By the time they got back into the royal coach, night had smothered the sky. Father lay there, sleeping deeply, and Sage Hewitt placed him carefully upright. The road back to Leeds was a quiet one—their magus strap secured round their waists, cloaked from any Nullkin eye.

  It felt deeply unnatural for Lucian to wear something so openly magical. In Leeds, even a strangely phrased prayer could mark someone as dangerous. Now Lucian and Leon were meant to step into the Nullkin world wrapped in enchantments? He only agreed to it because Sage Hewitt had personally marked the leather with wards and cloaking runes, and Lucian knew they worked right away.

  He could see the magic weaves well enough.

  So they rode on.

  The three of them sat lost in deep thought—their excitement seemed replaced by awkward stares and short sentences.

  Lucian wasn’t sure what to make of it. Grovewell seemed like a dream, but if he squinted really hard at it—it’d turned more like a nightmare than anything pleasant. The weight of secrecy and the dangers that this world brought with itself—mayhap as dangerous as his tricks were in Nullkin land—pressed down on him.

  Like a gaol closing in from all sides.

  If there was even the slightest chance for his tricks—his magic—to be as dangerous or as dark as Rayslend’s ever were… he needed to shut it down. He wasn’t cut out to be evil. The mere sight of blood turned his stomach. He didn’t know how anyone could use blood or bones in rituals—and he didn’t want to know, nor be part of any of it.

  The coldness in him swirled, and Lucian curled his hands, placing them under his thighs.

  Lies, secrecy, magic.

  Being a magus had its perks but carried too much of a burden with it. It wasn’t a life. It was living with something sharp at your throat and pretending it wasn’t there—and he didn’t want that sort of life.

  But if he refused to go, Father would be very disappointed, and the thought stung Lucian. Not only did Father need the coin—their family needed it too. If Oxford didn’t favour Lukey’s release of fees, he wouldn’t be able to go. The Crown’s twenty pounds would make sure he could.

  But Lucian had coin.

  Well, it was in the form of a golden spelltag. Mayhap he could ask Jonas to exchange it—trade it for pounds. Judith did work with it, didn’t she?

  He needed to sneak back into Grovewell though, find Jonas, and ask him for help. Not only that, but also ask him and Judith to keep it a secret.

  Secrecy. Again.

  The doubt churning in his head made him feel sick. If he was honest with himself, he would much prefer a quiet life to being the centre of Father’s attention and pride. Father would have to accept that.

  If he didn’t try, he’d never know—so, he had decided.

  He wouldn’t go to Grovewell, and perhaps with him gone, the magus’s evil presence closing in on their estate might also go away—looking for him.

  He needed to learn how to cloak and hide himself. That was the answer. He’d be like Judith or the coachman. A tenuis magus hidden in plain sight, having just enough knowledge of magic to blend in.

  And if Barlow tried to force him to go to the Primordium, Lucian would run for it. He’d flee the country. He’d seek Uncle Fletcher and live with him in Scotland, farming and keeping his head down where no one cared who the Daiwiks were.

  He didn’t know how.

  But he’d find a way.

  Lucian didn’t even mark when the royal coach rolled through the gates of the Daiwik Estate. The road back seemed shorter, faster. The faint glow of lanterns lit the entrance garden, their flames flickering against the stone. The scent of peat and roast meat drifted through the air, and Lucian took a deep breath—he was back home.

  Sage Hewitt tapped lightly with his wand on Father’s forehead and muttered words Lucian couldn’t catch. A swirl of bright threads encircled Father’s head before snapping apart and disappearing altogether.

  Father’s eyes fluttered, and he blinked.

  ‘We’re already back?’ said Father, looking through the small window.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Hewitt. ‘You snoozed off for a bit.’

  ‘Oh, sorry about that,’ said Father, looking around with confused eyes. ‘Long hours in the mill, see?’

  ‘No trouble, Mr Daiwik. I hope the place at Temple Newsam was to your liking.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I suppose it was…’ His voice became more certain. ‘…aye. The lads will be in safe hands. Very spacious, it was...’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Hewitt, opening the door and making way for them to leave the coach. ‘We shall send a coach to fetch the lads on the first of August, Mr Daiwik. But after that, you must see to your own carriage.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Father. ‘Yes. We’ll see to it.’

  Lucian and Leon stood a little way behind Father as they waved farewell to Sage Hewitt.

  ‘See you in five days, lads.’

  And gone he was.

  As they entered the house, tense voices echoed through the hall, followed by hurried footsteps. The dining room door creaked open. Auntie Browne stepped out, face pale and brows drawn tight.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Lads. I’m really glad you’ve arrived safe and sound. Sir. Mr Fletcher just arrived moments ago and has been waiting for your arrival. It’s not good news.’

  ‘Oh...’ said Father, blinking.

  ‘Sir?’ said Auntie, inclining her head sideways. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Aye. Fine, fine enough. Who’s here again?’

  ‘Mr Fletcher, sir. Please come.’

  They walked down the hallway. Uncle Fletcher was a trustworthy friend—more family than friend—if he was in trouble, Father would surely help. His eyes landed on Leon. His twin looked just as worried as he was. But before either of them could say anything, they followed Auntie Browne into the dinner room.

  Lucian froze.

  Uncle Fletcher sat hunched over the table with closed eyes and a hand holding his temple. His cheeks, usually flushed and round, were pale. He looked like he’d run all the way from Leeds. His boots were muddy, and sweat clung to his greying beard, darkening the collar of his coat.

  Lucian had seen Uncle Fletcher like this many times before when his wife had fallen ill with the Great Plague. And had died. Lucian hadn’t forgotten Fletcher’s face afterwards: empty, lost, pale, his eyes never dry for long. His silence had garnered their parents’ sympathy. Mum had begun inviting him for supper. Father had brought him into the trade soon after.

  ‘Fletcher?’ Father spoke up fast, brows raised. ‘You’re in a state, man! What’s happened?’

  Uncle gave Father a short nod but didn’t speak. He appeared confused, almost dazed, and avoided eye contact.

  ‘He hadn’t said a word yet, Thomas,’ said Mother from the far end of the table. ‘It must be truly bad.’

  Lucian swiftly surveyed the room. The whole family was there, and no staff were present—mother always send them away when they needed privacy. He caught Lewis’s eyes fixed on him and looked away.

  ‘Mrs Browne, please. Fetch us some ale,’ Father said, striding over and pulling out an empty chair. Beside him, Lewis watched Uncle with wide eyes, biting his lip.

  Auntie Browne returned swiftly with a thick slice of buttered bread and a brimming mug of ale. She placed them in front of Uncle without a word, stepped aside and stood by the wall—back straight, gaze fixed ahead.

  Uncle Fletcher picked up the mug and drained it in a single go.

  ‘Slow down, man,’ said Father. ‘Have some bread too. Might settle you a little.’

  Uncle Fletcher set the mug down.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. Han’t got the stomach fer bread. More ale, if it’s not too much.’ Lucian and Leon grimaced at each other. He knew what his brother was thinking without needing to ask. Uncle’s accent. The famous London drawl. Thick and hurried, as if he was rushing through his own words, trying to outrun them. Auntie refilled his mug; her hands shook slightly.

  ‘Ta, Mrs Browne.’ Uncle drank it again, just as fast and said. ‘It’s awful, sir. Proper bad, it is. Beggin’ yer pardon, Mistress, Mister Daiwik. Didn’t mean t’ come callin’ so late. But it couldn’t wait.’

  His gaze dropped back to the table, as if he were ashamed.

  ‘It’s quite alright, Mr Fletcher,’ Mother said politely. ‘Please, tell us what’s wrong.’

  Father and Mother seemed to hold their breaths. Father always said Uncle was the only man in Leeds who could deliver news without malice, never distorting information for the sake of drama. Father trusted him with trade, politics—even town gossip. If Uncle Fletcher didn’t know something, it likely wasn’t worth knowing.

  ‘It’s the Birches, mistress. The Birches – down York way,’ croaked Mr Fletcher. The words tumbled out like he feared they might strangle him if he held them in. ‘There was an attack. Brutal, it were—burglars, that’s what folk are saying. Birch an’ his whole lot… they… ‘They’re gone. The whole bleedin’ lot. Murdered!’ He choked on the last word.

  The entire room fell silent.

  Lucian stared at his uncle, his stomach lurching. The Birches? That couldn’t be right. They were family friends—linked to Father’s wool trade for years.

  ‘Fletcher. How can you know this?’ said Father.

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  ‘Me carter just rolled in from Hull sir—bangin’ on me door, woke me straight outta bed. Spilt the whole tale in one go. He caught word on the road back—didn’t believe a word. So he turned his horses round, went back t’set eyes on it himself.’

  Uncle Fletcher reached for the stoneware jug of ale, but Aunt Browne moved quickly, her hands trembling hard now as she refilled his mug.

  He took a long sip before continuing.

  ‘York’s constable and townsfolk told me carter everythin’—while the churchmen were goin’ about prayin’. Said them burglars brought hounds—proper big brutes, they were. Left claw marks all over. Tracks big as trenchers. Bite marks on them poor souls…’

  ‘Fletcher—are you certain your man didn’t exaggerate? Might he’ve been mistaken?’

  ‘Nay, Mister Daiwik. They’re gone, no mistakin’ it.’ Uncle Fletcher took another slow sip of ale, paused and reached into his coat pocket, drawing out a handkerchief—soot-stained and creased. Carefully, he placed it on the table. As he unfolded the cloth, he went on.

  ‘Me carter brought these, he did.’

  Inside the handkerchief lay two strange-looking coins and a silver ring, dull with age and smeared with dried reddish liquid.

  Father took a napkin, pinched one of the coins between its folds, and held it toward the candlelight.

  ‘Yes. It’s his. Birch’s merchant token.’ He turned the coin once and examined it in silence for a moment longer. ‘B and S—clear as day etched on it—for Birch and Sons, and their family crest too.’

  ‘Father, can I see the ring?’ Leon asked.

  ‘Mind your hands. Don’t touch it directly.’

  Leon took a napkin from the table and carefully lifted the silver ring.

  ‘Oh, it’s heavy. It’s a “G”... and a “V”?’

  Lucian leaned in.

  ‘No… It’s upside down. That’s not a “G”. It’s an “A”… and a “B”. Alaric… Birch.’

  His father’s face was drawn as he returned the token to the handkerchief and took a seat.

  ‘So the Birches are gone. That’s grim news, Fletcher. They were good folk. They’ll be missed sorely.’

  Lyddie let out a loud sob and leaned over Mother’s shoulder.

  ‘Even their children, Mr Fletcher? Are they truly gone?’ She asked, a hand over Lyddie’s hair, eyes shining with tears. Uncle Fletcher’s reply came with a short, awkward nod.

  ‘Did your cartman report anything else, Fletcher?’

  ‘Aye, he did, sir. But what he saw… God help us.’ Uncle shuddered and drank his ale. His face was still ashen, but the ale seemed to be doing its work. His voice slowed, grew clearer. ‘The mess… they’ve left everythin’ torn. Barrels cracked wide. Dye streamin’ like blood. Wool soaked through, cloth, grain—ruined, all of it. Birch... he were sprawled in the middle. Layin’ in the wreck like one more broken thing. His wife and children found under the rubble. Gone… Gone…’

  Gasps rippled across the table as Auntie poured more ale in Uncle’s empty mug. Tess didn’t look upset. Just curious, scanning each face in turn, as if crying and mourning were unusual human emotions.

  ‘Houses nearby got hit, too.’ Uncle Fletcher went on. ‘The inn—smashed straight through. Folk gone missin’. No one’s countin’ yet. But nothin’ looted—no, not even a coin. Goods, silver, and gold—all still there. Just wrecked it all and vanished.’

  Father suddenly sat up straight. ‘What of my stored wool? Our latest shipments?’

  Uncle’s voice dropped.

  ‘All gone, sir. Every last bit, it seems. Me cart’s first drop-off were York, mind. Me dyes and the last of yer wool bales. Birch offered him a cot in the back room—one o’ them spots for long-haulin’ lads. But he said nay. Had to reach Hull by break o’ day, he did. If he’d stayed—he’d be gone as well. God be praised, he left. That back room—smashed t’splinters—roof caved right in, it did. Yer bales was at the back—me barrels was piled in the middle. Other merchants’ goods too. Them hounds tore through the lot—they was chasin’ Birch inside that warehouse. Nothin’ left to save.’

  Father sank slightly in his chair.

  ‘It was our largest shipment this year. Troubling… deeply troubling.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  Everyone turned to Tess. She sat up a little straighter and folded her arms—not the least bit shy.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t! We’ve been there. We’ve visited the Birches. How could burglars with hounds bring down their roof?’

  Lucian frowned and saw those ember eyes again in his mind.

  Tess’s right. The Birches’ flat sat just above the warehouse. Burglars alone couldn’t bring its roof down. But… what if it wasn’t burglars at all? That black hound was massive. It could have easily torn through Birches’ walls and pulled their roofs down. Perhaps they were attacked by one of its kind—Or perhaps the same one Leon and I saw?

  ‘Lettice,’ Mother’s voice broke in crisply, snapping Lucian from his thoughts. ‘This is a difficult talk. Mind your words and mind your place.’

  Tess huffed and looked away.

  Lawrie leaned forward.

  ‘Yet—she has a point. How would they have done that?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking the same.’ Father sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘However, we have more pressing matters. Fletcher, Did any other merchants lose their shipments? From Leeds or nearby?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Plenty. Traders from all over. Most o’ mine was headed for Hull port. Big order fer the Low Countries. Overdyed indigo, finest I’ve handled in years. I was thinkin’ I’d raise a pint or two once the cart made it in. But after all this... well, don’t sit right now…’

  ‘That’s decent of you, Fletcher, but we’ve got to be wise. If word spreads that our mill lost its largest shipment, folk’ll lose confidence. That kind of talk could ruin us. In my trade—and in yours. The Birtches’ burial’s likely already done, but we shouldn’t miss the truth of what’s happened.’

  Father stood up, turned and peered out the window.

  ‘Mrs Browne, we’ll need provisions and the fastest horses ready. See that Mr Pritchard is informed. We’ll go to York by first light.’

  ‘At once, sir,’ Auntie said with a curtsy, hurrying down the hall, her head held high.

  Father looked at Fletcher.

  ‘Best we see it with our own eyes. We’ll speak to the churchmen and pay our respects after.’

  ‘You’ll need to tread carefully, Thomas,’ Mother said, her voice carrying a tinge of worry. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there were bandits on the roads even in the mornings.’

  Father considered her words for a moment.

  ‘We’ll bring flintlocks and my swords. Fletcher, best spend the night here. Will you be sound enough for a long road?’

  Fletcher swallowed another mouthful of ale before answering.

  ‘Aye, sir. I was fixin’ to go anyhow. Alaric were a loyal friend. Can’t let it pass without standin’ at his grave, payin’ me respects.’

  The door opened, and Auntie entered.

  ‘Sir,’ she said politely. ‘Mr Pritchard’s seeing to the horses. He does not think it wise for you and Mr Fletcher to travel alone to York. I have not said why you are going, but he insists on going with you.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Browne.’

  ‘Very well, sir. I will prepare provisions.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Browne.’ said Father and turned to Lawrie, ‘You’ll stay and manage the estate and mill matters in my absence.’

  Lawrence’s chest rose. By his side, Lewis’s eyes rolled, and he made for the ale.

  ‘Fletcher, finish a proper meal, will you? Not just ale, mind.’

  ‘I’ll force down a bit o’ bread ‘n cheese.’

  Auntie Browne was already at the table, cutting thick slices of cheese, her hands working fast, but her face was still white as milk.

  ‘Ta, Mistress,’ muttered Uncle, finishing the last of his ale before touching the food. His cheeks were flushed. ‘Came straight to you first, sir. Han’t told no one else yet. Proper bad, the whole lot.’

  Father sat again and cut himself a slice of cheese. ‘Aye, bad for every merchant in Leeds, could mean ruin to some.’

  ‘Got me list here somehwere.’ said Uncle between mouths full. ‘Every merchant what sent goods through Birch this week, by way o’ me carter.’

  ‘Good man. May I see it?’

  ‘Course,’ Fletcher put his knife down and started rummaging through his coat, patting different pockets. ‘There it is.’

  He pulled out two folded sheets and handed them across to Father. A smaller scrap of parchment, yellowed and creased, slipped out from between the folds. It landed squarely on the table.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lucian’s eyes couldn’t believe it.

  There, roughly sketched with dark lines, was a massive hound, black as coal, mouth curled back, teeth bared. Long chains hung from its body, looping down like vines.

  It had only one eye. One great, glaring eye.

  ‘Beggin’ pardon, young masters, didn’t mean to frighten you—I weren’t gonna say nothin’, but me carter brought back more than news ‘n’ tokens. He found their Bible. Birches’s, you see. Them sketches was tucked inside, along with a prayer. I weren’t sure if I oughta mention it.’

  ‘And what sort of prayer was it?’ Father asked. Lucian’s gaze dropped to the line written neatly beneath the drawing. Latin script, just like those from the sunday sermons.

  ‘Protection prayer, sir. For wardin’ off a black shuck, it was.’

  Mother gasped loudly at his words.

  ‘Aye, Mistress Daiwik. Reacted the same, I did. They’d been seein’ that black dog over a month. Wrote it all down—on the back o’ that paper. Alaric drew it hisself.’ He paused and took another gulp of ale. ‘Y’see… The attacks—weren’t like no thievin’ I’ve ever known. More beast than man, it were. What’s worse—Alaric, he knew summat bad were comin’. Kept prayin’, tryin’ to ward off the shuck. But it came anyway—the attack on a full moon night, it was.’

  ‘Nay! Thomas, you can’t go to York.’ Mother said, clutching the edge of the table. Every head turned to her.

  ‘What? Why? What’s the full moon got to do with any of it? Or this… black shuck nonsense?’

  ‘The worst sort, it is. The shuck’s tale—death and misfortune on its heels. I’ve lived… I mean, I grew up hearing it. My parents came from the hills. They say if you ever set eyes on a black shuck, calamity’s coming.’

  Father never truly cared for Mother’s ‘daft tales’, as he called them, muttering about wasted time and idle fear. All the Daiwik children had been brought up hearing them all the same, and Lucian had always believed. By now, he was certain of it.

  Creatures that walked the woods when the world was asleep: fairies with silver fingers, dryads with bark for skin, spirits that drifted between the trees like smoke. Sometimes Mother gave them names, too—Sylvaeryn, the forest dryad, her dearest friend. Those names stuck in Lucian’s head for days after, as if they’d been pressed there.

  But she’d never once mentioned the shuck. And since Lucian had discovered that magic was real, he found himself wondering whether Mother had lived more of her tales in truth than Father ever guessed.

  ‘Aye. Folk talk, Mistress Daiwik. ’Specially up round them Yorkshire hills. Dark tales, them. Real dark. The black shuck’s one of the worst. Bad omen, that. I pray I never set eyes on it. Wouldn’t know what to do if I did.’ Uncle Fletcher paused, chewing on a piece of hard cheese, then went on. ‘Priests don’t go near ‘em tales, do they? Say it’s naught but the devil in a wolf’s skin—meant to scare folk into prayin’ harder. But I won’t say no more. This day’s black enough as it is.’

  Lucian’s gaze returned to the parchment in his hands.

  One eye—Only one. That’s not right. The one they’ve seen had two… two red burning eyes. But still… they’re too alike.

  ‘I’d like to hear more, Uncle Fletcher, about this shuck hound,’ he said, before his mind could think proper. ‘If you don’t mind?’

  Uncle Fletcher gave him a weary smile.

  ‘Ah, young master… Best saved for another evenin’, eh? I’ll bring a proper old tome—belonged to me da, it did. Straight from London. Chock full o’ tales. That suit ye, Mistress?’

  ‘Aye!’ said Lukey promptly and a heartbeat later went pink as a berry.

  Mother smiled and glanced briefly at Father. He gave a short nod.

  ‘It certainly would, Mr Fletcher,’ she said. ‘Something to hope for. Once your affairs in York are settled. Join us for supper and one of your famous stales by the fire. The twins and Lukey are ever so fond of old books. Active imaginations, they have, see?’

  ‘That would be brilliant, that would!’ Lukey beamed.

  ‘Glad t’hear it.’ Uncle Fletcher’s smile grew just slightly. ‘After all them dark talks, a bit o’ story might do us good. Can’t do no harm, eh?’

  Father cut in. ‘We must prepare. Lewis is to go with Lawrence to the mill. Times like these teach better than books. Worth more than Latin, if you ask me. Keep quiet, mind. The hands don’t need to hear any of this.’

  ‘Please be careful on the road, Thomas,’Mother said. ‘And don’t forget the flintlocks.’

  Hours later, Lucian and Leon lay under their quilts in the attic—deep in thought—eyes open to the dark. Lucian was half a mind to slip his spelltag into Father’s belongings, just for the comfort of knowing it could protect him on the road.

  But could it truly?

  ‘What if they don’t come back?’ Lucian whispered. ‘From York, I mean?’

  ‘Don’t say that, Luce.’

  ‘But York’s far. Father and Uncle mightn’t reach it till well after dusk. Long roads aren’t safe.’

  ‘Stop frettin’, Luce. Will you?’ Leon huffed. ‘Bad enough as it is. Besides, Mr Pritchard’ll go with ’em. Handles any trouble, he does.’

  ‘Aye,’ Lucian murmured.

  That was true enough. Mr Pritchard handled any trouble that ever came their way. He’d taught Lawrie and Lewis to shoot straight, to keep their feet, and to hold steel without flinching.

  Even Father deferred to him in a scrap.

  Still, the unease in Lucian’s chest wouldn’t ease. His hand found the leather of his pouch beside his pillow and gripped it tight. Inside lay Mr Birch’s drawing, half-crumpled. Uncle Fletcher had forgotten to ask for it, so he kept it.

  A death omen—Mr Birch had seen the hound.

  So had they.

  Somehow, the presence casting small, harmless hexes—as stone eggs and the likes around the grounds was nothing compared to that hound.

  Was it the same hound Mr Birtch saw?

  If it were, Lucian needed to do something against it, or his family was more in danger than he first thought. Mayhap that black hound had come to Leeds after destroying Mr Birch’s warehouse.

  His notion of staying away from Grovewell felt thin now, like paper held to a flame. If he left and did nothing against the black hound, his family would be in grave danger. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened to them—especially because he was the cause of it.

  Five days to Grovewell, and Lucian’d have to carry that looming threat with him until then—best to practise now. Small tricks, the sort he could keep in hand. But he needed to know more, too.

  More about the presence, more about the hound, more about magic.

  ‘We’ll go to Lukey first thing in the morning,’ he said, firm in the dark. ‘We’ll handle that hound, one way or another.’

  But Leon’s answer never came—at least, not in the way Lucian hoped. His snores rumbled the bed, steady as a cart on cobbles, and Lucian let out a quiet chuckle that had no real mirth in it.

  This time would be different—he needed it to be.

  Know your enemy first, then master yourself—Father always said it when Lawrie practised fencing with the neighbour’s lad, Eliot Alden, and Mr Pritchard would nod along.

  If he couldn’t keep his tricks in hand, then he’d need to know more about the shuck—or black hound.

  He’d kill it and protect his family.

  No way round it, then…

  Grovewell was in his future after all.