A swamp, barely visible. Don’t put your foot in it or you’ll wind up dead.”

I swallowed, hard. “Did they walk into the mire?”

“It’s possible,” Callam said. His voice was very quiet. “A couple of old hunters are supposed to know ways through the mire, ways that allow them to reach the centre of the swamp, but they’ve never shared their secrets with me. Hart and Hound could have been trying to get to the island and simply put their feet in the wrong place …”

“Ouch,” I said. I hadn’t liked either of the boys, but drowning in a swamp was not a pleasant way to go. “Let’s hope they just went to join the army.”

“Yeah,” Callam said. His voice was odd. “Let’s hope.”

We took a sip of water, then resumed our walk. The sun managed to grow hotter, so hot I finally gave in and muttered a simple cooling charm. It didn’t seem to work as well as I’d hoped. The air buzzed with insects, little creatures swarming around us and vanishing every time we tried to swat them; I promised myself that, if we came this way again, I’d find a charm to repel insects. It had never been a problem in Shallot.

“We’re nearly there,” Callam said. “Stop and take a look behind you.”

I turned and stared. There was no sign of Kirkhaven Town, let alone Kirkhaven Hall. The landscape looked as bleak and desolate as the terrain I remembered, back when I’d first been driven up to Kirkhaven Hall. Nothing moved, save for a handful of birds. I wondered, suddenly, just how easy it would be to get lost. One hill looked very much like another, as far as I could tell. I thought I could see the path, but … it went too close to the swamp for comfort. No wonder no one went out at night.

“Come on,” Callam said. “We just need to get over this hill.”

I nodded and followed him, climbing up the rocky path. The aches and pains in my arms and legs had slowly faded away, to be replaced by a dull throbbing that insisted I’d need a bath as soon as I returned to the hall. Uncle Ira’s guests wouldn’t be infesting the fifth floor, would they? I didn’t think so. Morag had told me to use the servant passageways and stairs, after all. She would have told me to stay in my room if she’d thought there was the slightest chance of being seen.

We reached the top of the hill and stopped, staring down into the valley. Callam had been right, I realised dully as I struggled to comprehend what I was seeing; the ruined city was indeed spectacular. I’d wondered why it hadn’t been rebuilt - I’d been told there were layers upon layers of buried buildings under Shallot - but I understood the moment I laid eyes on it. The city was completely beyond repair. Indeed, it was really nothing more than giant piles of rubble.

I swept my gaze over the ruined buildings and tried to imagine how it had been in its heyday, but it was impossible. The rubble stretched for miles. The buildings looked as if they’d been dropped from a very great height, as if some giant had picked up the entire city and casually smashed it to the ground. I couldn’t help thinking of the wooden blocks Akin had played with, as a child. There were buildings that looked to have been wrenched out of the ground and tossed around, marks on the ground which might have been roads or foundations before the city had been destroyed. I honestly couldn’t imagine anything that might have caused such devastation. The most powerful spells I knew couldn’t inflict anything like this sort of damage.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Callam was smiling at me, his face lit up like the sun. “And hardly anyone goes here.”

I frowned. Now he’d mentioned it, I could feel something - a wrongness - at the back of my mind, a faint sense that the city was no place for me. I thought I would have turned my back and walked away, if I had been alone. The more I looked at the city, the stronger the feeling grew. This was definitely not a good place for me.

“Come on,” Callam said. He started down the hillside. “Let’s go.”

“I’m coming,” I said, a little reluctantly. My instincts were telling me to run, but I didn’t want to show weakness in front of Callam. Besides, he’d visited the city before. “What is this place?”

“No one knows,” Callam said, as I followed him down the hill. Tiny rocks shifted under my feet, nearly sending me sprawling. I had to fight to keep my balance. “There aren’t many stories about it … well, not stories people will tell me. The only one I’ve heard is that the city was destroyed during the wars and the population slaughtered. But no one knows just how long ago that actually was.”

I frowned. “They don’t know?”

Callam snorted. “The folk here don’t bother to measure time past a couple of hundred years or so,” he said. “This city could have been sacked three hundred years ago, or fallen with the Thousand-Year Empire, or simply predated the empire by thousands of years. If you ask anyone, even Granny, you’ll get an answer that will be pretty much useless.”

“Ouch,” I said.

I ground my teeth in annoyance. I’d been taught to measure time as accurately as possible. How else could we keep history? But Father had admitted, more than once, that our history records weren’t as accurate as we wanted to think. The details stored in the family archives might be right in general terms, he’d said, but the specifics might well be wrong. There were even files that had been sealed. No one was allowed to read them, save for the Family Council. I’d certainly never been permitted to touch them.

Akin tried to get in once, I recalled. And Father was not happy.

Up close, the city was even more discomforting. The shattered buildings were bad enough, but the half-intact buildings were worse. They had laid there for hundreds of years, yet I couldn’t escape the sense that they were going to shift and crash down on us like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t see anything growing in the ruins, nothing to suggest that life was slowly coming back to the battered city. The doorways yawned open into a darkness that seemed somehow unearthly. Ice ran down my spine every time I tried to look into one. I wouldn’t step through a doorway if I was paid. I doubted, on a very primal level, that I’d ever escape.

“They say the land is cursed,” Callam called back. He clambered onto a pile of rubble and turned to face me, throwing his arms open wide. “They never come here.”

I frowned, uneasily. The shadows were growing longer. I felt tiny compared to the immense city, as if I were a fly crawling across something far bigger than myself. The city seemed to grow larger - and darker - with every step I took inside it. My head spun as I tried to understand what I was seeing. I hadn’t thought the city was that large when we’d looked down from the hillside, but now … now I felt as though it went on forever. Things seemed to be moving whenever I took my eyes off them.

Callam jumped down and hurried towards me. “Isabella? Are you alright?”

I shook my head, mutely. Akin had talked about what he’d seen - and sensed - in the Eternal City, but I hadn’t believed him. I’d been too busy cursing Cat for being dumped into a cesspit and coming up covered in diamonds. Now, I believed him. Whatever had destroyed the Eternal City had warped magic itself. And this city was no different.

“This isn’t a good place,” I said. My teeth were threatening to start chattering, even though the air was still quite warm. “Can’t you feel it?”

“I can’t feel anything,” Callam said. He put an arm around me. “It’s just … it’s just a pile of old buildings.”

I leaned into his arm, silently grateful for his touch. And yet, the urge to run was growing stronger and stronger. I found myself looking around frantically, my eyes peeping into the darkness. We were being watched. We weren’t alone. And yet … I couldn’t see anything. I wanted to run, yet … I didn’t want to shame myself in front of him.

Idiot, a voice said, at the back of my head. It sounded like Father. Listen to your instincts.

A gust of cold air blew against me. I turned … and saw something, standing in the darkness. A vaguely humanoid form … I saw it. I nudged Callam, not daring to speak. He turned, then frowned at me. He couldn’t see it. Why couldn’t he see it?

“Isabella,” Callam said. “What …”

The darkness grew stronger. Callam sucked in his breath. I saw faces in the darkness, glowing with an eerie white light. Shivers ran down my spine as I stumbled backwards, unable to take my eyes off the entities. They were glaring at me, their hatred hanging on the air. Callam tensed beside me as the entities started to move. He could see them now.

“What are they?” Callam sounded alarmed. “Isabella, what are they?”

“Ghosts,” I muttered. I risked a glance backwards. The way we’d come was lost in darkness and shadow. I had the unpleasant feeling that the city itself was changing to trap us. “We have to get out of here.”

Callam pulled me backwards, into the darkness. I gritted my teeth as the sense of wrongness finally overcame my control. I panicked, turning and running for my life. Strange shapes loomed within the darkness, some taking on shape and form. I saw one ghost shift from a humanoid form into an eldritch abomination, long glowing white claws reaching out for me. It brushed my shoulder, just once, and its touch was cold enough to turn my skin to ice. I staggered. I would have fallen if Callam hadn’t caught me and pulled me along. I silently blessed him as I struggled to stand under my own power. My body was betraying me.

I could hear voices, right at the edge of my awareness. They were mumbling nonsense, each word blurring into the next until I couldn’t make out a single word. I thought I caught a couple, but none of them made sense. My legs threatened to buckle as the darkness grew deeper, the shapes taking on stranger and stranger forms until it made my head hurt to look at them. There was something about the shadows my mind refused to comprehend.

“I don’t know the way out,” Callam shouted. I could hear the desperation in his voice. He was on the verge of panic. I didn’t feel much better. “We need some light!”

“Hold on,” I shouted back. I reached into myself and cast the biggest, strongest light spell I could. The world blazed with light. Just for a second, the ghosts fell back. I thought I saw the way out, lying open in front of us. “We need to …”

The spell collapsed. The darkness fell on us like a physical blow. I saw the ghosts reform and plunge towards me, drawn - I realised numbly - by the magic. I’d practically signed my own death warrant. Callam hit out at one, his fist harmlessly passing through the entity. It didn’t seem harmed, but … I thought it gave him a wide berth. The expression on its face was more bemusement than anger. And then the other ghosts gathered themselves and reached out for me …

Icy fingers brushed against my soul. I screamed.

Chapter Thirty-Two

They’re drawn to magic, I thought, as the ghostly fingers grew stronger. They’re going to tear it right out of me.

I forced myself to rein in my magic as best as I could. Callam wrapped his arm around me, holding me with one hand as he flailed around with the other. The ghosts seemed oddly wary of him, but he wasn’t strong enough to keep them all back. They kept slipping forward, their hands elongating into things, and stabbing themselves into me. I could feel them tearing at my magic. The pain was excruciating.

“Get out,” I mumbled. The cold was so deep that I was sure I was going into shock. I’d never felt so cold, not since one of my cousins had literally trapped me in ice. I didn’t know what Mother had said to her, but she’d given me a truly sincere apology the following day. “We have to …”

Callam caught hold of me and flipped me up and over his shoulder. I felt a moment of pure panic, which faded rapidly as the ghosts resumed their attack. Ice fingers stabbed into me, again and again, as Callam started to run into the darkness. The ghosts seemed to grow stronger, glowing brighter as they lashed out at me, but Callam kept going. I gritted my teeth, feeling blood trickling down my jaw, as the darkness exploded into light. Callam was running, and carrying me, towards the steep hillside. Behind us …

The ghosts seemed weaker in the bright sunlight, but I could see them. Their faces looked humanoid rather than human, as if they couldn’t quite remember what they looked like, but there was no mistaking their expressions. They hated us. My body shivered, helplessly, as Callam ran up the slope, picking his way between the rocks with casual ease. The sun was bright and the air was warm, but my teeth were chattering. It was so cold.

“They’re coming,” I managed. It was so hard to talk. I didn’t know if Callam could make out a single word. “Run!”

Callam leaned forward as we reached the top of the hill and ran down the far side. I felt a moment of pure horror as he stumbled, terrified we’d both fall and break our necks, before we reached the bottom and found the path. The ghosts didn’t seem to want to follow us any further, although I could sense them hovering at the top of the hill. It was no surprise, now, that the locals left the ruined city strictly alone. I was astonished that Callam had been able to visit without consequence.

He slowed to a stop, gasping for breath. “Isabella,” he grunted. “Are you alright?”

“Cold,” I managed. My body felt as if parts of it had turned to ice. The sunlight wasn’t doing anything for me. “I … put me down.”

Callam gently lowered me to the ground. I gritted my teeth against the pain - and the dull sensation that parts of my body were frozen solid. My arms and legs barely moved, no matter how hard I tried to force them to work. I felt a flicker of pure panic as I tried to cast a spell, only to realise that my magic was drained to the bone. The ghosts had fed on my magic, leaving me a husk. I would have died there if Callam hadn’t carried me out. I was probably the single biggest meal the ghosts had had since the city had been ruined.

“I couldn’t see them until they started glowing,” Callam said. He was rubbing his hands together, looking at me with a concerned expression. “What were they?”

“Ghosts,” I mumbled. My jaw wasn’t working right either. I had the nasty feeling I was going into shock. “They were ghosts.”

I looked back towards the hillside, wondering what was lurking in the ruined city. I’d never heard of anything like it, not even in the remains of the Eternal City. Akin had reported strange and unpleasant sensations, but he hadn’t said anything about ghosts. The old stories suddenly seemed very real. There were ghosts and they hated us.

And there was something in the hall, I thought, numbly. I had the absurd urge to just drop everything and run all the way back to Shallot. What was it?

My body twitched, then spasmed. I gritted my teeth, unsure what was happening. I felt … I felt ill. A wash of sensations rushed over me - I was hot and cold, sweaty and dry - as I tried to sit upright. But my body refused to obey. I ended up sprawled on the ground, gasping for air. My magic was practically a distant memory. I would have panicked more over that if I hadn’t had so many other problems.

I looked at Callam. “Can you move my hand so I can see it?”

Callam frowned, but did as I asked. My hand looked normal. It certainly didn’t look as if it had been transformed into a block of ice. When he pulled back my sleeve, I saw unmarked flesh. And yet … my arm felt as if I’d lost it completely. I might have been very lucky, I realised numbly. If the ghosts had stabbed their translucent fingers into my heart, I might have died.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” Callam said. “I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “You didn’t know what was going to happen,” I told him. “And …”

My voice trailed away. Callam hadn’t been able to see the ghosts until they’d started to light up, which meant … which meant what? He hadn’t been able to sense them either, the same way Cat hadn’t been able to sense hexes on her chair or jinxes on her clothes. If he had no magic worthy of the name, if he had no magic at all, he might be perfectly safe in the ruined city. The ghosts might not be able to sense him either. If they were drawn to magic, they might not see someone who had none. I wondered, grimly, if I should discuss the possibility with him. It wasn’t fair to leave him in ignorance, but … it wasn’t fair to get his hopes up either. I cursed under my breath. If only we had a proper test for no magic.

A year ago, everyone knew that everyone had magic, I reminded myself. We never thought we needed to devise a test.

Callam touched my arm. I could see him do it, I could see my shirt responding to his touch, but I couldn’t feel anything. My skin was completely numb. I didn’t think that was a good thing, somehow. The ghosts had left their mark on me. Their ice pervaded my body. No matter how I tried, I could barely move my arms and legs. And yet, I wasn’t frozen. My body simply wouldn’t obey orders.

“Can you move?” Callam peered down at me. “Can you get up?”

I shook my head, mournfully. Even that was difficult. I wasn’t sure what to do. A hot bath might unfreeze me, if there was any physical component to the icy sensation at all, but if I’d been cursed a bath might make it worse. I needed help, magical help, and there was only one place to get it. And yet … that might make things worse too.

Callam put his arm under my shoulder and helped me to stand. My legs felt like floppy appendages that dangled uselessly below me. They buckled the moment I put my weight on them, nearly sending us both crashing to the ground. Callam let out a long sigh, then hefted me up and over his shoulders again. It was utterly undignified, but I couldn’t think of any alternative.

“I’m taking you back to the hall,” Callam said. I heard a quiver in his voice. “I don’t think Granny will know what to do.”

I’m not sure Uncle Ira will know what to do either, I thought, as I tried to think of another option. Uncle Ira would be furious if he discovered I’d left the grounds again, particularly as I wasn’t chaperoned. And if he wasn’t furious, Morag certainly would be. She might curse Callam again …

Callam started to walk. I gritted my teeth at the discomfort, silently grateful that no one was around to see us. If Hart and Hound had seen us … my blood ran cold as I realised I was in no state to defend myself. It was almost a relief that the two boys had vanished. I didn’t know if they’d gone to join the army or run away to sea or something else, but at least they were out of our hair. Unless they were hiding somewhere nearby, watching gleefully as the locals searched for them. Perhaps they’d simply walked into the mire.

I found my voice. “Callam … are there others like Hart and Hound?”

Callam coughed as the path started to incline upwards again. “They were the worst,” he said, gruffly. “I imagine the others will start being pricks soon enough.”

I made a face. I’d been a patron at school, at least amongst the first-years, but now … someone would have taken my place. I’d made a fool out of myself badly enough to convince the rest of the firsties that I wouldn’t have any power to help or harm anyone in the future. And all my clients would have run away to my successor. I wished, suddenly, that Akin had the mindset to be a good patron. He could have taken over with nary a bump and the family would have prospered. Instead …

It isn’t your problem any longer, I told myself, as Callam reached the top of the hill. You may never go back home.

I looked back at the hill that concealed the ruined city. It … I hadn’t realised, the first time I’d seen it, just how odd it truly was. I’d been a fly crawling across something so vast that I hadn’t been able to grasp its true size. And yet, now … the more I looked at the hill, the more something nagged at my mind. The stories about the Thousand-Year Empire included tales about flying cities and castles in the clouds. Had the city plunged to its death? Was the hill actually an overgrown impact crater?

It was a fascinating thought. Father had taken us to see the Star Crater a couple of years ago, during a family vacation to the country estate. He’d told us that a rock had fallen from the sky, many years ago. I hadn’t believed him, but now … now I wondered if it was true. The hill that concealed the city looked very much like the Star Crater, only on a much greater scale.

I should write to Akin, I thought, although I had no way of knowing if the letter would get through. He’d be fascinated.

My body shivered, again, as Callam carried me down the hill. The ground squelched under his boots, reminding me that we weren’t that far from the mire. I looked up, despite the growing stiffness in my neck, and picked out the near edge of the bog. It was harder to spot than I’d expected, even though I knew what to look for. I found it easy to believe that Hart and Hound might simply have walked into the mire and drowned. The spells I’d used to try to locate them might have been disrupted by the ruined city.

Perhaps the ghosts went after them, I thought. Hart and Hound had had magic. Not much, admittedly, but enough to make them dangerous. The ghosts might have sensed their power and moved in for the kill.

I coughed, somehow managing to talk. “Callam … how many magicians have come from here?”

Callam didn’t answer for a long moment. “Very few,” he said. “A couple of kids from the next town got scholarships to Jude’s, I think, but otherwise … not many. Hart and Hound were the most powerful magicians in the town, Isabella, and you broke them. Your uncle is the strongest magician around and he’s not native to the region. I …”

He stumbled. I silently cursed myself for distracting him, then forced myself to think. It was a welcome distraction from the growing stiffness pervading my body. The kids from the next town … had one of them been Rose? It was a tempting thought, but I didn’t dare let myself believe it. And otherwise … why had so few magicians come from Kirkhaven? Had the ghosts attacked anyone with strong magical powers? I wouldn’t have survived the encounter if Callam hadn’t been there. Someone with less power might have been killed very quickly.

And there are stories about ghosts, I reminded myself. Granny had told us that much, hadn’t she? There must have been a few survivors.

My mind started to wander as my body grew colder, despite the sun. I remembered being a little girl, so determined to make something of myself; I remembered making my pitch to my first client, a girl who had been as determined to make me her patron as I’d been to take her as a client; I remembered facing the Family Council, trying to answer their questions and knowing, all the time, that there were no good answers I could give. And I remembered icy fingers stabbing into my soul. I felt a rush of affection for Callam as I realised, once again, that he had saved my life. He’d been level-headed enough to spot the way out and take it even as the darkness crashed down on us.

“We’ll be there soon,” Callam said, wheezing slightly. I felt him stumble, slightly. “I …”

He stopped to gasp for breath. I cursed myself, again, for being so weak. He was strong, I knew, and I wasn’t that heavy … but carrying me for several miles had to have drained him. I wished, just for a moment, that I could cast a spell to help. But, even if I’d had the magic, I was in no state to cast a spell. I might wind up accidentally floating myself to the moon. I’d heard stories of magicians who’d tried to fly themselves to the moon, but none of them had ever come back. No one knew why.

Cat will build an Object of Power that will take us to the moon, I thought, remembering the old stories about the Thousand-Year Empire. Sorcerers had once flown halfway around the world in a night, just to attend parties. And Akin will be there beside her.

I tried to move my legs, just slightly, but nothing happened. They felt as if they were still nothing more than blocks of ice. I gritted my teeth as Callam started to move again, silently promising him all the rewards I could offer. But they were few and far between. Once, I’d had a credit line that was practically unlimited; now, I had nothing, save for the wretched necklace. And I didn’t think Callam could sell it anywhere. People would ask too many questions.

And he’d probably be cheated, I thought. My vision was starting to blur. How would he be able to sell it properly? Is there anyone here, even in Caithness, who could pay for it?

I must have blacked out for a few minutes, perhaps longer, because the next thing I knew was that we were standing in front of the gates. Panic ran through my mind as I remembered, too late, that Uncle Ira had guests. It was why I’d had the nerve to leave the grounds for so long in the first place. Callam lowered me to the ground, keeping one arm wrapped around my shoulder, as he rang the bell. There was no sound, but I knew Uncle Ira and Morag would be alerted. I wanted to tell Callam to run. He’d be in real trouble if …

The gates opened. Uncle Ira was standing there, looking displeased. His eyes opened wide when he saw me - for a moment, I thought I saw actual concern in his expression - and then narrowed as he moved his gaze to Callam. I felt Callam shiver. We’d been out without permission, utterly unchaperoned … Callam might be in real trouble. And me too, for that matter. I’d defied my uncle’s orders. It was the second time I’d done it, too. He wouldn’t take that lightly.

Callam started to say something. Uncle Ira made a gesture and Callam’ voice cut off abruptly. His arm vanished, sending me stumbling down to the muddy ground. I was dimly aware, as my vision started to blur again, of Uncle Ira looked down at me and muttering a spell. Magic tingled over me, unpleasantly. The ice seemed to grow worse. Uncle Ira tried two more spells in quick succession, then said a word I knew better than to repeat in front of anyone. I couldn’t help thinking that I was beyond help.

“Uncle,” I managed. “Uncle …”

“I’m here.” Uncle Ira sounded more annoyed than concerned. “What have you done to yourself?”

I found it hard to speak. But I forced myself to speak anyway. “Don’t hurt him, please,” I pleaded. My mouth was turning to ice. I wasn’t sure he could actually understand what I was saying. “I’ll do anything.”

There was a long chilling pause, long enough to make me wonder if I’d made a mistake, before Uncle Ira spoke. “Anything?”

“Yeah,” I slurred, somehow. My head was starting to spin. It was hard to keep hold of my thoughts. I could no longer see, even though I was sure my eyes were open. But it didn’t matter. Saving Callam’s life was the only thing that did matter. “Anything.”

“Very well,” Uncle Ira said. “Anything.”

He tapped my forehead. The world went black …

… And faded away to nothingness.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I jerked awake, unsure if I was truly awake or simply dreaming.

It took me a long moment to realise that I was lying in my bed in Kirkhaven Hall. Someone — Morag, probably - had closed the shutters, dimming the light to a level I found perversely comforting. My bed was drenched in sweat: I shivered, helplessly, as the memories flowed back to me. I’d been having nightmares while I’d been lying in bed … I pinched myself, just to be sure I was awake this time, then sat upright. Morag was sitting in a chair, reading a book. I couldn’t see the title.

“Well,” Morag said. She looked relieved, rather than angry. “You gave us quite a scare.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, wondering how long her relief would last. “What happened?”

“Your magic was badly drained - brutally drained, really,” Morag told me. She put the book aside - I couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t have a title - and stood. “There was no physical damage, as far as we could tell, but we thought we were going to lose you anyway.”

I nodded. “And Callam?”

Morag’s lips thinned until they were almost invisible. “I believe Master Ira wishes to talk to you about him,” she said, in tones of stark disapproval. “But rest assured the young” - she made a visible effort to choose her next word carefully - “man is still in the land of the living.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know if he’s done you any favours,” Morag said. I wasn’t sure if she meant Callam or Uncle Ira. “But I dare say he’ll address the matter with you himself.”

She looked me up and down for a long moment. “I’m going to fetch you something to eat,” she said. “I want you to stay in that bed, understand?”

“Yes, Senior,” I said. My body felt warm again, thankfully, but I didn’t think I could get up to use the chamberpot, let alone go walking around the hall. “I won’t leave.”

Morag scowled at me, then turned and left the room. I looked down at myself, half-expecting to see scars or traces of frostbite or something. But my body was unmarred by … by whatever the ghosts had done to me. Someone had put me in a nightgown - I hoped it had been Morag - but otherwise I was unchanged. And yet, I could still feel the ice every time I closed my eyes. I’d come very close to death in the ruined city and I knew it.

The door opened. Morag carried a large tray into the room and placed it on the table. “You need to eat all of this,” she said, as she picked up a large bowl of carrot soup and passed it to me. “And then we’ll see how you cope before moving onto something more solid.”

“Thank you, Senior,” I said.

The soup smelt wonderful. I practically inhaled it. Morag watched me with faintly disapproving eyes, but she didn’t bother to comment on my table manners. Instead, she merely passed me a pair of potion vials and ordered me to drink them. I hesitated, remembering the last potion I’d been forced to drink, but there was no choice. They tasted foul, yet they worked well. I was feeling better almost before I finished the last drop of soup.

“Good,” Morag said, stiffly. “Can you stand?”

I forced myself to clamber out of the bed and stand on wobbly legs. It wasn’t easy to make my way into the bathroom, but stubborn pride kept me from asking for help. Morag had already filled the bathtub with water, thankfully. I tried to cast a heating spell, only to have my head suddenly explode with pain. I fell, badly. I would have hit the ground if Morag hadn’t caught me.

“No magic,” she said. “Master Ira will talk to you about that later.”

It was all I could do to remain calm as she heated the water, helped me to wash as if I were a little baby, then marched me back to bed. I wasn’t a child. And yet … Morag was treating me as though I was a toddler. I supposed I deserved it. I’d ignored Uncle Ira’s orders and nearly managed to get myself killed. I had no doubt that Morag was saving a lot of chores for me to when I was better.

“There are books for you to read,” Morag said. “Or you can go back to sleep.”

I met her eyes. “How long was I asleep?”

“Five days.” Morag’s tone was so firm that I believed her. “You came very close to death, young lady. And I suggest you learn from the experience before you get yourself killed for good.”

She picked up a book and passed it to me. I snorted inwardly - I was in no mood for reading about advanced charms - but I took it anyway and started to read. The author seemed to believe that everyone shared his enthusiasm for charms, even though half the spells he discussed were of little real value. He also assumed a degree of competence on the part of his reader that I found more than a little annoying. A number of his spells were effectively useless to anyone who didn’t know the background.

The door opened, an hour later. Uncle Ira stepped into the room.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” he said. He nodded to Morag, who stood and left the room. “We have a lot to discuss.”

I sighed, inwardly. It was time to face the music.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” I said. “I …”

“I have a lot of questions I need to ask you,” Uncle Ira said, cutting me off. “However, I’m not sure I could trust your answers.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the compeller. I blanched, opening my mouth to protest as he pointed the device at me. It lit up, the light somehow reaching into my mind and freezing me in place. I was dimly aware that he was asking questions, and that my mouth was answering, but I didn’t know what I was saying. My thoughts felt sluggish, as if they were no longer mine. It was all I could do to keep from falling asleep.

The light vanished. My head snapped forward, nearly hitting the bed before I caught myself and glared at him. I hated that device, hated it. I’d never felt so small or so helpless in my life, even when … no, I’d never felt so helpless.

Uncle Ira put the compeller away and looked at me. “I believe I told you not to leave the grounds,” he said. “And I believe you were punished, earlier, for leaving the grounds.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said, sullenly.

“Perhaps you could explain, right now, why you decided to ignore me,” Uncle Ira said, coldly. “I told you that this is a dangerous place for youngsters.”

I swallowed, hard. He’d asked questions, questions I knew I’d answered. And yet … what had I told him? The truth, of course. What hadn’t he asked me? I didn’t know.

“I wanted to do something for my birthday,” I said, finally. “And Callam suggested visiting the ruined city.”

“I see,” Uncle Ira said. “So you decided to defy me and go out on an adventure that nearly got you killed.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said.

“You came very close to death,” Uncle Ira said. “I am most displeased.”

He met my eyes. “And you really should have told me about the gap in the wards,” he added, after a moment. “You owed your friend nothing.”

“He is my friend,” I said. “And there’s no one else I can talk to here.”

“Indeed,” Uncle Ira said.

“He saved my life,” I protested.

“After endangering it in the first place, I might note,” Uncle Ira said. He looked oddly thoughtful, as if I’d somehow distracted him. “But yes, he did save your life.”

I looked back at him as evenly as I could. “What did you do to him?”

“I asked him a number of questions, then let him go,” Uncle Ira said. He tapped his pocket, meaningfully. “Your friend does seem to have made himself quite at home on my property, young lady, but he doesn’t seem to have meant any harm. He’s nothing more than he seems, it would appear. And you did bargain for his life.”

My blood ran cold. I’d told Uncle Ira I’d do anything. And anything covered a multitude of sins.

Uncle Ira cleared his throat. “It seems that trying to keep the pair of you apart is a waste of time,” he added, after a moment. “You may spend time with him on the grounds. I’ve already cleared him to enter through the gates. You may not go down to the town without an escort, at least not with him. Your reputation is at stake.”

I flushed. “Do you care?”

“No,” Uncle Ira said. “But you might.”

I frowned, unsure what to make of it. Uncle Ira wouldn’t be providing any real chaperonage, even if Callam and I were running around the grounds. He was more concerned with maintaining the proprieties than doing anything practical. And yet … I looked down at the duvet, wondering why Uncle Ira had decided to allow Callam to keep visiting the grounds. I’d known magicians who’d blow an intruder into dust or turn them into something permanently. Uncle Ira was being … odd. Did he think he really couldn’t keep us apart? Or did he have an ulterior motive of some kind?

“Morag isn’t going to like it,” I said carefully, more to test the waters than to raise any real objection. “What about her?”

“I’ll speak to her,” Uncle Ira told me. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“That doll of yours was very clever,” Uncle Ira added, after a moment. “I was really quite impressed. Some of the older rituals are quite hard to make work properly, but you succeeded. Mind you, it wouldn’t have worked in a building with better wards, wards smart enough to notice that you appeared to be in two places at once, yet it worked here. Very good work, young lady.”

I felt my cheeks heat. “Thank you, Uncle.”

“Mind you, it won’t work twice,” Uncle Ira added. “And I expect you not to try it again.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said.

Uncle Ira met my eyes. “Whatever else happens, understand this. You are not to leave the grounds again, not without my explicit permission. You are not to do anything intended to spoof the wards or trick me into thinking you’re doing what you’re told. If you do” - he waved a hand at the blue walls - “you’ll spend the remainder of your exile here, eating bread and drinking water. Do you understand me?”

I lowered my eyes. “Yes, Uncle.”

“The ghosts came very close to killing you,” Uncle Ira added. He pointed a finger at me. “If they hadn’t, if you hadn’t suffered any consequences for your stupidity, rest assured that you would have been severely punished. As it is … I expect you to keep your side of the bargain.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I managed. My throat was suddenly dry. I’d offered him anything and he could demand anything. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hah,” Uncle Ira said.

I drew in my legs and wrapped my arms around them. “Uncle … what were those things?”

“The ghosts?” Uncle Ira shrugged, expressively. “No one really knows, to be honest. I believe, after digging through the handful of records that were left here, that Kirkhaven Hall was actually founded to study the remains of the city. But … the studies apparently went nowhere. There are a lot of myths about ghosts and other entities in the area, more than anywhere else this side of the Desolation, but very little solid information.”

He steepled his fingers as he looked at me. “What did you make of the city?”

I took a breath. “It was flying,” I said. I couldn’t think of any spell that could cause such devastation, but if one assumed the city had literally fallen to the ground … it did make a certain kind of sense. The wreckage reminded me of the time I’d broken grandmother’s teapot. “And then it fell out of the sky.”

“That’s one possible answer,” Uncle Ira said. “Anything else?”

“And it’s haunted,” I added. “But where did the ghosts come from?”

“Good question,” Uncle Ira said. “And one to which I would like an answer.”

He stood. “I’ll have a message sent down to your friend in a day or two, informing him that you’re ready to play with him again,” he added. “But remember what I said. Do not leave the grounds.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said. “I …what if I’m eating with his family. Or going somewhere where we wouldn’t be alone.”

Uncle Ira pointed a finger at me. “Don’t try to change the rules, young lady,” he said. “You are to stay in the grounds until I say otherwise. Understand?”

I swallowed. “Yes, Uncle.”

Uncle Ira nodded curtly, then turned and walked out of the room. I stared after him, trying to understand what had happened. He’d used the compeller to make me talk, which meant … what? Did he know what I’d suspected about Callam’s true nature? And if he did, what then? Would he try to use Callam? Or … I wondered, grimly, why Uncle Ira had decided to allow Callam and me to remain friends. It made little sense. A moment of kindness from someone who didn’t particularly care about the social niceties or didn’t think my reputation really mattered in the long run … or something far more sinister? Morag wouldn’t be pleased when she found out. I wondered if she was going to be shadowing us as we wandered the grounds.

Probably, I thought. Or maybe she’ll decide it doesn’t matter.

I forced myself to stand and walk around the room, despite the growing tiredness in my arms and legs. The ghosts had definitely left their mark on me. I stumbled over to the window and forced open the shutters, peering out into the darkening sky. It wasn’t evening, I thought; it was merely yet another thunderstorm, blowing in from the mountains. Rain started to splash against the window as lightning flashed in the distance, reminding me that I should be glad to be inside. And that Uncle Ira hadn’t been too angry …

The thought nagged at my mind. Uncle Ira should have been beyond furious. I’d defied him and Callam … Callam had threatened his reputation as well as mine, although I supposed that Uncle Ira’s reputation was beyond saving anyway. I should have been sentenced to chop vegetables or clean rooms or something for the rest of my life. Uncle Ira would have been well within his rights to kill or mutilate or even enslave Callam. And yet, he’d taken the news very calmly. It worried me more than I cared to admit. I’d practically given him a blank cheque.

I promised him anything, I reminded myself, again. And that could be … anything.

I turned as I heard the door open. Morag stepped into the room without knocking. I had to bite my lip to keep from glaring at her. Even Mother wouldn’t have come into my room without knocking, unless she had some reason to think I desperately needed help. I was entitled to a little privacy at home, wasn’t I? There was so little outside my suite …

“Get into bed,” Morag ordered, as she held out another vial. “You need to build up your strength before you start building a new treehouse.”

I flushed. Clearly, Uncle Ira had asked me - or Callam - about more than just his way in and out of the wards. Callam had probably been subjected to the compeller too. I wondered, bitterly, if he wanted to return to the grounds. Uncle Ira could have scared him … or used the compeller to insert a command not to return without permission. And yet, Uncle Ira had told me that Callam was free to return.

“It’s his treehouse,” I said, remembering the one I’d smashed. “I just … I just helped expand it before I knocked it down.”

Morag looked as though she’d bitten into a lemon. “I hope you remember to behave yourself,” she said, as she pushed me towards the bed. “You do have a hope of returning home one day.”

“Not much of one,” I muttered. I made a mental note to check if my escape bag was still hidden in the gatekeeper’s cottage. If Uncle Ira had found and removed it, I’d have to make a new one. “You have more of a hope than me.”

“Perhaps,” Morag said, stiffly. “And perhaps you should stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

I climbed into bed and pulled the duvet up to my neck. “Morag … why do you stay here?”

Morag’s face went blank. “I believed, at one point, that I would eventually be allowed to return,” she said. “Now … I stay because I have nowhere else to go.”

I winced at the pain and loss in her voice. Morag no longer had any hope. No wonder she was so snappy with me. She thought I had hope, a hope she lacked. And she might even be trying to do me a favour when she tried to protect my reputation. Mud stuck, particularly when someone wanted it to stick. But I couldn’t see myself being invited back to Shallot in a hurry.

And if a grown woman doesn’t want to leave, I asked myself, what will happen to me later on?

“Get some rest,” Morag ordered, as she headed to the door. “Tomorrow will be a very busy day.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Morag, unsurprisingly, was right.

My magic took several days to recover, but neither Morag nor Uncle Ira seemed inclined to let me rest. I spent the mornings preparing potions ingredients for Uncle Ira, including a number I’d only read about in textbooks, and the afternoon chopping up vegetables for Morag, who seemed determined to cook as much food as she could before the next group of visitors arrived. The only upside was that Callam did seem to be able and willing to enter the grounds. We spent a few happy hours each evening working to rebuild the treehouse.

“So tell me,” Uncle Ira said, after I’d chopped up a few hundred black beetles. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine any potion that needed quite so many ingredients … I couldn’t even think of one that called for most of the ingredients. There were a handful of possibilities, but most of them were either too advanced or too rare for me to know enough about them to be sure. My father would probably have looked at the small pile of ingredients and known exactly what Uncle Ira was doing. I simply couldn’t guess.

“Among other things, I’m trying to find substitutes for unicorn hearts and phoenix tears,” Uncle Ira told me. “Have you heard of the man who killed the golden goose?”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said. It had been one of the tedious stories with morals that Father had insisted I study when I was a child. The goose laid golden eggs, but the man who’d been fool enough to kill the goose wound up with neither the gold nor the goose. “I know the story.”

“It isn’t easy to collect phoenix tears, let alone unicorn hearts,” Uncle Ira said. “It’s very difficult to keep a phoenix in captivity, as you probably know, and any charms that might induce them to cry also ruin the potency of the tears. And yet, they have so many uses that even contaminated tears go for a very high price.”

He shrugged. “Unicorns have the same problem,” he added. “They’re rare, so capturing and killing one is almost impossible. And yet, again, they have remarkable value to the right person. You could buy and sell a dozen halls like mine” - he nodded to the walls - “for a single unicorn heart. If we could discover a way to substitute something else, something a little easier to procure, we could revolutionise the art of potions brewing and save thousands of lives …”

I looked at him. “And studying the Dark Arts helps?”

“It can,” Uncle Ira said. He cocked his head in contemplation. “But we should be careful not to take the books the warlocks wrote too seriously. Some of their research was quite promising, I feel, but other pieces were little more than maddened ravings written by lunatics. I don’t think you can actually perform frightful spells on a chicken’s egg and get a cockatrice when the magic has finally run its course. But common sense hasn’t stopped a number of idiots from trying to do just that.”

He snickered to himself, then turned to face me. “In any case, it is time for you to start repaying your debt,” he told me, bluntly. “Sit down, please.”

I swallowed, then sat down at the desk and crossed my legs. If he wanted me to do something … I cursed under my breath as I saw the potions vial in his hand. He’d been chattering to me simply to lure me into a false sense of security. I opened my mouth to object, then closed it again. I had promised him anything, hadn’t I? In hindsight, that might have been rather stupid of me.

“You want me to drink that,” I said. “Right?”

“Correct,” Uncle Ira said. One hand dropped to his pocket. “Do I have to compel you?”

“… No,” I said, quickly. I’d drink the potion myself, rather than be subjected to that … that thing again. I tried to think of a way to steal and destroy the compeller before Uncle Ira used it on me, but nothing came to mind. I didn’t think I could slip a hand into his pocket without being caught. “I’ll drink it.”

“One big swallow,” Uncle Ira said, as I unsealed the vial. “Just put it to your lips and drink.”

I took a sniff, but smelled nothing. I hesitated, then opened my mouth and swallowed the liquid in one gulp. It tasted … it tasted of nothing. If I hadn’t felt the cool liquid running down my throat, I would have wondered if I’d actually drunk anything. I sat back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest in a way I knew annoyed Mother. Uncle Ira didn’t seem to notice, as far as I could tell. He was more interested in watching me and waiting for something to happen.

It felt like hours had passed before he spoke. “Well?”

“I don’t feel anything,” I said. I glowered down at my hands. “I don’t …”

My head started to spin. I felt as though I was running in circles, even though I was sitting at the desk. The room was moving under my feet, the ground shifting as if we were on a boat … I felt a sudden wave of seasickness that nearly had me throwing up. It was all I could do to remain stable as the room lurched, again and again. And then the desk came up and hit me …

I awoke in my bed, feeling wretched. My throat hurt, as if I’d retched and retched again until my stomach was completely empty. Morag eyed me with stern disapproval as I tried to force myself to stand up, my arms and legs feeling oddly dead. My magic felt as though it was wrapped in a cloud of fog. I needed Morag to help me use the chamberpot, then take a bath. My legs simply refused to support me.

“You blacked out,” Uncle Ira said, when he entered the room. “Your body rejected the potion.”

I glared at him, not bothering to hide my feelings. If he hexed me or hit me or did anything to me … at least I’d feel something. I had never felt so ill in my life, even after the ghosts had nearly killed me. It was all I could do to sit upright without falling over like a doll.

“Interesting,” Uncle Ira said. “Very interesting indeed, don’t you think?”

“So you invented a knock-out potion,” I said, in a tone I knew would have angered Mother to the point where I would have been grounded for years. “I can do that without having to waste so many expensive ingredients.”

Morag cleared her throat, loudly. Uncle Ira ignored her.

“We know the potion did something,” he said, as he produced something from his pocket. I nearly panicked before realising that it was an odd-looking spellcaster. But then, a compeller was a spellcaster too … of sorts. “We just have to figure out what it did and why.”

I frowned. “What is the potion meant to do?”

“Better you don’t know,” Uncle Ira told me. “Stand up, please. I need you to stand in the centre of the room.”

I shrugged and did as I was told. Uncle Ira ran the spellcaster over me, waving it randomly over my body before walking around behind me and running it down my back. I could feel my magic giving little sparks of power in response, as if he was gently simulating it with the spellcaster. The sensation wasn’t exactly sore, but it started to grow unpleasant as he repeated the process again and again. I gritted my teeth, then stepped forward after a particularly nasty jolt. Uncle Ira didn’t follow me.

“What happened?” His voice was very calm. “What - exactly - did you feel?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, stalling while I tried to think what to say. I didn’t dare lie to him, not while he could simply compel me to talk. “I just … the room started spinning, like I was on a ship, and then I blacked out. And that was it.”

“I see,” Uncle Ira said. He was studying the spellcaster with a thoughtful expression. “I want you to stay inside for the rest of the day. If Callam comes to visit, you can entertain him in the old dining hall.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I said.

Callam wasn’t due to come for a couple of days, but that didn’t stop Morag popping up at random intervals to check on me. I didn’t know if she wanted to make sure I didn’t leave the hall or if she wanted to chaperone me, yet it was immensely annoying. I gritted my teeth and did my best to ignore it as day slowly turned to night, joining Morag for dinner before heading up to bed. Uncle Ira seemed to have vanished. I didn’t see him again until the following day.

“I’ve got another potion for you to drink,” Uncle Ira said, after giving me another medical check. The process was slightly less uncomfortable this time. “Here you are.”

He held out a vial. I eyed it as if it were a poisonous snake. If the last vial had knocked me out, what would this one do? The liquid looked bright against the glass, a shimmering multicoloured potion that seemed to hum with power. And yet, I was wary. I didn’t even know what the experiments were intended to achieve.

“Drink it,” Uncle Ira said. “Please.”

I sighed, uncapped the vial and swallowed it in a single gulp. It tasted of fruit, I thought; something citrusy, something that was almost pleasant to drink. I sat back, wishing I’d thought to suggest I drank the potion while lying in bed, and waited. Nothing seemed to happen for a very long time. And then …

My hand started to shake, just slightly. I felt a surge of energy, as if my magic was pressing against my skin and demanding release. My body was on fire, but … a good kind of fire. I wasn’t burning so much as I was wrapped in magic. My hand was glowing with light. I found myself smiling in joy. My magic wanted out.

“Cast a spell,” Uncle Ira said, quietly.

I shaped a spell in my mind, then cast it. A glowing light ball, easily two or three times the size it should have been, materialised in front of us. My power seemed to grow, not diminish, as the ball of light grew brighter. I giggled like a little girl - I couldn’t help myself - and stood, casting another spell as I practically danced around the room. And another. And another … it felt as if I was trying to expend the power before it exploded out of me. I ran through a whole set of spells, one after the other, as my power grew and grew. It should have exhausted me. Instead, I felt euphoric.

“Very good,” Uncle Ira said.

I giggled and cast a spell at him. It splattered out of existence against a hastily-raised shield, but … I laughed, helplessly, and threw another. My spells were starting to grow out of control as I pushed more and more power into them. I was giggling constantly now, as if someone had fed me a happiness potion, as the power grew ever stronger. I was dimly aware, at some level, that something was terribly wrong, but I didn’t care. The magic was growing stronger …

… and then it just snapped off, as if someone had turned off the tap.

I stumbled, then collapsed to the floor. My body was suddenly so weak I couldn’t move at all. Even breathing was difficult. I aware, on some level, of Uncle Ira walking towards me, but I couldn’t even roll over. Fear ran down my spine as I remembered the hexes I’d thrown at him, when I was in the grip of the power. If he wanted to punish me, I couldn’t even run.

“Yes,” Uncle Ira said. It took me a second to realise that he was talking to himself. “That looks far more satisfactory, does it not?”

I felt him roll me onto my front, then run the tip of the spellcaster down my spine. I tensed, expecting to feel another jolt or two, but there was nothing. Instead, he put the spellcaster on the desk and helped me to my feet. My legs were so weak that I could barely stand. I needed his help to sit down on the nearest chair.

We’ll have to put an armchair in here, I thought, tiredly. My thoughts were spinning out of control. And maybe a bed …

Uncle Ira put a glass of water to my lips. “Drink this,” he said. “It’s safe to drink. I promise.”

I wondered, sourly, if I’d given him a scare. The hexes I’d shot at him posed no threat to an adult magician, but they had been more than a little overpowered. I sipped the water slowly, looking down at my hands. They looked limp, utterly listless. The power that had blazed through them was gone.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Uncle Ira told me, as I finished the glass. He refilled it and put the water on the desk next to me. “For the moment, just relax.”

I tried, but it wasn’t easy. I’d made a fool of myself. I’d heard stories about magicians who’d become drunk on power, allowing their emotions to contaminate their spells and eventually drive them mad, but it was something I’d been taught to avoid. Father had been careful to teach me how to handle my growing powers before they could grow out of control. But now … my power had peaked, just for a few minutes, and I’d lost control. I’d allowed my emotions to drive my magic …

My head ached. I rubbed it gingerly as strength slowly returned to my muscles. My hands felt odd, as if they weren’t quite responding to me as they should. My skin felt oddly ashy, even though it was unmarked. I eyed my hand nervously, wondering at the pain below the skin, then forced myself to concentrate. It would fade soon, I was sure. The alternative was unthinkable.

Uncle Ira paced the room, muttering to himself, as I slumped on the chair. I wanted another glass of water, or perhaps a restoration potion or two, but I couldn’t muster the energy to reach for the former or ask for the latter. What was Uncle Ira doing? He’d clearly had some success, but … why? What did he hope to achieve? A permanent power boost or something else, something darker? I wished I believed he’d give me an honest answer.

“You should go to bed early tonight,” Uncle Ira said. “You can take tomorrow off, although” - he jabbed a finger at my head - “you are not allowed to leave the grounds. Are we clear on that point?”

“Yes, Uncle,” I managed. My body felt tired. My throat was dry. It was all I could do not to fall off the chair. “What … what was in that potion?”

Uncle Ira gave me a wry smile. “Most people are happier not knowing what goes into their potions.”

I scowled. It was true enough, I supposed. No one wanted to think about the precise quantities of frogspawn, or bat eyes, or snail jelly, or something else equally disgusting that might have gone into their potions. I’d been reluctant to drink a number of common potions after discovering what went into them, even after brewing them myself. Father had told me off for it, one of the few times he’d ever raised his voice to me. I must have been a right little brat.

“I already know what goes into some of mine,” I said, although I suspected it was already useless. Uncle Ira wasn’t going to share his secrets and that was that. “If you told me, I could brew them for myself.”

“I’d be surprised if you could,” Uncle Ira said. He studied me, thoughtfully. “You’re nowhere near that advanced, not yet. A few more years of practice and then … maybe. We shall see.”

I looked down. “Yes, Uncle.”

“But you will get there eventually,” he added. Behind me, the door opened. “Ah, Morag. Please take Isabella back to her room, then give her some food. She can have tomorrow off.”

“As you wish, Senior,” Morag said. She sniffed in disapproval as she helped me to my feet and half-carried me towards the door. “I’ll see to it personally.”

I forced my legs to work properly as we stumbled down the corridor, eventually managing to stand up without assistance. Morag watched me through expressionless eyes, her face so blank that I couldn’t tell if she was amused or concerned or merely annoyed with having to help get me back to my room again. I wanted to ask her if she knew what Uncle Ira was doing, but I suspected she wouldn’t tell me even if she did know. Instead, I promised myself that I’d start going through the books again as soon as possible. There had to be some clues about what Uncle Ira was trying to do.

“You need to rest, apparently,” Morag said, when we reached my room and stepped through the door. “And perhaps you can spend part of tomorrow cleaning up your room.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed, without the slightest intention of doing anything. I could kick the handful of dirty clothes into a basket and take them down to the washroom tonight, if I wished. The duvet had been changed yesterday, but the old one probably needed to be washed. If I knew Morag, she’d saved it for me. “Or I could go out with my friend.”

Morag snorted. “Watch your back,” she said. “No one else is going to watch it for you.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Your uncle gave you another potion?”

I nodded from where I sat on the tree stump, watching Callam carefully hoist the logs into the branches for the next treehouse. I’d offered to levitate them up for him, but he’d insisted on doing it himself. Akin had been much the same, when he’d started to forge. He’d wanted to do everything he could without help from anyone else, even me. Father had encouraged him to be as independent as possible.

“Yeah,” I said. The brief surge of power - real power - felt like a dream. “And it … it gave me power.”

An odd expression flittered over Callam’s face. It vanished before I could put a name to it.

“Isabella,” he said. “Are these … are these potions safe?”

“… Probably not,” I admitted. “Normally, potions are tested thoroughly before someone is asked to drink them.”

“Then what exactly is he doing, giving them to you now?” Callam clambered down the tree and walked over to me. “Is he trying to kill you?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “But … he’s clearly up to something.”

Callam frowned. “What?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “But …”

I looked down at my hands. I didn’t know what to do. I’d given Uncle Ira my word that I’d do anything and … and he was feeding me experimental potions. He might not want to kill me - there were plenty of easier ways to kill me - but a single misjudgement might leave him with a dead body and a great many explanations to make. There were limits, if Father was to be believed, about how far potions could be tested before someone drank them. Uncle Ira could take every precaution in the book and still accidentally kill me.

And I don’t even know if I can leave, I thought. Uncle Ira hadn’t touched the bag I’d concealed in the cottage - I didn’t know if he’d thought to ask me about escape plans or not while I’d been under the influence - but the wards were strong. Callam had admitted that he couldn’t get in or out through the river any longer. I might be unable to leave if I wanted to.

“The first potion boosts your power to the point where you lose control,” Callam said, nodding to the scorch marks on the ground. “The second knocks you out, right? And the third gives you a more controlled power boost.”

“Yeah,” I said. Uncle Ira was clearly experimenting with ways to boost magic. And yet, everything I’d learnt about magic insisted that there were no shortcuts. A person who wanted to be a strong magician had to work at it. Even someone born with a great deal of raw talent - like Rose - needed to hone their skills or they’d be tied up in knots by someone who actually knew what they were doing. “He’s clearly getting close to something.”

I sucked in my breath, coming to a grim resolution. “I think it’s time I found out what.”

Callam gave me a sharp look. “How do you plan to do that?”

“He told me that I wasn’t allowed to go onto the sixth floor,” I said, remembering the first instructions Uncle Ira had given me. “I think I need to find out what he’s doing up there.”

I shivered, despite myself. A magician’s lab was his own private space. Invading it, whatever the intention, was a serious breach of etiquette. Uncle Ira would have every right to be angry at me, if he caught me sneaking through his wards. And yet … I looked at my hands, feeling an odd ache burning below the skin. Uncle Ira would keep testing his potions on me until he either managed to stabilise the brew or accidentally killed me. I needed to know what he was doing.

Callam jumped to his feet. “I can come with you …”

“No,” I said. “If he catches you up there, he’ll kill you.”

“Are you sure he won’t kill you?” Callam started to pace. “If he’s up to something that would worry your family …”

I hesitated, unsure. Uncle Ira was very definitely up to something that would worry my family. If I hadn’t known that when I’d seen the books on the Dark Arts, I’d have known it the moment he forced me to drink the first potion. Experimenting with the Dark Arts alone would be enough to condemn Uncle Ira to death. He might manage to talk his way out of it - he’d certainly survived whatever had got him sent into exile - but I doubted it. The family was not secure, not now. They’d have to come down on Uncle Ira as hard as they could.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “He might lock me in my room, but I don’t think he’d actually kill me. He seems to need me for something.”

“Be careful, alright?” Callam sat down next to me. “Do you want me to wait outside?”

“I’ll go tomorrow morning,” I said. “Uncle Ira doesn’t wake up until noon.”

I tried to spend the rest of the afternoon having fun, but it wasn’t easy. Fear was gnawing at my heart as I finally bid farewell to Callam and headed back to the hall. I’d told Callam that I wasn’t in any real danger, but I didn’t believe it. Uncle Ira would have every right to do whatever he wanted to me, if he caught me in his lab. Magicians guarded their secrets carefully. I’d heard horror stories about intruders who’d been cursed multiple times before they’d finally been handed over to the City Guard.

There was no sign of Uncle Ira at dinner, so Morag and I ate in silence before I finally walked back up the stairs and stopped on the fifth floor. I could feel the wards above me, their sheer power pulsing through the air. Cat was supposed to have forged something that actually let her see the wards, but I had to rely on my senses … which meant reaching out, very gingerly, to feel out the magic. The wards snapped and snarled at me, suggesting they were designed to attack anyone who even brushed against them. A skilled wardbreaker could probably have taken them down, but I didn’t know where to begin. Even looking closer might draw their attention.

And there are no other ways up to the sixth floor, I thought, as I checked the other stairwells as carefully as I could. Uncle Ira had sealed them all, layering wards upon wards until the sixth floor was practically inaccessible to anyone without the right permissions. I gritted my teeth in frustration as I checked the fireplaces, wondering if I could clamber up to the sixth floor. But they appeared to be sealed too. What am I supposed to do?

A hundred wild schemes ran through my head as I made my slow way back to my room, ranging from the impossible to the completely impossible. I didn’t have a sample of Uncle Ira’s blood, so I couldn’t trick the wards into thinking I was him; I didn’t have a compeller of my own, so I couldn’t force Morag to take me up to the sixth floor. I wasn’t even sure Morag had access to the sixth floor. Uncle Ira might have been reluctant to let her anywhere near his workplace.

I entered my room and sat down on the bed, feeling despondent. I wanted - I needed - to know what he was doing, yet I couldn’t get into his lab. Father would probably have been able to bring down the wards - and Cat could have forged a wardbreaker that shattered everything - but me? I couldn’t even begin to sneak through the wards, let alone dismantle them. Uncle Ira was certainly not going to give me a tour. It seemed hopeless.

Rain splattered against the window. I rose and walked over to the glass, peering out into the darkness. No light glimmered in the grounds, nothing to suggest there were any habitations within a hundred miles. I looked up at the ceiling, wondering bitterly if I could simply cut through the wood and climb up to the next floor. But it seemed unlikely …

I stopped, dead, as a thought occurred to me. What if I climbed up the outside of the hall and entered through a window?

It seemed impossible, yet - once I’d had it - the thought refused to go away. Uncle Ira had plenty of reason to secure the stairwells and the fireplaces, but what about the windows? We were five stories above the ground. If Uncle Ira had copied the protections from the family hall, there would be charms on the ground floor to deter anyone from trying to climb up, but nothing higher. Why should there be? No one could get to an upper floor window to climb out without passing through the wards on the ground floor.

I lay back in bed and closed my eyes, trying to think of everything that could go wrong and devise a counter. Uncle Ira might have charmed the windows, in which case I would have to cast a levitation spell before I hit the ground or I’d be dead. Would the charms on the windows alert him if they repelled an intruder? I doubted it - there were so many birds around that there would be hundreds of false alarms - but what if I was wrong? What if …?

My eyes jerked open. Sunlight was streaming through the windows. I sat upright, splashed water on my face and checked the clock. It was nearly seven o’clock. Morag wouldn’t be moving around for at least another couple of hours. I changed into a new shirt, then walked over to the window and forced the catch open. Cold air blew into the room as I stuck my head out and peered upwards. The walls were pitted with plenty of hand and footholds, but I cast a pair of protective spells anyway. I didn’t want to fall to my death.

I hesitated, feeling my heart starting to pound with fear, then slowly inched my way onto the ledge. The whole idea had seemed much more practical in the middle of the night, before I’d actually had to put it into practice. Now … the wind blew against me as I started to scramble up, feeling my way from handhold to handhold. I shivered, helplessly. It was all I could do to keep my eyes on the upper floor window and not look down. I couldn’t help noticing that the windows had been tinted to make it impossible to peer through them. A chill ran through me as I reached the sixth floor. Uncle Ira might not have forgotten the windows after all.

But he can’t have expected someone to try climbing up from one of the lower windows, I told myself. Anyone who could get into the hall without permission might be able to get through his wards without needing to climb.

The thought hung in my mind, taunting me, as I started to fiddle with the window. If I couldn’t get it open … the wind blew stronger, droplets of rain hanging on the air, as I finally managed to force the window to open. A handful of minor charms snapped at me, but I froze them before they could throw me away from the window and out into the open air. I tensed, half-expecting my spells to set off alarms, but nothing happened. Unless, of course, the alarm was silent …

You’re committed now, I thought. Hurry!

I pushed the window open and crawled inside, unsure what to expect. A table, a chair … there was nothing, save for a short drop to the floor. I slid down, catching myself on my hands and looked around as I pulled myself to my feet. The air was heavy with wards, although I couldn’t tell what they actually did. A shiver ran down my spine, again, as I realised when I’d last seen such wards. Father used them in his potions lab.

This has to be a storage room, I thought. What is he doing here?

My eyes swept the shelves. The walls were lined with ingredients, ranging from the common to the extraordinary. Uncle Ira had never told me he had a stockpile of dragon scales! I gave them a wide berth, all too aware that dragon scales could react badly if someone even looked at them funny. I vaguely recalled a rumour about Cat trying an experiment with dragon scales, an experiment that had ended badly. I’d been too busy sniggering over how close she’d come to being kicked out of school to pick up the details. In hindsight, I really should have paid closer attention. But I’d been too foolish to care.

I dismissed the thought with an exasperated snort and made my way slowly to the door. It was locked, but only with a simple physical lock. I frowned and carefully checked for traps, then muttered a spell to open the door. It clicked open without hesitation, revealing a corridor that was surprisingly - astonishingly - clean. Uncle Ira must have cleaned it carefully when he moved into the hall, then placed charms to keep it clean. I wondered, as I inched my way down the hall, why he hadn’t bothered to do the same for the rest of the building. It wasn’t as if it would have taken much time.

Maybe he just didn’t want his potions lab contaminated, I thought, as I reached the next door and checked the lock. Dust in the wrong place could easily cause an explosion.

The lock puzzled me for a long moment. It was another physical design, rather than a locking charm. It nagged at my mind before I decided that Uncle Ira knew that his wards would keep out intruders. Anyone who could get through the wards wouldn’t be deterred by a simple locking charm. I braced myself, then unlocked the door. It opened into a large research lab. The walls were lined with books, some protected behind powerful wards; the desks and tables were covered in notes. A diagram of the human body lay on the nearest table, a handful of notes scribbled beside it. I peered down at the diagram, frowning at just how much attention Uncle Ira had paid to the spine. A shiver ran through me as I remembered that Uncle Ira had been very interested in my spine. There were arrows on the diagram pointing to five places on the spine.

What is this? I was baffled. I could understand him being concerned for my health, or my magic, but the spine? It made no sense. And what does it have to do with the potion?

I pushed the thought aside as I slipped away from the diagram and walked over to check the other tables. A large notebook lay open in front of me, filled with notes written in Uncle Ira’s spidery handwriting. I forced myself to decipher his words, one by one. A potions recipe - with half the ingredients referred to by codenames - and a set of notes. It took me longer than it should have done to realise that the notes referred to me.

This is what he forced me to drink, I realised, as I read the notes. Uncle Ira was clearly pleased with himself. The potion had been a success, at least to some extent. But what does it do? What is it intended to do?

I read further and found the answer. The potion was designed to boost magical power, at least for a short period. I checked backwards and found a dozen different variants on the same recipe; the base instructions were identical, but the quantities of encoded ingredients varied wildly. Uncle Ira seemed to believe that one potion - I guessed it was the one he’d forced me to drink - had had too much of one ingredient and too little of another. The second potion wasn’t balanced at all, while the third …

He thinks he found something, I thought. He had found something, I thought. But what is he doing?

I forced myself to think as I scanned the recipe, trying to figure out what the encoded ingredients actually were. A potion to boost magic … I knew families who would pay through the nose for a booster potion that actually worked. I gritted my teeth as I read through the notes, including a line about the potion probably being indirectly addictive. A user might not become dependent on the potion, but they would do anything to have the power again and again …

Shaking my head, I glanced through the remaining papers. They consisted of potions recipes, a handful of observations on the nature of magic and ghosts … and a series of notes, mainly concerning me. There was no one else who fitted the description, as far as I knew. Uncle Ira had monitored my magic, measured my development and primed his potions to match. I was torn between horror and an odd kind of awe. Uncle Ira had indeed pushed his research into new territory. I wondered, grimly, if he’d experimented on Morag too. Or if she was his partner in crime. The notes suggested that Uncle Ira had experimented on others, but he’d found the results unsatisfactory.

I reminded myself, grimly, that I couldn’t stay here forever and forced myself to check the next room. The door was completely unlocked. It was a massive potions storehouse, lined with hundreds of bottles and vials, all carefully marked with Uncle Ira’s handwriting. I glanced over them, noting the existence of a handful of other enhancement potions and a handful of vials filled with blood, then hurried to the next room and opened the door …

… And stopped dead in absolute horror.

Chapter Thirty-Six

For a long moment, I literally could not move.

Cold horror held me frozen as I stared into the room. It was a chamber of nightmares. It was … I realised, dully, that it was a slaughterhouse. The walls and floor were splattered with human blood. The stench was unbelievable. A body lay face-down on a table in the centre of the room, wrapped in a preservation spell … someone had cut into the body’s back and started to remove the spine. I forced myself, somehow, to walk closer and peer into the wound. Uncle Ira - it had to be Uncle Ira - was dissecting the body. I felt my gorge rise and swallowed, hard. It was all I could do to keep looking.

I looked at the face, not daring to touch the body and risk breaking the preservation spell. It was Hart … I shuddered in sudden realisation, understanding - finally - why the spell I’d used to find Hart and Hound hadn’t worked. They’d been here, held prisoner until Uncle Ira could get around to dissecting them. I swallowed, again, as I tried to understand what he was doing. It was possible, I knew, to take organs from one person’s body and put them in another person’s body, but why bother? A magician capable of carrying out such a procedure could also cast spells designed to force a person’s body to regenerate itself.

My hands were shaking. I hesitated, then slowly inched around the corpse. Was Hart alive under the spell? I didn’t think so, but I knew from class that preservation spells could keep someone in mortal stasis until they could be cured. Uncle Ira might have suspended Hart on the very edge of death, making sure that his body didn’t die until he’d extracted all usable organs from it. I hoped the poor boy wasn’t aware of time passing, if that was the case. Hart and his friend had been bullies, no better than the person I’d been last year, but they didn’t deserve to be tortured to death by a warlock …

I staggered under the sheer enormity of the realisation. Uncle Ira was a warlock! Studying the Dark Arts and brewing experimental potions was one thing, kidnapping and dissecting helpless villagers was quite another. He might have been able to evade punishment for feeding me experimental potions, but there was no way the family would let him get away with kidnapping and torturing the locals. House Rubén was not in a good position right now, thanks to me. The Family Council would have to hammer Uncle Ira into the ground.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to pick my way through the puddles of blood and peer into the next room. If anything, it was worse. Uncle Ira had been kidnapping people for a long time. Brains rested in transparent jars, floating in liquid; other organs, or what I thought were organs, were sitting in bottles, protected by preservation spells. I didn’t want to look any further, but I knew I had no choice. An entire shelf was devoted to vials of blood, each one carefully marked in Uncle Ira’s handwriting. I wasn’t at all surprised to discover that he had a vial of my blood. He must have taken it when I was unconscious. I hesitated, fighting the temptation to simply pocket it. A Potions Master would know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, precisely what was in his storeroom. He’d realise it was missing and then … and then he’d know what I’d done.

A nasty thought struck me as I looked along the shelf, silently noting blood samples from Hart, Hound and Morag. What if Uncle Ira had taken a blood sample from Callam? It would have been easy, while he’d been using the compeller on my friend. Naked horror ran through my blood as I found the vials. Uncle Ira had taken nine whole vials of blood from Callam. I wondered, grimly, what it meant. Was Uncle Ira curious about the boy who’d befriended me or … did he think there might be something unusual about Callam? I didn’t know.

He could have asked me while I was under the compeller, I thought, numbly. Uncle Ira was clearly carrying out research into something. But what? The booster potion didn’t seem to be the only thing he was doing. Did I tell him my suspicions?

I peered into the next room … and almost threw up. Hound’s head was sitting on a spike, staring at me. I stared back, convinced - against all logic - that he was somehow alive and well. Uncle Ira had been doing something with him, but what? Hound’s eyes blinked slowly, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound. Was he still alive? Or was Uncle Ira performing experiments on a preserved head? I couldn’t see any expression on his face, no awareness - for better or worse - that I was there. What was Uncle Ira doing?

Another notebook sat on a table beyond the severed head. I hesitated, then sat down on the stool and started to flick through the book. It was elaborately detailed, with a number of illustrations that made me blush; Uncle Ira had clearly studied everything written and published about the human body, then started to add his own observations. They were written in his wretched handwriting, forcing me to parse them out word by word. But, as I slowly worked my way through the book, I thought I finally started to understand what he’d been doing.

The exact nature of magic is not well understood, Uncle Ira had written. We rely on magic for everything, yet we don’t understand how it works. Why do some people have enough magic in their little fingers to destroy a building or turn someone into something else for days - weeks, even - while others barely have the power to light a fire? What powers magic and how does it work?

I read on, slowly putting the pieces together. Uncle Ira had realised, eventually, that magic was channelled through a spinal organ - no, a number of spinal organs. Strong magicians, he’d noted, simply had more of the organs than weak magicians. They were like muscles, apparently; one person might be born with more muscles than the next, but the weaker man could build up his strength through a program of heavy exercise or simply train himself to use what he had to offset the strong man’s advantages. There had to be limits, Uncle Ira had speculated, but so far no one seemed to have realised where they were.

Removing the magical channeler, for want of a better term, and transplanting it into someone else’s body has proven unsuccessful, Uncle Ira had added. Furthermore, removal of the channeler results in the donor’s death. However, by using one person’s magical channeler as the basis for a potion, it is possible to enhance the drinker’s magic by a quite considerable amount. Side effects …

I stopped, dead. The potion I’d drunk … I didn’t want to think about it, but I had no choice. Uncle Ira had dissected Hart and Hound, taken their … magical channelers … and used them to make the potions he’d given me. I felt sick. I had to fight to keep from throwing up spectacularly. A potion made with human flesh was dark. There was no doubt about it. A potion that killed the person who supplied the ingredients was unquestionably dark. And Uncle Ira had fed it to me. I swallowed, again and again. What had he done to me?

Gritting my teeth, I skimmed through the remaining notes. Uncle Ira had carefully logged the results of each test, then modified the potion and tried again. I checked the dates and swore under my breath. Hart and Hound hadn’t been the only people to vanish over the last few decades. Uncle Ira had been kidnapping people with strong magic - or as strong as it got in Kirkhaven - and taking their magical channelers to serve as the base for his experiments. I shuddered in horror. No wonder Uncle Ira hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d been perfectly safe carrying out his experiments so far from prying eyes.

And it must have been a shock when I was sent up here, I thought, as I closed the notebook and turned away from the animated head. The last thing he wanted was more eyes looking in his direction.

I shuddered. Uncle Ira had given me the Dark Arts books. Had he been trying to corrupt me? I’d been told horror stories about warlocks who lured young magicians, too young to know any better, into the Dark Arts. Uncle Ira must have hoped I’d join him - or that I’d do something so stupid that I wouldn’t have a hope of going back home. Father would not have been amused if he’d learnt his daughter was experimenting with the Dark Arts - and the Family Council would have been furious. They wouldn’t have listened to anything I told them.

And if I did join him, he’d have a willing pair of hands, I thought. Uncle Ira had only started experimenting on me when it had become clear that I was neither going to join him nor obey him. He must have thought it was worth trying to corrupt me.

I took one last look around the room, trying not to look too closely at the head, then turned towards the door. I had to get out of here, somehow. I had to alert the Family Council … if, of course, I could get a message out. And yet … how was I going to get out of the grounds? Uncle Ira had closed the gap in the wards and the gates wouldn’t let me through … I hesitated, then took one of the vials of Callam’s blood, silently begging his forgiveness. I’d have to use it to trick the wards into thinking I was him. I hoped they weren’t smart enough to realise that Callam hadn’t gone into the grounds before he wanted to leave them.

Take the necklace and trade it for a lift to Caithness, I told myself. If I was lucky, I could be halfway there before Morag or Uncle Ira realised I was gone. And then speak to the Kingsmen when you get there.

It wasn’t a good plan, but it was all I had. I walked back through the storeroom, saw the vial of my blood and picked it up. Uncle Ira would notice it was missing, I was sure, but hopefully I would be well away before he clambered out of bed. I couldn’t leave him with any of my blood. He’d probably be able to track me using his own blood, assuming we weren’t that far apart on the family tree, but at least he wouldn’t be able to curse me at a distance. Uncle Ira would have no qualms whatsoever about using forbidden magics to shut my mouth permanently.

I took one last look at Hart’s body, shuddered as my eyes passed over the places where Uncle Ira had dug into his flesh to reach the spine, then walked back into the workroom. The notebooks lay where I’d left them, their gory instructions open to the world. I glanced down at the recipe, silently matching the codewords to items removed from human bodies. Uncle Ira wasn’t just using the channeler, I thought. He was using blood and even raw flesh to help make the potion. He’d been right about one thing, I decided, as I read through the recipe. It really was astonishingly complex. And he seemed to think that his final version had been a success.

I knew I should hurry back through the window and down to the grounds, but instead I walked back into the storeroom. The latest version of the potion was right in front of me, glowing faintly in a small decanter. Uncle Ira probably planned to test it on me later today. I poured a small amount into a vial, sealed the lid and placed it into my pocket. If I was stopped somewhere along the road to Caithness, the potion might make the difference between life and death. I’d just have to make sure someone reliable came with me.

Callam, I thought. There’s no one else.

It was a bitter thought. I didn’t want to drag him into this, not when there was more at stake than my reputation and social propriety, but I suspected it was too late. Uncle Ira knew there was something odd about him now. Who knew what Uncle Ira could do with a potential Zero to examine? Or … I shuddered, helplessly. If Callam was simply a very low-power magician, could Uncle Ira tempt him with the promise of power? I knew what I’d do if someone made me that offer. Stregheria Aguirre had made me that offer and I’d taken it without a second thought.

And Callam’s house is the first place Uncle Ira will check, I thought, as I reached the window and wrestled it open. It was starting to drizzle, water splattering off the brickwork and falling towards the ground far below. I considered, just for a moment, trying to jump to the ground and counting on my magic to keep me alive. He will …

The air turned cold. I twisted around, just in time to see a ghostly form reaching for me. I let out a yelp - I couldn’t help myself - and practically threw myself through the window. My fingers slipped, a moment later, and I fell … I saw the ghost, looking down at me, an instant before I cast the spell to save myself. The magic felt odd, as if it was being drained; I nearly panicked, casting and recasting the spell until I hit the ground and bounced. I looked up as I fought to gather myself, but saw nothing. The ghost was gone.

The ghosts, I thought, as I struggled to my feet. What are they?

It was all I could do to force myself to walk normally as I strolled around the house and down the drive. I felt cold and wet, even though the rain hadn’t really started yet, but I knew there was no time to go back to the house and look for a coat. Uncle Ira’s pet ghost might alert him to my presence or … or he might decide to get up and inspect his lab at any moment. He’d know there’d been an intruder the minute he realised the blood samples were missing. And who else could it have been?

I’m committed now, I told myself. The gatekeeper’s cottage loomed up in front of me, looking mercifully intact. There’s no way back.

I opened the door, took a moment to brush the rain out of my hair and then opened the hatch into the cellar. The underground section was dry, my bag lying where I’d placed it on the ground. I cast a summoning spell and drew the bag to me, checking the contents as soon as it was in my hands. Everything was there, untouched. Even the necklace hadn’t been moved. I slung the bag over my shoulder, silently kicking myself for not having thought to pack a coat, then walked out of the cottage. The gates seemed as intimidating as ever. Uncle Ira had clearly enhanced the wards over the last few days.

This could end badly, I thought, as I drew the vial containing Callam’s blood out of my pocket and splashed some on my hand. This could end very badly indeed.

Holding up my hand, I chanted the spell as I walked to the gates. In theory, the wards should mistake me for Callam; in practice, it depended on just how smart the wards actually were. It wasn’t easy to ward a large area with spells complex enough to do more than check a visitor against a list of authorised personages, but Uncle Ira was smart enough to do it. But would he have bothered? It would have taken days out of his work, even with Morag’s help. I knew he hadn’t asked me to help.

The gates opened slowly, allowing me to step through. I kept walking, trying not to cringe at the increasingly aggressive spells that buzzed through the air, just waiting for a chance to snap at anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there. The feeling of being watched grew stronger, just for a moment, then faded away entirely as I made my way down the road. I let out a sigh of relief as, behind me, the gates started to close. They’d been fooled.

Thank the ancients, I thought, feeling sweat trickling down my back. I felt free, truly free, for the first time in months. Uncle Ira would come after me, of course, but for the moment I was free. And now I have to hurry.

I was nearly halfway to Kirkhaven when I heard horses on the road ahead of me. I hesitated, then jumped off the road and hid behind a gorse bush. It wasn’t easy to find a way to peer out without being seen, but I managed it … just in time to see a wooden carriage, pulled by a pair of horses, gallop past me. I stared after it for a long moment, then forced myself to wait before I returned to the road. There was nothing further up the road but Kirkhaven House. Whoever was driving the carriage had to be going to see Uncle Ira …

And let’s hope it keeps him distracted, I thought, as I resumed my walk. Morag hadn’t mentioned anything about expected guests. The longer it takes for him to realise I’m gone, the more distance I can put between us.

And I hoped, as I forced myself to walk faster, that it would be enough.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The rainfall had turned into a torrent by the time I reached Kirkhaven, drenching my clothes and making it hard to see. Mist hung in the air, cutting the visibility down so sharply that I was seriously concerned about walking into the river. The noise of falling water was so loud that I couldn’t help worrying about accidentally walking into another carriage going in the opposite direction. Uncle Ira’s guests probably didn’t know me by sight - save, perhaps, for the ones who’d met me - but they might say something anyway. And then Uncle Ira would know where I’d gone.

But there’s nowhere else for me to go, I thought. I didn’t know how to walk cross-country, even if there wasn’t a risk of drowning myself in the bog. He knows I have to come here.

The streets were almost empty as I made my way towards Callam’s house. Water dripped off the stone roofs and flowed into the gutters, which emptied themselves into the river. I thought I saw faces looking at me, from curtained windows, but I might have just been imagining it. Smart people would be inside now, drinking hot chocolate and enjoying the enforced break; I doubted that anyone, even the schoolchildren, would leave their homes as long as the rain was bucketing down. It was hard to believe that there might be shepherds watching the flocks in the rain. Even sheep had enough sense to come out of the rain.

My clothes were utterly waterlogged, water running down my back in a steady stream and pooling in my boots by the time I finally reached Callam’s house. I had a moment of doubt as I stumbled up the driveway, wondering if it really was the right house. If I was about to tap on the wrong door … I sensed a faint ward surrounding the house, centred on a horseshoe hanging on the door. Callam’s father could easily have erected the spell. It wouldn’t have kept a real magician out, not for very long, but it would have made life harder for Hart and Hound.

I tapped the door, hoping desperately that someone was inside. The door opened a moment later, revealing Callam’s mother. Catha’s face was full of hope, but it faded the moment she saw me. I thought, just for a moment, that she was going to turn me away before she motioned for me to enter the house. I was uneasily aware that I was dripping water on the stone floor.

“Where’s Callam?” My teeth were chattering. It was hard to speak. “I need to see him …”

“We don’t know,” Catha said. “He went out to get food and never came back. I thought … I hoped he’d gone up to see you.”

I shook my head, feeling a sense of numb dismay crashing down on me. Callam was gone and that meant … I swallowed, hard, as I remembered the carriage. Callam wasn’t the type of person to abandon a job and sneak off to see a friend, no matter who she was. He would have taken the food home first. No, someone had kidnapped him … and I was sure I knew who that someone was. Uncle Ira - or someone working for Uncle Ira - had snatched Callam off the streets and taken him back to the hall.

You could be being paranoid, I told myself. You don’t know Callam was in that carriage.

“He doesn’t come up this early in the morning,” I told her, feeling my hair start to itch as it dried. “I … he would have knocked on the door, just to let us know he was there.”

Catha eyed me. “Then where is he?”

I swallowed, hard. I could tell her the truth, or what I thought was the truth, but what good would it do? Catha couldn’t help save her son. Callam’s father couldn’t help save his son. The entire village could turn up with pitchforks and torches and Uncle Ira would kill them all with a wave of his hand. I doubted the villagers would care enough to even try to rescue him from the hall. Callam was an outcast, his father barely tolerated …

“I …” I forced myself to think. “Can you find me a needle? And some pieces of paper?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Catha said.

I blinked as she turned away, then glanced down at the blood on my hand. There should be just enough to perform a location spell. It would be harder to hide him too, given that I had a sample of his blood. I hastily dispelled the remainder of the magic I’d used to trick the wards as she returned, carrying a shining silver needle in one hand and several sheets of paper in the other. I took the needle and carefully cast the spell, frowning as the needle wobbled wildly before pointing back the way I’d come. Callam was either in the hall - the needle’s wobbling could indicate that he was behind the wards - or somewhere along the way to the hall. It didn’t look good.

Callam wouldn’t try to walk so far in the rain, I thought. Someone took him.

I stared down at the needle, then cancelled the spell with a snap of my fingers. Uncle Ira had taken Callam and that meant … what? The other kidnap victims had all been magicians, some of the strongest Kirkhaven and the surrounding area had produced, but Callam was no magician. Ice ran down my spine. Uncle Ira knew what I suspected about Callam and … and he intended to test it. And then … I had no idea what Uncle Ira could do with a Zero, but I doubted that either Callam or I really wanted to know.

He’s already brewing booster potions, I thought, remembering the vial in my pocket. What could he do if he also gains the ability to produce Objects of Power?

Catha held out the paper. “Do you need a pen?”

“Please,” I said. She wasn’t asking any questions. What did that mean? “And a couple of envelopes.”

She nodded and pointed towards the kitchen table. I sat down and put the first sheet of paper in front of me, trying to think what to say. The charms I’d place on the letter would ensure it would be read, at least, but beyond that … I hoped the Arbiters would have the sense to actually read it and act. The family’s very existence was at stake. I had no idea what Uncle Ira intended to do with his potion, but I could think of a couple of very nasty possibilities. And then … I took the charmed pen she offered me and wrote out a second note to the Kingsmen. They were responsible for dealing with warlocks, after all. They’d probably take the report seriously, even if it came from me. The charms I’d use to prove that I’d written it would definitely catch their attention.

This will not end well, I thought, as I finished writing the second letter. And no one will thank me for reporting it.

I pushed the thought aside and stuffed the letters into the envelopes, then layered charms over them to ensure they survived the wind and rain. A handful of other protective charms came to mind, but they’d simply draw attention from Uncle Ira or one of his agents - if he had agents - if they saw them. No one else in the vicinity could cast them, after all. I stuffed the envelopes in my pocket, silently grateful Callam had shown me where to find the post station. It shouldn’t be hard to get someone to take the letters.

Catha caught my arm as I stood. “Where is he?”

“At the hall,” I said, tiredly. I thought about lying, but she’d watched me perform the locator spell. “And he may well be a prisoner.”

I watched her face crumple and kicked myself. I should have lied. Maybe she would have seen through it and slapped me, maybe she would have believed me … it would have comforted her, just for a moment. Catha was an outcast too, as far as the villagers were concerned. There would be no search parties for a young man who simply didn’t fit in with his peers. And if Callam was a prisoner …

Catha tightened her grip on my arm. “What are you going to do?”

I swallowed, hard. “I’m going to get him back.”

Her eyes went wide. She let go of me. I turned and hurried out of the house as quickly as I could, unsure what else to say. Going back to the hall was a risk, but … Callam had saved my life. He was a friend. He’d been there for me when everyone else had turned their backs. He hadn’t even deserted me after Morag had turned him into a rat and Uncle Ira menaced him with the compeller. My friends back at Jude’s had turned their backs on me for far less.

I’m going to get him back, I told myself, firmly. I surprised myself with my determination. And then we’ll both run for …Shallot.

The rain slowly petered out as I made my way down to the post station. It was really a mid-sized inn with a handful of stables at the back … I wondered, as I saw the old road leading north to Caithness, just how many people passed through the region. Morag had told me that people went to Caithness, and beyond the city to the border, but they rarely went anywhere else. Kirkhaven and the other small towns were hardly tourist destinations. Indeed, the locals did everything in their power to discourage visitors.

A man was sitting outside the inn as I approached, wearing a faded blue cap, a jacket that had clearly been passed down from someone rather larger and smoking a pipe of something that hurt my throat. A horse stood next to him, drinking water from a metal bowl. The beast didn’t look as if it had been cared for by someone who loved it enough to brush its mane every day, but it was clearly in good condition. The man looked up at me, saw my expression and lifted his eyebrows. I might have worn a shirt and trousers rather than a dress, but it was clear I didn’t belong in Kirkhaven.

“Lassie,” he said. His accent was oddly familiar. It took me a moment to remember a family retainer who’d practically been adopted into the house. “You’re a bit young to be out here, aren’t you?”

I felt my cheeks heat, but ignored it. “I need you to take two letters to Caithness and deliver them,” I said, bluntly. “And you have to go now.”

His eyebrows quirked upwards, again. “And you think I’ll take the letters now?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling a hot flash of exasperation. I’d expected him to take them immediately, not ask stupid questions. Didn’t he know who I was? The realisation came instantly. Of course he didn’t know who I was. “You have to take them.”

“It isn’t time for me to go yet,” he said, leaning back on his chair. “I’ll take the letters now and go when I feel like going.”

I stared at him for a long moment, feeling magic rising up within me. I could force him to go, couldn’t I? But if the compulsion wore off halfway to Caithness I was going to be in some trouble. He’d just dump the letters into a bog or file an official complaint with the local magistrate … I had a nasty feeling that that worthy might be Uncle Ira or one of his men. Uncle Ira was certainly the biggest man around …

“I need you to go now,” I told him, pulling my bag off my shoulder and rummaging through it. “If you take the letters to their destinations, now, I’ll give you this.”

I held out the necklace. His eyes went very wide. He knew it wasn’t a fake, I guessed; even a fake would be worth quite a bit of money, if he managed to sell it. And I knew it was real.

“Impossible,” he breathed. He coughed. “Girl, are you mad?”

“No,” I said. “The necklace is yours as long as you deliver the letters to the right addresses within the day.”

He reached out and touched the necklace, muttering an assaying spell under his breath. The necklace glowed, revealing the presence of real gold. I heard him say a word I knew better than to repeat, at least in public, as he ran his fingers along the metal and brushed them against the rubies. The necklace was probably worth enough to set him up for life.

And there would be no trouble catching him if he didn’t keep his side of the bargain, I thought. The necklace was worth more intact than melted down for scrap. Gold was near-universal, but I figured he wouldn’t be able to sell the rubies without drawing attention to himself. No, he needs a clear claim to the necklace.

He sucked in his breath, eying me with new respect. “Give me the letters, My Lady.”

I took them out of my pocket and passed them over. The man stuck them in his bag, then held out his hand for the necklace. I hesitated, all too aware that I was in a weaker position than I cared to admit. Uncle Ira was hardly going to raise the country to track down the necklace for me. And yet, he didn’t know that. His only hope of keeping the necklace was to swear, with a clear conscience, that I’d given it to him as payment for services rendered.

“Make sure you put the letters directly into someone’s hands,” I said, as I placed the necklace in his hands. It was worth a lot of money. I had no doubt that he could sell the rubies alone for enough money to spend the rest of his life doing nothing. “They have to read them as fast as possible.”

The man bowed, clambered into his horse and cantered off. I watched him go, then turned and walked slowly back to the town. Kirkhaven was starting to come to life; children running to school while their parents headed out to the fields or shops. I felt a stab of envy, mingled with bitter contempt. Their lives were so simple, but so small. None of them realised just how big the world could be.

They’ll live their entire lives in this region, I thought, as I started the long walk up to Kirkhaven Hall. And they’ll never leave it.

I gritted my teeth as the iron gates slowly came into view. They were lying open, waiting for me. I eyed them suspiciously, suddenly reluctant to step into the grounds. Uncle Ira had left them open, which meant … my thoughts ran backwards and forwards. Was it a trap? Or had the carriage driver simply forgotten to shut the gates behind him? I doubted it. Uncle Ira valued his privacy. If he hadn’t been driving the carriage, the driver would have known to make sure the gates were closed.

“Isabella,” a voice said. I looked up, just in time to see Morag step out of the gatekeeper’s cottage. She held a spellcaster in her hand, pointed at me. “You are in big trouble, young lady.”

I held up my hands so she could see them, trying to look harmless while I hastily planned my next move. There was something curiously blank about Morag’s face, as if she wasn’t quite in control of herself. I remembered the compeller and shuddered. Uncle Ira wouldn’t have any compunctions about using the compeller on his unwanted servant, once it became clear that she couldn’t be trusted to help him. Or … I felt a gust of icy wind blowing against me as she took my arm and marched me up to the hall. It was impossible to tell if she was Uncle Ira’s co-conspirator or a dupe.

Or Ira might have assumed that she helped me get onto the sixth floor, I thought, numbly. He might not have worked out how I got up yet.

I gritted my teeth as Kirkhaven Hall came into view. Someone had tightened up the wards, giving the hall a distinctly ominous feeling. Morag ignored the sensation, if she felt it at all, as she pushed me into the main entrance. I looked around, silently checking my memory of the hall with reality. If I was wrong about this … the rug I recalled seeing on the wooden floor was still there. I stepped onto it, expecting her to follow me. She did.

“Up the stairs,” Morag growled.

I glanced at her. Her eyes were cold and blue and screaming. I pulled my arm forward and hurried forward, trying to make sure that I was a few steps ahead of her. The moment I was off the rug, I cast a spell and yanked it forward. Morag let out a yelp as she tumbled backwards, a freeze spell shooting from her fingertips and smashing harmlessly into the ceiling. I didn’t give her any time to recover. I shoved her head down into the wooden floor as hard as I could. Morag cracked her head against the wood and lay still. For a moment, I didn’t even dare to breathe. She might be dead …

No, I told myself, as I checked Morag’s pulse. She’s just stunned.

I heard someone behind me, but I couldn’t turn around before the spell struck me. My entire body locked solid. A moment later, an invisible force picked me up and turned me around. Uncle Ira was walking down the stairs, his face set firmly in an expressionless mask.

“Very well done,” he said, as I floated helplessly in the air. He checked Morag himself, then pointed a finger at her and muttered a spell. “There aren’t many people your age who could best an adult magician. But quite futile, in the end.”

He gave me a cold smile. “Come along,” he added, turning back to the stairs. “You won’t want to miss this.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I couldn’t move a muscle, not even to speak, as Uncle Ira floated me up the stairs. I’d been such a fool to think I could get in and out without being caught. I should have ridden to Caithness with the postman or … or done something, anything, that would have given me a chance to survive. I wanted to glare at his back as I bobbled up the stairs after him, like a balloon on a string. If I was lucky, if I was really lucky, he wouldn’t think to ask what I’d done in the town. The letters might be my only hope.

“You’re quite an impressive little girl,” Uncle Ira said. I had the oddest sense he meant it, even though I knew he was angry. “Very few girls your age would manage to get through my wards.”

I watched, helplessly, as he started to open his wards and float me onto the sixth floor. I’d been right. The wards were nasty. If I’d tried to punch my way through them, instead of finding a way around them, I’d be dead. Or wishing I was dead, perhaps. Uncle Ira had tied a great many curses into his wards. An unlucky intruder might wind up joining the statues I’d seen in the woods.

“And your friend is really quite impressive too,” Uncle Ira added. I drifted after him into a large examination room, the walls lined with jars, bottles and vials of potions. Callam was standing in the exact centre of the chamber, stripped to the waist; his arms and legs were bound with iron chains. “You know, of course, that Callam has no magic at all.”

Callam’s eyes went wide with horror when he saw me. I wanted to say something reassuring, but the spell wouldn’t let me move a muscle. Besides, I couldn’t say anything reassuring. Uncle Ira wasn’t relying on magic to hold Callam in place. Callam was strong, perhaps stronger than Akin, but he couldn’t break iron chains. And, without magic, he couldn’t undo the locks.

Uncle Ira lowered me to the floor, then waved the spellcaster at me. I felt the spell loosen, just a little. My lower body refused to move, but I could breathe and speak … I managed to move my arms, just slightly. It felt as though I was swimming, as though I had to push against an invisible resistance to move. I supposed I should be more than a little impressed by how easily he held me prisoner, but I was beyond it. I just wanted to get Callam out and run.

I found my voice. “What … what are you doing?”

Uncle Ira smiled. “You saw my notes,” he said. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re conducting research into magic,” I said. “And how we use it.”

“Precisely,” Uncle Ira said. “Many years ago, I got interested in the question of precisely why we have magic. Where does the power actually come from? And how does it work? It wasn’t a question that found favour with the Family Council. They sent me into exile rather than let me continue my experiments.”

“Because you were using the Dark Arts,” I guessed. Magister Niven had asked similar questions, but he certainly hadn’t been exiled.

“Hardly,” Uncle Ira said, with asperity. “They were concerned, you see, that I would discover how to boost everyone’s magic. The only thing that makes us special - that makes all of the Great Houses special - is our magic. What would happen, I ask you, if commoners had the same kind of power as us?”

“But some commoners do have the same kind of power,” I pointed out. Rose had been ignorant, but she hadn’t been weak. “And others can gain it …”

“Precisely,” Uncle Ira said. “And I wondered why that might be so. I plunged deep into researching the nature of magic itself, studying magicians as they cast their spells … looking for differences between strong magicians and weak magicians. If we know how a person’s lungs work, I asked, why can’t we figure out how they use magic? It was a question too far.”

He tapped the back of his neck, significantly. “You already know what I discovered, don’t you?”

I nodded, reluctantly. “There’s an organ that produces and controls magic,” I said. “That’s what you found.”

“Precisely,” Uncle Ira said, again. He clapped his hands together. “Except it isn’t one organ, not for everyone. Weak magicians have one or two; powerful magicians, people like you and me, have five. And people like your friend” - he nodded to Callam, who was listening silently - “have none. I suspect that the absence of such an organ means a complete lack of magic.”

You’ll have to test Cat to see if she has a channeler, I thought. I wasn’t fool enough to say that out loud, even though part of me wondered if it would be a bad thing. Cat would be heavily protected after the last kidnapping. Uncle Ira might be grabbed by her armsmen and arrested. And then they’d get the truth out of you.

“It’s really quite an interesting organ,” Uncle Ira said, meditatively. “I can tell you how your lungs work, or how your heart pumps blood around the body, but I cannot tell you how the channeler produces and channels magic. I think it must be sensitive to magic, even raw unfocused magic; your friend cannot sense magic, although he can see its effects, but even people with a single channeler can. I’ve dissected a hundred people with channelers and I have yet to figure out how they actually work.”

I felt sick. “How many people have you killed?”

Uncle Ira ignored the question. “And then there is the connection between magic and the ghosts,” he added. “There are quite a number of ghosts around here, as you have noticed… what are they? I think they must be … impressions, left behind by dead magicians, that somehow refuse to fade. They may well draw on magic from their victims.”

My eyes narrowed. “Their victims?”

“They drained magic from you, did they not?” Uncle Ira strode around the room, holding the spellcaster in one hand. “And they were unable to harm your friend directly.”

I swallowed, hard. I needed to keep him talking, somehow. If I stalled long enough, the Kingsmen might arrive … or I’d think of a way to get out. My hands were moving, but very slowly. If I could get to the potion … I found my voice, hoping he’d think I was just being curious. He knew I’d read his books. Perhaps, if I sounded interested, he’d tell me more instead of proceeding with his experiments.

“What are you doing?” It was hard to speak. “What’s the point of all this?”

Uncle Ira turned to face me. “It started as an attempt to understand magic,” he said. “And it became a plan to use what I had discovered, over the years, to extract revenge.”

I met his eyes. “You plan to overthrow the family.”

“Yes,” Uncle Ira said, flatly.

“… Oh,” I said.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Uncle Ira was the last person I wanted as Patriarch.

“The family clings to old traditions that are pointless in the modern age,” Uncle Ira told me, coolly. “The reluctance to experiment with the Dark Arts, for example, would have made perfect sense five hundred years ago, but now - with everything we have discovered over the last few centuries - we can study the more dangerous magics in reasonable safety. We ban them because we are scared, yet there is no reason to be scared. And then the insistence that the Patriarch has to be a Patriarch is holding us back. Don’t you know it?”

I looked down, unable to meet his eyes. The hell of it was that I didn’t disagree with him, not really. The family clung to outdated traditions that were meaningless now. Indeed, they held us back. Akin would have been happier not being the Heir Primus, while I would have been happier if I’d felt I had a fair shot at becoming Matriarch myself. Uncle Ira wasn’t exactly wrong about the Dark Arts, either. Sometimes, the line between permitted and forbidden magics was based on little more than whim. I wanted to believe him.

But I’d learnt hard lessons over the last year …

A shiver ran down my spine. Uncle Ira had a potion that boosted the drinker’s magic, if only for a short period. He could use it to empower other exiles - the people who’d come to dinner, perhaps - and then attack the Great Houses. And then … they could rule Shallot, perhaps even the entire kingdom. Or simply extract revenge by destroying each and every Great House before it could muster resistance. I shuddered at the thought. There were plenty of people who hated the Great Houses. Uncle Ira would have no trouble finding recruits for his army.

And a year ago I would have joined him, I thought, feeling cold. Uncle Ira was family, after all. He could have made the same promises that Stregheria Aguirre had made and I would have believed him. Even now …

I looked at Callam and shook my head. Uncle Ira was a warlock. He was willing to torture my friend - and kidnap and kill innocent people - just to boost his powers. His potion would require him to sacrifice dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people if he wanted to keep supplying his troops. And without the potion, the whole scheme would fall apart. No, Uncle Ira would have to keep killing people. His kingdom would be built on a foundation of bones.

“You were unfairly denied the chance to reach for the golden ring,” Uncle Ira said. “Why not join me?”

“You tried to corrupt me,” I said sullenly, as I tried to think. I couldn’t pledge my support and betray him later. He’d insist on oaths, backed up by the compeller. “Those spells you wanted me to learn …”

Uncle Ira shrugged. “I wanted an assistant,” he said. “Morag, bless her heart, has no talent for potions. Nor does she have any real talent for anything else, save cooking.”

“She’s a strong magician,” I said.

“Not strong enough,” Uncle Ira told me. “You, on the other hand, could be very strong indeed.”

“And yet, you wanted to boost my magic,” I said. “Why?”

Uncle Ira looked annoyed. “My experiments on adult magicians were not a great success,” he said. He sounded peevish. “Their channelers overloaded and killed them, you see. I suspect there are limits to how much a channeler can expand once a person reaches adulthood. You were young enough to take the potion and old enough to channel the magic responsibly.”

I stared at him. “I … if you’d taken the potion, it would have killed you?”

“Perhaps,” Uncle Ira said. “I am in no hurry to experiment.”

He turned back to Callam. “And I suspect the potion would have no effect on you at all,” he said. “Isn’t that remarkable?”

Callam glared at him. “No.”

“Ah, he speaks,” Uncle Ira said. “How much of our conversation did you understand?”

I wanted to warn Callam to be quiet, to say nothing, but I suspected it was pointless. Uncle Ira could force him to talk at any moment. Callam was vulnerable, far more vulnerable than Cat had ever been. And Uncle Ira had him at his mercy. I tried, frantically, to think of a plan. Uncle Ira had to be stopped, but how? An idea slowly occurred to me as my fingers slipped into my pocket, touching the vial within. If I managed to time it properly …

“Up close, there is something wrong with you,” Uncle Ira said. “But it is the sort of wrongness that can be very useful, under the right circumstances. I wish I’d noticed you earlier. Your lack of magic doesn’t make you worthless.”

“You were too busy kidnapping youths who showed hints of powerful magic,” I said, wishing I’d had a chance to tell Callam what I’d found. “And you turned Hart and Hound into potion.”

Callam blanched. “You killed them?”

“Removing a magician’s channeler seems to result in immediate death,” Uncle Ira said, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather. “I suspect that you, my son, are a throwback to an earlier era. Your parents and siblings have magic, do they not?”

“Stay away from my sisters,” Callam snapped. He pulled against the chains, rattling them impressively. “I …”

Uncle Ira looked unimpressed. “It is a pity I don’t know if your talent will breed true,” he mused, more to himself than to us. “But, for the moment, it doesn’t matter. Work for me, learn to use the gift you have, and I’ll leave your family alone.”

Callam stared at him. I could see the fear in his eyes. He loved his parents and sisters … and they were in no position to defend themselves, if Uncle Ira went after them. Callam’s relatives might wind up being dissected, their channelers removed and ground up to provide materials for Uncle Ira’s potions. The thought was sickening. Callam’s sisters were too young to go to school. They didn’t deserve to become a warlock’s next victims.

“And Isabella,” Callam managed. “You leave her alone too.”

I met his eyes, unsure what I wanted him to do. Callam couldn’t be put under a compulsion spell … I thought. It made sense. Cat would have been put under a compulsion spell, one that would have kept her from planning an escape, if the kidnappers had thought the spell wouldn’t prevent her from forging. And yet, there were plenty of other ways to keep him under control. I had the sudden mental vision of an aged Callam, bent over a forge, a heavy iron chain keeping him firmly in place. Uncle Ira wouldn’t find it too hard. He could simply take Callam’s family hostage if Callam refused to play.

“Maybe,” Uncle Ira said. He turned to face me. “Will you join me? Or will I have to do something more … permanent … to ensure your silence?”

He doesn’t know about the letters, I told myself. He doesn’t know the Kingsmen are being alerted. He doesn’t know …

My blood ran cold. What if the postman had taken the necklace, dumped the letters in the bog and run? He could have crossed the border by now. It wouldn’t take him long to turn the necklace into money. What if … I told myself, firmly, that I’d done everything in my power to spread the word. The Kingsmen would respond, wouldn’t they? I might be in disgrace, but they’d still have to take the report seriously.

I swallowed, hard. “What did you do to Morag?”

“A few commands, a few post-hypnotic suggestions and prompts … nothing too bad, just enough to keep her from running or sending a message back to her family,” Uncle Ira assured me. He reached out and patted my shoulder. “I won’t need to do much to you, will I? You have an excellent reason to want to join me.”

“Maybe,” I said. “What else did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” Uncle Ira said. “Her … charming personality is unchanged. She has every right to be angry at the family, but she doesn’t have the nerve to challenge the council directly. I think she resents you because you did try to up-end the status quo. And you’re barely twelve years old!”

“Thirteen,” I corrected, quietly.

“Thirteen,” Uncle Ira said. “And what are the odds of you ever going home?”

“Poor,” I said. Uncle Ira was right about that, if nothing else. But did I want to go home? I would be the family shame for the rest of my life. I might be officially forgiven, perhaps, but everyone would know what I’d done. And they’d certainly never trust me again. “Uncle …”

I forced myself to look at him. I didn’t have much, but I had my pride. I wasn’t going to serve a warlock, even with the promise of power … I’d made that mistake once, but never again. The price of power - in dead bodies and destroyed lives - was too high. And I’d dragged Callam into this mess … I kicked myself, mentally, for not telling him what I suspected about his talents. I could have taught him enough for him to forge a small Object of Power. The family would have been delighted. They might even have called me home if I’d found them a Zero. Instead …

Uncle Ira will use Callam to forge weapons, I thought, grimly. And that will give his forces an unbeatable edge.

“No,” I said.

Uncle Ira looked surprised. “No?”

“No,” I said. “I won’t join you.”

“Be reasonable,” Uncle Ira told me. He lifted the spellcaster. “Do you think I’ll have any trouble keeping you under control?”

My throat was dry. I forced myself to speak.

“I won’t join you,” I said, even though I knew it was only a matter of time until I broke. He could use the compeller, slowly twisting my mind until I was his most loyal servant. Or he could simply turn me into a statue and leave me there forever. Or … “I won’t join you.”

“And I won’t either,” Callam said. “I …”

Uncle Ira turned. “Then you’re a fool, boy.”

I met Callam’s eyes. Distract him, I mouthed. Keep him busy.

“And you’re a monster,” Callam said. “Will you even live long enough to enjoy the power?”

“The more powerful the ghosts become,” Uncle Ira said, “the stronger they are. It is quite possible that one could live forever as a being of magic, if he had the power and the will.”

Madness, I thought, as I inched my hand out of my pocket and carefully opened the potions vial. It was hard to move fast, but I had no choice. Uncle Ira would sense the potion the moment I opened the vial. He’s gone mad.

Gritting my teeth, I put the vial to my mouth and drank.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Uncle Ira swung around, too late.

“What have you done?” I could hear the sudden alarm in his voice. “Isabella …”

I braced myself as I felt a surge of magic rushing through me. I’d drunk more potion this time, enough - I hoped - to make the effect immediate. Uncle Ira’s spell, the one holding me in place, suddenly felt like cobwebs. I brushed them aside, grunting in pain as feeling returned to my lower body. My muscles ached, but I ignored them. The power was growing stronger and stronger.

Uncle Ira lifted the spellcaster. I cast a summoning charm with one hand and a repelling charm with the other. The spellcaster twitched in his hand, then shattered into a cloud of sawdust. Uncle Ira let out a word Mother would probably have slapped me for using as the wood dug into his hand. I would have felt sorry for him - I hated splinters too - if he hadn’t been planning to turn us into slaves. Instead, I cast the most powerful repulsion charm I could at him. The force of the impact picked him up, threw him down the corridor and crashed him into the far wall.

Callam was staring at me. “Isabella, your eyes!”

I blinked. “What …”

“They’re burning,” Callam said. “You’re on fire!”

I gritted my teeth. It felt as though my blood was coming to the boil. I pushed the feeling to the back of my mind as I started to struggle with the padlocks holding Callam’s chains in place, then realised I was being stupid and disintegrated them. Callam pulled himself free, the chains jangling as they hit the floor. I grinned at him, despite the burning sensation behind my eyes, then led the way to the other door. Uncle Ira’s wards were growing stronger, trying to contain me. I could feel them trying to smother my magic. I hadn’t felt anything like it since the days my parents had taught me how to use magic and cast spells for the first time.

“We have to get out of here,” I snapped. My senses seemed to have expanded along with my power. I was suddenly very aware of everything dangerous within range, from potions ingredients to Uncle Ira himself. I’d hoped he’d been knocked out by the impact, but it seemed he was struggling to his feet. His wards were converging on him too. “We have to …”

I looked at the door and cursed under my breath. The wards had sealed off the stairwell. I might be able to batter them down - a handful of options ran through my head - but it would exhaust my power. Uncle Ira would have no trouble nabbing the pair of us. I wondered, as I turned and led Callam towards the other door, just what he’d tell my parents when they asked what had happened to me. Perhaps he’d say I left the grounds and walked into a bog or … or maybe he wouldn’t need to give any explanation. His troops would attack Shallot before anyone realised I was dead. I wasn’t even sure I was still on the family tree.

He can’t be that advanced, I told myself, as I forced the door open and yanked Callam into the slaughterhouse. He didn’t have a usable potion until this week.

Callam swore out loud. “What was he doing?”

I looked up and shuddered. Hart’s body was still on the table. It looked as though Uncle Ira had sliced his way into Hart’s back and removed his entire spine. I wondered, vaguely, if he thought an entire spine transplant would work. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk losing Callam’s talents by grafting a replacement spine into his body, but there would be plenty of people he could experiment on. Some of them might even be volunteers. Cat had been so desperate for magical power that she might have volunteered, if someone had made the offer.

But he’d have to remove the original spine and channeler, I told myself. That would kill the volunteer, wouldn’t it?

I forced myself to think as we reached the next door. It was locked, the charm on the latch refusing to break until I smashed it with overwhelming force. Once, it had been impossible to do a heart transplant; now, a combination of magic and advanced medical knowledge ensured that the patient survived long enough for the new heart to go to work. Uncle Ira might assume that there was a way to implant a stolen channeler in a volunteer’s body, if he kept trying long enough to find a way to do it. He was certainly not inclined to care about a trail of dead bodies in his wake.

Callam opened the door and ran forward, into the storage chamber. I followed him, slamming the door closed behind us. It wouldn’t slow Uncle Ira down for long - I could already feel the wards hardening, slowly tightening as they tried to find us - but it might buy us a few seconds. A plan was hovering at the back of my mind, yet it was far too close to suicide. Were we that desperate? I figured we were.

“He wants me for something,” Callam said, as we hurried to the next door. “What?”

“He thinks you can forge Objects of Power,” I said. Callam was a Zero. Uncle Ira had confirmed it. “And he might be right.”

The floor shook, violently. I cursed under my breath and forced Callam to run faster. The wards were snapping at my heels, trying to stop us; they would have had us by now, I figured, if Uncle Ira had designed them to keep everyone out of his lab. Thankfully, he’d had to bring his victims up here for dissection. I breathed a silent prayer of thanks to those who’d joined the ancients. Their deaths had not been in vain.

And they won’t be forgotten, either, I promised myself. Uncle Ira would not be allowed to get away with it. I’ll see to it personally.

Power bloomed through me, burning like fire. I opened my mouth to scream, then caught myself and shaped the power into a crude ward. It snapped into existence, blocking Uncle Ira’s path to us. I had no doubt he was strong enough to batter it down, or smart enough to find the weaknesses in the spellform and take it apart, but it might win us a few more seconds. I wasn’t sure how long the potion would last, or what the long-term effects of using it might be, yet … I shook my head. There was no point in worrying about it now.

The building shook again. I heard jars and bottles falling off shelves and smashing to the ground, shattering with terrifying force. Uncle Ira howled something, in the distance; I wondered, numbly, why he hadn’t put protective charms on the potion jars. It was the first thing we’d been taught to do when we’d studied potions. Father would have banned me from his storerooms if he’d caught me neglecting my spells. Contaminating one ingredient with another was a good way to cause an explosion.

And some ingredients explode if you look at them funny, I thought, as the idea took shape and form. We just have to keep moving.

I gritted my teeth as the wards pressed down on us. They seemed to be having problems seeing Callam - they were lashing around randomly in his general direction - but they didn’t have any trouble focusing on me. I shaped a counterspell and threw it out with all the power I could muster, then a pair of semi-dark divisionary spells that - technically - I shouldn’t have known. Uncle Ira is going to regret giving me those books, I thought, as I cut my skin to splash blood on the floor. The wards would have trouble catching me if I appeared to be in several places at once.

Unless Uncle Ira finds some way to convince the wards to ignore the false shadows, I reminded myself. He’s still in charge of them.

A dozen ideas ran through my mind. If we could find the wardstone and take control, we could evict both Uncle Ira and Morag from the hall. But I had no idea where the wardstone was hidden. The wards were so complex - and so old - that it could be anywhere. We had no time for a search.

Callam stumbled to a halt. “Isabella …”

I looked up … and froze. A ghost was standing right in front of me, nothing but a wavering sheet of light. It was so translucent that I would have thought it nothing more than a trick of the light, if I couldn’t sense the air suddenly turning cold. I glanced at Callam as the ghost seemed to grow clearer, noticing that he didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold. I had the oddest sense I was missing something important as the ghost glided towards me, ghostly fingers reaching out to stroke my forehead. My magic started to bubble out of control. I couldn’t move …

Callam grabbed my hand and yanked me aside. I felt ice brush against my bare hand as the ghost touched me, fleetingly. My magic surged, but - thanks to the potion - I had magic to spare. I forced myself to run, ignoring - as best as I could - the drain on my powers. Behind me, something crashed through the door. I glanced back and saw Uncle Ira staring at the ghost. His face was very pale. I had the strangest sense that he knew the ghost.

If a ghost is an impression left behind by a magician, I thought, then who left that impression behind?

I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The shimmering form was almost hypnotic, capturing and holding my eyes. I thought I saw details, but the more I looked at them the more they faded into nothingness. The ghost was … was larger than I’d realised and yet, at the same time, terrifyingly small. It seemed to plunge into infinity, as if there was something about it I couldn’t grasp. I didn’t want it to look at me. I had the feeling that that would be the end.

Uncle Ira snapped out of his trance and started to chant a spell. It was old, so old that it was cast in High Imperial rather than a more modern tongue, but it was powerful. I could feel the magic stamping itself on reality, the impression growing stronger and stronger with every word. The ghost seemed to shimmer, then slowly break apart into splinters of light. The drain on my magic, the drain I’d almost forgotten, snapped out of existence. I bit my lip, used the pain to centre myself and ran. Callam opened the door and we plunged into the next room. Behind us, I heard a final despairing scream.

Uncle Ira said this place was originally established to study the ruined city, I recalled, as we made our way through another storage room. Did they bring some of the ghosts back home?

“Isabella,” a voice bellowed. The wards were closing in again. My diversionary spells had clearly started to fail. Or maybe Uncle Ira had simply reprogrammed the wards to go after every possible target. “There’s no way out.”

“Don’t answer,” Callam hissed, as we ran into a storeroom and shut the door. It was dark, the air smelling faintly of decades-old potions. A boarded-up window provided the only hint of light. “Don’t let him know where we are!”

I shook my head. I could feel Uncle Ira approaching, a tight knot of magic - and anger. He knew where we were. I could feel his rage bleeding into his power. I’d heard stories about warlocks who lost control, but I’d never seen it. Even Father, when he’d been terrifyingly angry about something, had never lost control. I hoped Uncle Ira remembered he needed Callam, when he caught us. Callam might survive, at least. He’d be a slave, chained to the workbench, but at least he’d be alive.

He’ll probably kill me, I thought morbidly, as I cast a tiny light charm. The faint glimmer revealed bottles of potion ingredients and very little else. And that might be the best thing he could do.

I sucked in my breath. The power was still flaring within me, as if someone had set fire to something flammable, but I was all too aware that the magic was running out of fuel. I’d probably collapse in a heap when it did, unable to keep myself from falling into the darkness. Uncle Ira would probably cut my throat before I woke up. Or simply layer compulsion spells on me while I was helpless. I might never be in control of myself again.

“There is no way out, Isabella,” Uncle Ira’s voice said. “I know where you are.”

His magic brushed against the storeroom door, blasting it open. I hastily raised a protective charm as wood and metal flew in all directions. Chunks of the wall followed as his anger found release, shelves shattering under the force of his rage. A handful of jars fell to the ground and bounced. My lips twitched in hollow amusement as he stepped through the remains of the door. He’d remembered to use protective charms here!

“Let her go,” Callam pleaded. I wanted to scream at him. “I’ll stay with …”

Uncle Ira jabbed a finger at him. Callam froze. I mustered what remained of my power, bracing myself for the worst. Uncle Ira was going to kill or enslave me and … and there would be nothing left of me at all. I wished, suddenly, that I’d had a chance to speak to my parents or my brother one last time. I owed Akin - and Cat - an apology. Perhaps they’d remember me fondly, after a few years had passed. Akin might want to name his first child after me. The ancients knew that no one else would want to remember my name.

Cat probably doesn’t want to remember me either, I thought. And if they do end up getting married …

“Lower all of your defences,” Uncle Ira ordered. “Now.”

I saw the compeller in his hand and froze, horribly. I would do anything rather than be subjected to that thing again. The plan ran through my mind, again. I summoned magic, shaped the most powerful curse I could, and threw it at him. Uncle Ira stepped back, his expression darkening rapidly as he struggled to block my blow. He probably had good reason to be irritated that I’d drunk his potion now, I thought. The curse wouldn’t have been that effective against an adult magician if it hadn’t been massively overpowered.

Here goes nothing, I thought, and aimed a fireball right into the collection of potion ingredients. Flames splashed from jar to jar, burning through the protective charms; they changed colour rapidly as some of the more volatile ingredients started to burn. And if this doesn’t work …

Uncle Ira spun around as he dispelled the last of my curse. “What have you done?”

I should have said something witty - or cutting - but I didn’t have time. I grabbed Callam’s hand, casting a collection of spells in quick succession. Magic - the last of my power - spun around us, picking us up and hurling us bodily towards the window. I gritted my teeth, pushing everything I could into the shield charm, as we smashed through the wood and plummeted towards the ground behind. Someone - Uncle Ira, I assumed - screamed, but the sound was lost in the hum of magic. We hit the ground and bounced, the magic flickering and failing as we finally came to a stop. I landed on my back, gasping for breath. My magic was gone. I was defenceless. I stared at the hall, barely able to move …

An explosion blasted through the uppermost levels of the hall, followed by several more as the remainder of the ingredients caught fire and exploded. Just for a second, I thought I saw Uncle Ira’s face within the flames. Had he tried, in his final moments of life, to impress his existence on the magic? Had he tried to become a ghost? I heard Callam grunt behind me and realised the freeze charm had worn off. Uncle Ira was dead.

I swallowed, hard. I hadn’t meant to kill him.

You had no choice, a voice said. It sounded like my father. He would have killed you - or worse - if given the chance.

I knew the voice was right, but it still hurt. I’d told myself, months ago, that I wasn’t to blame for the deaths when the Crown Prince launched his coup. That had been his fault, his and Stregheria Aguirre’s. But now … Uncle Ira was dead and Morag might be dead too, if the flames spread to the rest of the house. The wards were strong, designed to cope with fires, floods and anything else that might prove dangerous, but between us we’d done them a great deal of damage. Their deaths were on my conscience.

But he would have killed you, my father’s voice said. Father had always told me to defend myself if attacked, whatever the cost. I wished … I wished I hadn’t been so foolish. And Uncle Ira would have killed Callam.

“Isabella,” Callam managed. He stumbled to his feet and wobbled over to me. “I … I thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tried to say. I didn’t think it came out very clearly. “I …”

My head swam. I tried to force myself to stay awake - Morag was still around, I thought - but it was impossible. Callam’s face faded as my vision blurred - I heard him say something, yet I couldn’t make out the words - and then …

… And then the darkness reached up and swallowed me.

Chapter Forty

“So,” Callam said, two days later. “What am I?”

I sighed. We were sitting on the grass, watching the Kingsmen as they searched the hall for any traces of Uncle Ira’s activities. The sixth floor had been effectively destroyed, they’d told me after they’d taken my brief statement, but the remainder of Kirkhaven Hall was largely undamaged. Uncle Ira’s paranoia had cost him, I thought, with more amusement than the situation demanded. His wards had focused the blasts up and out of the building, destroying much of his work in the process. Thankfully, enough had survived to convince the Kingsmen that I hadn’t cried wolf.

“You’re a Zero,” I told him, slowly. “You don’t have any magic at all.”

I explained, as best as I could. Akin would have done a better job. He and Cat were friends, not … not enemies. “Your lack of magic lets you forge Objects of Power,” I said. “And that makes you important, if you want to be important.”

Callam looked doubtful. “Is it worth it?”

“I …”

I hesitated. A year ago, I would have said yes without bothering to think about it. Now … now I wasn’t so sure. Cat was going to be one of the most important people in Shallot, but her gifts came with a price. And I … I’d done something very stupid in a bid to become powerful in my own right. I would be paying for that for years to come. Callam had good reason not to want to use his gifts.

“It could be,” I said, finally. “But you’d have to spend years learning how to forge.”

Callam looked doubtful. I looked away, studying what remained of the hall. The Kingsmen hadn’t found any trace of Morag, when they’d searched the building from top to bottom. I suspected that that meant the spells Uncle Ira had used to bind her to him were gone. She might have taken advantage of the opportunity to vanish before someone could try to turn her into a scapegoat for Ira’s crimes. I had no doubt that, when the full truth got out, heads would be rolling. I couldn’t help wondering if I would be turned into a scapegoat too.

Uncle Ira started well before I was born, I reminded myself, dryly. Morag had merely been sucked into the plot when she’d been exiled to Kirkhaven too. I hoped she managed to find her husband. It would be quite a feat for me to be involved right from the beginning.

“Dad probably wants me to teach,” Callam said. “And Mum just wants me to be happy.”

I patted his hand, lightly. “Make up your own mind,” I told him. “And … and do what you want.”

He smiled at me. “Thanks,” he said, wanly. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Callam had managed to look after me until the Kingsmen arrived, but afterwards … I didn’t know. The Kingsmen had helped me put a bed in the gatekeeper’s cottage, ensuring I had somewhere to sleep, yet they hadn’t done anything else. My reputation had preceded me. I supposed I should be glad they hadn’t thrown me in jail and swallowed the key. “It depends …”

“Mum said you could stay with us,” Callam said. His cheeks reddened when I looked at him. “I told her you saved my life.”

“After endangering it in the first place,” I muttered. “Callam … I should have told you what I suspected. I … I had no right to keep it to myself.”

Callam lifted his eyebrows. “Why did you keep it to yourself?”

“I didn’t want to raise your hopes,” I admitted, gently. And mine too, if I was forced to be honest. “If you thought you could do something unique - and then discovered you couldn’t - I figured you’d take it badly.”

“I never thought I could do magic,” Callam said. “It wouldn’t have hurt that much.”

“And now you know,” I said. “You have a gift that’s worth millions.”

I heard a carriage clattering up the driveway and looked up, sharply. It was my father’s carriage. I’d know it anywhere. I was on my feet before my conscious mind had quite realised what I was seeing. My father had come to see me! I’d thought … I knew a letter had gone to Shallot, via the family representative in Caithness, but … I’d thought he wouldn’t be allowed to come. I couldn’t help grinning like a loon. My father had come!

Callam nudged me as he clambered to his feet. “Your dad?”

“Yeah,” I said, as the carriage came to a halt. “Do you want to say hello?”

“Maybe later,” Callam said. “You should have this moment with him … you know, without me.”

I forced myself to wait as my father hopped out of the carriage, spoke briefly to one of the Kingsmen, then walked over to me. And then I threw propriety to the winds, ran forward and hugged him tightly. It was the sort of emotional display I’d never have been permitted in public, not in the city, but here … the family’s enemies were a long way away. And besides, I doubted I’d be allowed to go home anyway.

“Isabella,” Dad said, as I released him. “I … I’m glad to see you’re alive.”

“Father,” I said, suddenly unsure of myself. I was an exile, technically. Father would have been within his rights to claim he’d only ever had one child. “I … welcome to Kirkhaven Hall.”

Father turned to look at the hall for a long moment, then took my hand. Normally, I would have been embarrassed to hold my father’s hand in public - I was old enough not to go running onto the streets the moment my parents let go of me - but now … now I was glad of the contact. It made me feel that my father still cared about me.

“We got your letter,” Father said, once we were out of earshot. “But what really happened?”

I sucked in my breath, then ran through the whole story as best as I could. Uncle Ira’s experiments, his attempts to corrupt me - I didn’t think the Kingsmen had found the Dark Arts books - and his long-term plans, such as they were. I told him everything, save for one little detail. Callam could decide if he wanted to tell my father about his gifts or not for himself.

“I am truly sorry,” Father said, when I fell silent. My father had never been good at expressing his feelings, but I knew what he meant. “I knew you would have a hard time up here, so far from civilisation, yet I never guessed …”

“I know,” I said. The Family Council would hardly have let Uncle Ira get on with it if they had the faintest idea what he was doing. They might have turned a blind eye to secretive experiments with the Dark Arts, but not to kidnapping innocent townspeople and grinding them up to make illegal potions. “I don’t blame you.”

“Perhaps you should,” Father said. “There was a lot I could have done for you.”

“Water under the bridge,” I said, dimly aware that I would have thrown a fit a few short months ago. “I …”

I shook my head. “How are … how are the others?”

“Your mother is fine, although suffering from social withdrawal,” Father said. “I’m afraid that some of her former friends have been refusing to speak with her in the streets, let alone invite her to their parties. Thankfully” - I heard the wry amusement in his voice - “she and Sofia Aguirre have become friends, of a sort. They are starting to redefine the very best parties in the city. I dare say the social networks will be very different by the time your Season rolls around.”

“Oh,” I said. My mother and Cat’s mother, friends? There had been a time when I would have been horrified by the mere idea, let alone the reality. But now … I supposed they would make good friends. They were equals, more or less. Or at least they had been. “Will I ever have a Season?”

“Your brother is doing fine,” Father said, ignoring my question. “And your future sister-in-law is founding her own school.”

I met his eyes. “Father … will I ever have a Season?”

Father looked back at me for a long moment. “The Family Council discussed your case in urgent session, the moment we received word from Caithness,” he said. “They are … regretful about what happened, but … but they don’t want to rescind your exile. There are too many other political considerations involved.”

I’d guessed as much, from the moment he ducked my question, but it felt … it didn’t feel as bad as I’d expected. The thought of going home … where was home? Shallot didn’t have anything for me now. Morag had been right about that, if nothing else. I would not be welcome at all the best parties in Shallot, even if I was officially pardoned; I would never have a season, or a husband, or a household of my own. Kirkhaven was my home now.

“They have agreed to make Kirkhaven Hall over to you, as well as the surrounding lands,” Father added, quietly. “That’s an expression of their gratitude, I suppose.”

“Or of their complete lack of concern,” I muttered. Kirkhaven Hall might belong to the family - and we never gave up what was ours - but there was nothing in the surrounding area worthy of our attention. Whatever research had been conducted into the ruined city had been abandoned long before Uncle Ira had been born. And besides, the locals would hardly listen to me. “Is there anyone else who wants it?”

“No,” Father said. He looked away. “They won’t let you go back home, Isabella, unless you do them a great service.”

I looked back at the hall. I’d killed Uncle Ira - and I’d have to come to terms with that - but I’d also destroyed most of the evidence. The Kingsmen certainly hadn’t found anything they were willing to use against us. Without Morag - and with me being underage - it would be difficult for the family’s enemies to prove anything. The secret of Uncle Ira’s enhancement potions would die with him.

“I told them about the plot to attack the city,” I said. “Wasn’t that enough?”

Father shook his head. “It should be. But they honestly don’t know what to make of you. You managed to kill a very powerful, dark magician. And you’re only thirteen. For the moment, you need to stay where you are.”

I gritted my teeth. There was one card left to play. I could tell them about Callam. I could tell them that there was a Zero right here, someone they could take and train and eventually turn into a match for Caitlyn Aguirre. They’d sell their souls for another source of Objects of Power, someone who worked directly for them. The Family Council could hardly refuse to let me come home if I found them a Zero.

But … Callam didn’t want to go to Shallot. And he was my friend.

The temptation hung in front of me for a long chilling moment. Perhaps he would forgive me, eventually. It wouldn’t be hard to find places for his family in the big city. The people there took education seriously. And maybe he would be happy, working with his hands. I’d seen his face while he built the treehouse. I could go home …

… And all I’d have to do is betray my friend. My one true friend. The one person who’d stuck with me after facing far worse than social disdain. Uncle Ira had nearly killed him and he’d stayed with me.

No, I thought. I couldn’t do it. I’ll keep his secret.

Father looked down at me. “I’m sorry …”

“Don’t be,” I said. “But seeing I did do the family a huge favour, I want a few things in return.”

Father’s lips quirked. “What would you like?”

“Someone to help repair the hall,” I said. “Not all the blast was redirected upwards. And then someone else to help me fix the wards. Uncle Ira had friends, after all. And then I want a handful of teachers. You can probably send someone out here to help me study charms and potions and forging.”

Father lifted his eyebrows. “Forging?”

“It seems I will have a lot of time on my hands,” I said, as evenly as I could. Callam would need the lessons, not me. “I want to write letters to friends and family. And I want a horse too. Two horses. I don’t want to get bored out here.”

“I suppose not,” Father said, after a moment. If he suspected my real motives, he kept the thought to himself. “You can write letters if you wish, I think, although I couldn’t guarantee privacy. Or replies. And I … I do plan to visit more often.”

“That would be nice,” I said. I wondered if he’d foist another caretaker on me. Perhaps I could just hire Callam’s mother. “I look forward to seeing you.”

Father nodded. “Very good,” he said. “Shall we go back to the hall?”

I followed him as we walked along the driveway. Callam was sitting on the grass, waiting for us. The Kingsmen were packing up, clearly preparing to depart. I guessed they hadn’t found anything they could use against us, then. Father picked up the pace, hurrying towards the senior officer. He’d probably want to make very sure they hadn’t found anything too incriminating. Uncle Ira might be dead, but the family might wind up paying a price for his crimes.

Callam grinned at me as I joined him. “Everything alright?”

“More or less,” I said, sitting down next to him. “More or less.”

I allowed my mind to wander as we waited for my father. The hall was mine now, for better or worse. I - and Callam - would have all the time in the world to study magic. Maybe I could talk him into travelling to Shallot. Or … maybe it didn’t matter. There was a lot to study that didn’t involve forbidden spells and potions. The ghosts were still out there, after all. Perhaps I could ask Father to send me copies of the family records. It would be interesting to see what, if anything, the original researchers had discovered.

“You’re smiling,” Callam said. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m happy,” I said. It was true. “And I’m home.”

The End

Afterword

It’s really easy to screw up your life these days.

Actually, to a very large extent, that has always been true. Society has never been kind to those who transgress against its rules, particularly girls and young women. A woman who lived in Jane Austen’s time, a woman who stepped off the beaten path - who lost her virginity, willingly or unwillingly - could expect to be called a slut, even if it wasn’t her fault. It’s still far too easy to fall into the trap of blaming the victim, particularly if there’s money or politics involved. Indeed, Jane Austen’s heroines ran the risk - as Lydia Bennet does - of bringing shame on their family as well as themselves, ruining their siblings’ chances of making good matches themselves.

But as cruel and hypocritical as such social rules were, they had one great advantage over the rules pervading today. Everyone knew the rules. Everyone knew where the lines were drawn. It’s possible to win a game that’s rigged against you, but not when the rules are changed constantly, seemingly at random. (One can at least guess at the rules when whoever writes them is trying to weigh them against you.) Austen’s girls knew not to be caught alone with an unrelated man, for if they did they might find themselves forced to marry him - or watch helplessly as their reputations were destroyed (often by other women). Heinlein, too, touched on this when he wrote To Sail Beyond the Sunset.

Now, the rules keep changing. What was acceptable yesterday is not acceptable today; what is acceptable today may not be acceptable tomorrow. What makes this worse, if that is possible, is that the self-appointed enforcers of these rules appear to believe that they can declare someone retroactively guilty of a crime. If a man commits a deed on Monday, a deed that is declared illegal on Tuesday, can he be punished for it on Wednesday? The enforcers appear to believe that this is right and proper, but it is not - not if we want to keep a functioning society. It will not comfort anyone to realise that Cicero’s retroactive prosecution for judicial murder probably helped speed the Roman Republic to its doom.

We live in an era where a single ill-judged tweet or social media post can bring disaster, an era where something may be dug up from years ago, taken out of context and used against the unlucky poster. We live in an era where the self-appointed guardians of morality will look for a flaw in one’s armour - notice how carefully I avoided a different word that would allow a bully to declare me a racist - and then use it to drive the target out of society. Both Kathy Griffin and Laura Ingraham were targeted because they said something unfortunate, leading to punishments far in excess of the crime.

There will be people reading this who will argue that one of these women (but not the other, depending on their political leanings) deserved such punishment. They may be right, from a subjective point of view, but is that really the sort of world they want to live in?

We also live in a world where a respected scientist can be publically humiliated because of his shirt, two computer engineers can have their reputations ruined because someone took their words out of context, where rape victims are publically humiliated to ‘prove’ they somehow deserved it … is this really the world we want?

Indeed, the political aspect of the problem only makes it (still) worse. Humans are tribal creatures. People are prepared to forgive people who are nominally on their side while calling for people on the other side to apologise, subject themselves to public humiliation and then slink off into the shadows. This has only made politics more poisonous, ensuring that people are less and less likely to take each successive outrage seriously. There are limits to just how long outrage can be sustained. People get tired of being outraged all the time.

Vox Day’s advice on the subject is simple - never apologise. And the hell of it is that he’s right. In a civilised world, an apology would be accepted and that would be the end of the matter; in our current world, an apology is seen as a confession and used as a justification to continue the attack. Why should anyone apologise when it doesn’t benefit them? And why should someone subject themselves, hopefully metaphorically, to a Cersei Lannister-style walk of shame when it only makes matters worse?

We live in a world where a single mistake can haunt you for the rest of your life.

I have no sympathy whatsoever for people who, at a relatively young age, commit terrible crimes and discover that the rest of the world has no place for them. Murdering or raping someone might be a mistake, in the sense that committing either ruins your life, but it is also an unarguable crime. A person who has done it once might well be willing to do it again, once released from jail. But I have a great deal of sympathy for people who make much smaller mistakes, yet discover that they can never escape them. Is there anyone, anyone at all, who can honestly say they have not said or done something, at one point, that might make them pariahs today?

If that doesn’t worry you, it should.

I was reviewing a couple of Heinlein’s later works recently and one of the things I said, quite reasonably, was that I found the incest disturbing. Incest has been taboo throughout history for good reasons, reasons that are backed up by science (and would require some pretty good genetic manipulation techniques to render irrelevant). Is it possible that some later generation, armed with those techniques, will look back and accuse me of being incest-phobic? If one of those people took my statements out of context, quite possibly.

Nothing is ever forgotten on the internet. The result is a curious mixture of people who do everything in their power to avoid getting tainted by accusations of anything (to the point where they abandon any of their friends who did get tainted) and people who deliberately go out of their way to shock, making fun of outrage-mongers who feed on bullying those too fearful to fight back. Careers and lives have been destroyed: some people who said something unfortunate, some people who happened to have their lives destroyed because they were too close to a targeted victim. Tell me … if outrage-mongers destroy a business because the owner said or did something unfortunate, what happens to the people who happen to work there? They’ve been thrown out of work … for nothing!

Do we really want to live in such a world?

What we have forgotten, I think, is proportion. A single misstep cannot be allowed to ruin someone’s life, not completely. A little embarrassment isn’t always a bad thing. But when it goes too far, when it ruins lives, it has consequences. And those consequences are not always pretty.

Christopher G. Nuttall

Edinburgh, 2018

If you enjoyed The Family Shame, you might like

Trials of Magic, Book One in the Hundred Halls Series

By Thomas K. Carpenter
http://www.thomaskcarpenter.com

Blurb

There are exactly one hundred halls of magic to choose from. Ever since our parents were killed I knew exactly which hall was for me.

Aurelia “Aurie” Silverthorne is one of the best and brightest to ever apply to the Hundred Halls, the only magical university in the world. To be accepted, she must pass grueling trials that claim the lives of aspirants every year.

But more than her desire to practice magic is at stake.

Aurie’s little sister has been courting powerful forces in hopes of protecting herself from the beings that killed their parents, but alliances come with complications. As things spiral out of control, and dangerous foes arise at every turn, Aurie knows the only way to protect her sister is to pass the trials—even if it means making a terrible sacrifice.

Chapter One

No one had died today. In fact, no one had died in the last seven days. It was the longest stretch since Aurie had joined the fourth-floor team as an orderly, which made it a joyous event, and simultaneously a superstitious one.

Aurie dodged around the Jell-O cart, skidding to a stop outside room 438. A sign in big red letters read “WARNING. No perfumes, magical ointments, or any alchemy reagents within thirty feet.”

She gave her aquamarine scrubs a voracious sniff. While she’d washed her scrubs by hand that morning, using a plain soap bar in the shower, and used talcum powder for deodorant, Aurie was worried she’d picked up hitchhiking scents on the crowded train ride.

The only smell she detected was her mild body odor mixed with the talcum, so she went in.

An emaciated girl on the bed lit up. “Awesome Aurie!”

As she stretched her arms out, the dozens of wires connected to her limbs from scaffolding around the bed quivered.

“Elegant Emily,” said Aurie, leaning over to give a hug, careful not to break a wire.

Aurie hid a grimace as she realized how thin Emily had gotten.

“How’s it going, kiddo?” Aurie asked.

Emily put up a brave face. Suddenly, the car noises in the street outside quieted. Aurie could feel her heart press against her chest.

“I heard the doctor tell the nurse that she’s out of spells,” she said, staring at her bone-thin hands.

“I’m sure that’s not true. There are always more spells. The doctor probably meant that she’s out of spells, and needs to learn a few more to treat you,” she explained.

Aurie reached in her pocket and pulled out a painted miniature about two inches high. The figure wielded twin scimitars in a fighting pose with the suggestion of winds swirling around her.

“It’s you. A wind dancer,” said Aurie while she tucked a strand of errant blonde hair behind Emily’s ear.

“There’s no such thing as a wind dancer,” said Emily.

“You can be the first then, and have your own hall,” said Aurie.

Emily offered a bittersweet smile as she cradled the miniature as if it were a puppy. The poor girl had been cursed by a vengeful air elemental to be near weightless. The wires kept her from floating to the ceiling. Without gravity acting on her body, she was wasting away like an astronaut in space for too long, and the airiness of her body made her susceptible to allergens.

“She looks like you,” said Emily.

Aurie squinted to bring the details into focus. She’d had a friend paint it for her, but hadn’t had a chance to study it.

“Yeah, I guess she has my olive skin and dark hair. I don’t see any freckles, though,” said Aurie.

“Or those dark circles,” said Emily, touching Aurie’s cheek below the eye.

“Sleep’s overrated,” said Aurie reflexively. She’d worked the night shift at a convenience store on the outskirts of Invictus. “Hey! Maybe this means I’ll be your first student at the Hundred Halls.”

Emily shook her head with faux indignation. “That’s silly. You have your Merlins tomorrow.” Then her eyes went wide as if she’d said something wrong. “I…I need the nurse,” she said suddenly, jamming the call button.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” asked Aurie, examining Emily for signs of danger.

The hard soles of running nurses echoed in the hallway. Aurie spun around expecting an emergency team only to find the doorway full of smiling people: doctors, nurses, orderlies, the rest of the patients—the kids.

“Surprise!” they yelled.

Aurie nearly tripped over her own feet, trying to figure out why they were surprising her, or even if it was supposed to be for her.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

Dr. Fairlight stepped forward as the spokesman for the group. She handed Aurie a small wrapped present about the size of a fist.

“With your Merlins tomorrow, we won’t be seeing you much after that—”

Aurie interrupted with hurried breath. “I’m still going to work here. I have a job, right?”

Dr. Fairlight squeezed Aurie on the shoulder. “As long as I’m head of this floor you have a job here. Especially since this was where your dad did his residency.”

“I miss him,” she said.

Dr. Fairlight gave a comforting nod and continued, “But we know you won’t have as much time. Especially when you get into Arcanium.”

Guilt welled up inside Aurie. “The Aura Healers are my second choice. It’s just…”

Everyone laughed. “You don’t have to justify anything to us,” said Dr. Fairlight. “You’ll be great whatever hall picks you, though it’ll be the Aura Healers’ gain if Arcanium is too stupid to take the brightest student in decades.”

Everyone always seemed to think that Aurie wouldn’t have any problem passing her Merlins and getting into the Hundred Halls, but even some of the best students had to take them more than once. It wasn’t usually an issue, but this was her one and only chance. She turned twenty in a month, which meant she’d no longer be able to take the Merlins. It was first time, or nothing.

“Open it,” said Dr. Fairlight as the rest of the floor leaned forward. The kids crowded around her, eyes bright with the anticipation of her present.

Aurie patted a few heads before making a production of the opening. Some of these kids wouldn’t be alive at their next birthday to experience presents again.

She tore the paper excruciatingly slow while the kids laughed and giggled and cheered her on. “Open it! Open it!”

“Hurry up!” said Emily from behind her, poking her with a bone-thin finger.

Finally, after a dramatic finish, Aurie crumpled the paper and threw it into the waste basket.

The kids practically climbed into her lap in trying to get the first glimpse of the gift. The open box revealed a pair of shiny earrings, eliciting an “ohhhh” from the crowd. Bright little rubies stared back at Aurie from the setting.

“You didn’t have to do this,” said Aurie, shaking her head at Dr. Fairlight, who’d crossed her arms and had a smirk on her face.

“Nonsense. We know it’s been a rough go, what with you and your sister on your own. We wanted to get you something you could remember us by,” said Dr. Fairlight. “Press the ruby and say ‘lux.’”

When the words left her lips, a ruby-red glow filled the space around Aurie.

“They’re perfect for late night studying when you don’t want to disturb your roommate. They also help you see in the dark beyond the glow,” said Dr. Fairlight.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Aurie, dumbfounded.

“Say thank you,” said Dr. Fairlight.

“Thank you all!” said Aurie, then she gave out hugs, taking care not to aggravate the young patients’ ailments. The “Children’s Floor for the Irrevocably Cursed, Magically Ailing, and Supernatural Virology” housed kids afflicted with all sorts of strange ailments. Emily’s weightless curse wasn’t the worst by any stretch.

After everyone left, Dr. Fairlight winked and said, “Now get to work.”

Aurie saluted. “Yes, ma’am!”

The rest of the shift went like a dream. There were no brown messes to clean up, lunch was cheese noodles, which was her favorite, and all the kids were in a good mood. It would have been the best day ever at the Golden Willow Clinic for the Sick and Infirm if some VIPs hadn’t arrived right before her shift ended.

A nervous whisper traveled through the floor as Dr. Fairlight notified everyone that one of the directors was giving a tour to a potential high-end donor. Tension squeezed lips flat, and even the kids seemed to catch the spreading quiet.

From a side hallway, Aurie spied the VIPs. She’d heard from the station nurse that the potential donor owned the Herald of the Halls, the local newspaper that covered the halls and the city of Invictus.

The older woman, Camille Cardwell, wore a gold lamé jacket that made her look like she’d walked out of a fashion magazine from twenty years ago. The daughter, Violet, followed behind her mother while staring at her phone, obviously not paying a bit of attention to the tour.

To Aurie, Violet looked like the caricature of every rich girl she’d ever watched on TV or in a movie: blonde, rich, and vain. Granted, she’d never actually encountered a girl like that in the many high schools she’d attended over the years. The high schools Aurie went to were always on the seedier side of whatever town they were in, rather than the private schools that this girl had so clearly been a member of.

Aurie felt a little guilty for assuming that Violet wasn’t a nice person. People had always made up stories about her and Pi whenever they’d been the new students, which had been too often. It wasn’t fair that she did the same.

So Aurie went back to mopping the hallway, which took her the other direction, daydreaming about being able to enchant mops to clean the floor automatically. By the time she’d finished, the shift was nearly over. She pushed the bucket towards the closet near the main area.

A whiff of perfume caught Aurie’s nose. She was so used to the antiseptic smell of mop water that the sudden infusion of musky plum snapped her head around. Violet walked alone, busily typing on her cell phone while nodding to the music she was listening to on her headphones.

The girl was oblivious to her location, let alone paying attention to the bold red sign outside of Emily’s open door. Normally the nurses on duty warned people away if they weren’t paying attention, but the station was completely empty.

Aurie dropped the mop and started running. “Hey! Stop! You can’t go there! Stop! Stop!”

Oblivious to her surroundings, Violet kept walking. She was only a few feet from Emily’s door. The last time someone had mistakenly worn perfume on the floor, Emily had gotten a severe case of hives, and that had been when she was heavier and healthier. A dose this close could be fatal.

Without thinking, Aurie lowered her shoulder and drove it into Violet. The girl looked up at the last second, surprise overtaking her bored expression. Together they went flying backwards, sliding a good ways on the recently mopped linoleum. It was a miracle that Violet didn’t hit her head.

“What the hell is going on?” said Violet, pushing at Aurie to get off.

“It’s Emily, I had to protect Emily,” said Aurie, climbing off the girl.

She ran back to the doorway, preparing to call the nurses or hit the emergency button, only to find Emily’s bed missing. Aurie panicked for a moment, thinking the worst, until she noticed the scaffolding was gone too. Then she remembered they were all going to watch a movie down the hall in the special theater.

“Oh, shit,” said Aurie under her breath. She turned and held out her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

At that moment, the director, Dr. Fairlight, and Camille Cardwell came strolling around the corner.

Violet wasted no time, pointing her finger directly at Aurie and saying in a controlled rage, “This, this girl just attacked me. She knocked me clear down the hallway, landing on top of me.” Violet marched over to her fallen phone, picked it up, and presented the broken glass to them. “See.”

Camille turned towards the director. “Randall. What kind of operation are you running here?” She had a light New York accent. She moved to her daughter’s side with grace and not a hint of concern and began examining Violet as if she were a prize show dog at a competition. Violet looked a little shaken as she rubbed the back of her head.

The director, a man in a suit who looked more like a banker than a hospital director, said, “Is this true?”

“Wait. You don’t understand,” said Aurie. “She’s wearing perfume. You can’t go near Emily’s room.”

The director wrinkled his bald forehead in confusion before shaking off her words as if they were a bad sign. He repeated his question, this time more emphatically. “Is this true?”

“Well, yes, but you have to understand,” said Aurie.

“Then get out. You’re fired,” said the director.

Dr. Fairlight put her hand on the director’s shoulder. “Randall, you can’t do that. And she’s right. Look at the sign.”

“The hell I can’t. This girl just attacked the daughter of an important donor. Do you want our kids to get better, or do you want a mop girl?” asked the director in a gruff tone.

Aurie couldn’t even move. It was like she’d been encased in ice.

If you want to find out what happens to Aurie at the Hundred Halls, you can find Trials of Magic at all major retailers.

Table of Contents

- Book Four: The Family Shame
- Prologue I
- Prologue II
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty