Lucian’s thoughts were still racing as they walked down the curved street, its copper marble shining bright under the sunlight. The round shops grew more crowded with the day’s press. The magical world felt endless. He knew too little of it, and that thought would not leave him alone. Magi were all around them, brushing shoulders and slipping past them as if the world had always been this colourful.

  The way the magi dressed put Lucian in mind of the strangers he’d seen back in Leeds: the same tight vests beneath bright cloaks, belts crossing their middles, and tomes and pouches hanging heavy at their sides. Hewitt had said the colours showed their fons and elements. Nymbranis magi, like Merrick, wore pale blue, while pyralux magi, like Sage Hewitt, wore crimson robes. Lucian wasn’t sure which fons he liked the most, but silvalis—nature magic—was the one that truly took his interest.

  Sage Hewitt was about to explain further when Leon sprang toward a shopfront. The sage had to haul him back from Stoutcroft’s Harness & Hide and wouldn’t let him buy a set of gloves that’d grant the wearer sharp claws.

  They did, however, buy new buckles and a new pouch for Lucian—a replacement for the mended one that’d been threatening to split again at the seam. And Lucian, after a moment’s hesitation, chose one of those green candles for himself, the sort Sage Hewitt had lit in the ‘bubble room’ to soothe the mind and keep fear at bay.

  Lucian was glad when Jonas arrived—out of breath and grinning. He kept pointing out the shops—one after another—as they walked on, and Jonas seemed all nerves and eagerness, set on telling them everything he could. The shopkeepers’ little secrets, bits of gossip about the Wells, and which stalls had the finest wares.

  Each window was crowded with things Lucian could scarce believe were real. One displayed self-mending runic robes. Another offered measuring instruments, lenses, and long brass tubes. Sage Hewitt later called them “telescopes”, alongside other devices Lucian could make neither head nor tail of.

  Some windows were stacked with barrels of powdered minerals and dried herbs; others held books drifting slowly in the air, quills that scratched of their own accord, and rolls of parchment that turned themselves with soft, papery sighs.

  They stopped to buy their first-term books in a shop called Parchbarrow’s Bookstall (Liber et Litterae). The curved walls were stacked with shelves, yet each shelf showed only a single copy of a title.

  Leon craned his neck. ‘Lukey would’ve been beside himself, getting his hands on some of these, aye?’

  Lucian couldn’t help a small smile at that, and he cheered proper when Jonas showed them how to summon books from the higher shelves.

  ‘Let us see…’ Jonas ran his finger down his list. ‘A Novice’s Guide to Magic!’ He called it out, but nothing happened. He frowned and tried again. Still nothing.

  From the counter, the clerk spoke up, a slender woman with spectacles near as wide as her face.

  ‘Ey, you must speak it right, lad. Title proper, and the volume number an’ all.’

  ‘Thank you, mistress,’ Jonas said, going scarlet. ‘A Novice’s Guide to Magic, Book the First.’

  From the very back of the shop, a book shot forward and halted in front of him. 'That’s it,' he said, and the volume slid slowly into the mouth of a leather satchel with the shop’s name branded on it, waiting by Jonas’s feet.

  They spent the next hour dashing through the shop, calling for books and cheering when they slipped into the satchels. The books they hadn’t selected drifted back to their shelves, as if sulking they hadn’t been chosen. Lucian laughed aloud when he marked the satchel full of books at his feet was as light as a feather, no matter how many tomes it swallowed.

  Sage Hewitt only entered the bookshop to guide the lads through paying. What the clerk called a ‘Credit Tome’ sat on a pedestal by the counter. Lucian hung his satchel on a hook, and on the cover of the tome, the titles of his books appeared in fine, clean writing, followed by large letters that displayed: ‘4 Gops’.

  ‘Now, lad, place your spelltag upon the cover.’ Lucian did so. The ink in one stamp upon the tag thinned, as if it had been sipped away.

  ‘That’s it?’ said Lucian, in awe.

  ‘That’s all, lad. Leon, you next.’

  Lucian had only marked the difference in the shops’ sizes when they entered Spirewick’s Runic Drapery (Vestis Ordinata) three hours later. The warm smell of clean cloth and faint beeswax hit him as he passed by two wooden dress figures, one cut in a man’s shape and one in a woman’s, turning slowly upon their stands by the shop window.

  He stopped dead.

  The shop was vast, as big as St Peter’s—Leeds Parish Church. Rows and rows of linens, folded wool, and wooden figures dressed in different attire filled the place, stretching back farther than seemed possible. Lucian leaned his head back out of the doorway, blinking hard. From without, Spirewick’s had been the same size as any other shop on the street.

  Sage Hewitt caught his look.

  ‘Aye. That’s telluros magic, lad. A room bigger than its walls. It makes space where there oughtn’t be.’ He pointed to a bronze spelltag fixed to the wall. ‘Aula Dilata. That spell there’ll grant near double of the size for the best part of thirty days, then it fades.’

  A kind-faced clerk, dressed in a long gown, guided the boys towards an area where a sign with the word “Primordium” hung. They stood on footstools lined neatly in a row, and a Fit-Rune Post began to record their measurements with a soft ticking sound.

  The clerk lifted her right hand. A silver ring caught the light, and the cloth at Lucian’s shoulders shivered, then shortened, hem folding itself neat as if invisible fingers had pinched it into place. No shears, needles, nor thimbles in sight.

  When she moved on to Leon, Lucian gestured to Sage Hewitt, who was sitting on an upholstered chair and sipping from a glass of a bright yellow liquid. ‘I can’t rightly make out what a spelltag is. If I work in the Wells… will I be paid with a tag?’

  Jonas, beside him, shook his head.

  ‘Paid? Nah. Magi don’t truly labour for coin. They trade, see? Goods, services, and they cast what they can, and they bargain for what they cannot. Spelltags just make it easier.’

  ‘Jonas is not far off, lad.’ Sage Hewitt settled back in his chair. ‘I cast pyralux spells into spelltags.’ He reached into his pouch and brought out a silver tag with only two runes near the top. ‘Like this one. Setting a lamp or hearth ablaze is a simple form of magic. Then I can spend it, so long as what I’m asking is equal or lesser.’

  ‘So magi are… stuffing spells in silver papers?’

  ‘That’s right lad, and they can use them to cast the spell or just to trade with them—practical in both ways.’

  ‘Nullkin coin’s no use in here,’ said Jonas. ‘It’s only value, no magic. A tag’s useful. It holds a little of the force of the magus who created it. He hesitated, colour climbing his cheeks. ‘Stronger magic, better tags… Well, at least that’s what Aunt Judith says.’

  ‘And she’s right again.’ Hewitt lifted his fingers, and three spelltags rose into the air between them. He counted, ‘Bronze for simpler castings, up to 30 bops. Silver for more lasting spells and up to 40 sops. Gold for complex ones, up to 50 gops. The stronger you grow, the richer you become.’

  Leon frowned. ‘So if one’s weak, or can’t cast much… will they be poor?’

  ‘I reckon so,’ Jonas said, grim. ‘But you can trade clever, or earn more tags. Magi find a way. In sometimes, the Wellsages land a hand.’

  A strange feeling came over Lucian, one that took away the joy he’d felt since he entered Grovewell. Creating a spelltag meant casting again and again. He thought back to the frozen patch of grass and how, as he’d tried to unfreeze it, it had begun to smoulder. If Leon hadn’t lifted his arm and broken his concentration, it’d have surely burnt up.

  He wasn’t sure he could even hold one simple spell, let alone cast it repeatedly into a tag.

  If he couldn’t create them, what’d become of him then? What’d his future be in this new world if he couldn’t hold his magic?

  ‘Fret not, lad.’ said Hewitt and Lucian looked up. But the sage wasn’t looking at him; he was looking at Leon as if he’d read him like a book.

  ‘There are magi born tenues—little magic, or none at all, mind,’ said Hewitt. ‘Most labour out on the edges of the Wells, or they take work in Nullkin lands. Like your coachman, Oswald—he’s only skilled in battle magic; anything else falls flat to him, it does. If a tenuis like him needs a spell—Aula Dilata, say—he trades for it. I don’t reckon that’ll be your case, Leonard, not at all.’

  Leon beamed at him, then at Lucian.

  ‘That’s what Aunt Judith does,’ said Jonas. ‘Her job. At Wyre’s Seals & Spelltags. She gathers tags and trades ’em. Judith can’t cast well. She never learned proper. Her magic came on after her husband died. When townfolk caught her by the river, it were spilling out of her. She couldn’t hold it.’

  Lucian’s stomach turned at the picture, tricks pouring out in front of shouting folk.

  ‘How’d she open her shop, then?’ Leon asked.

  ‘First day we arrived, we stayed at Hewitt’s. Sage Li lives there as well. The Concordium granted us some spelltags to set us on our feet. Judith took ’em all and vanished. I thought she’d left me.’ He looked at Sage Hewitt and smiled brightly. ‘But three days later she turned up with no fewer than thirty golden spelltags. Bought an empty shop, and we live over it since.’

  ‘Judith’s a tenuis but she’s sharp with trade. Can’t cast, but she can bargain. Sees opportunities in every turn. Keep that in mind, lads.’

  Before anyone else could speak, the clerk stepped close with a brisk smile.

  ‘That’s you lot done, my dears,’ she said and Lucian, Leon, and Jonas hopped down from their footstools.

  Three large trunks waited by the counter. Their tailored robes floated in a neat line, folding themselves and stacking inside each trunk without a hand laid on them. Lucian watched the clerk move and wondered, not for the first time that day, how one could cast while doing something else. She hurried behind the counter, took up a very large Credit Tome and halted by the trunks. They sealed themselves with a soft click. Then she placed the Tome atop Lucian’s trunk, reading aloud.

  ‘For Novice Lucian Daiwik: plain runic robes and Spirecrowns, two pairs of stout runic leather shoes, protective gloves, and linen shirts.’ She peered down, lips moving quick. ‘Let’s see. That’ll be five-and-twenty sops in all, love.’

  ‘Sops?’ Lucian’s ears went hot. ‘I—I mean, Sorry, mistress. I’ve only a golden spelltag, not a silver one.’

  ‘That’ll do fine, dear. Five-and-twenty Sops makes five Gops. Place your spelltag here.’

  After their payments were settled, Sage Hewitt stood by the entrance, stretching his shoulders.

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  ‘So, lads. We’re coming to a close. We only need your leather magus straps, much like my own here.’ He tapped the leather belt at his waist. ‘I made this one myself. Fitted it with holders for a Tome Magicae, a relic, and an endless pouch for herbs and potions. A pursuit of mine, but a practical one, see?’ His eyes crinkled. ‘I’ll present each of you with one strap. Jonas, I’ve a spare for you as well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the lads said, near together.

  Hewitt nodded. ‘I suggest we make for Vicis Meridionalis, the South Quarter. A fine luncheon at the Spirelight Alehouse. What say you?’

  They nodded, but Lucian frowned at the satchels full of books and school materials and the trunks full of clothes. Even if they were light as feathers, it was too much to carry by hand alone.

  ‘I know they’re light as a feather, sir,’ Lucian said, careful, ‘but how are we to take all of these?’

  Hewitt smiled. He unhooked his wand from his belt, drew a tight downward spiral, then lifted it sharp.

  ‘Minue Leva.’

  The trunks and satchels shone for a heartbeat and dwindled to the size of hen eggs.

  ‘There,’ Hewitt said, tucking his wand away. ‘They’ll not regain their size until term begins, mind. Stow them in your pouches and keep ’em safe.’

  Lucian pinched the little trunk between finger and thumb and placed it on his open palm. Leon looked at him, beaming, and Lucian understood what he’d meant. Magic was a wonder—frightening, too—and despite himself, he’d taken to it already.

  The Spirelight alehouse sat a little back from the main street, behind a neat ring of clipped green and low hedges. Tables and chairs stood orderly upon the grass, their occupants eyeing their approach with mild interest. Above the entrance, a sign shaped like a sunburst hung from an iron bracket, and beneath it a lantern globe was etched into dark marble stone.

  ‘Best kitchen in Vicis Meris,’ Jonas’s steps quickened as Hewitt led them through the garden. ‘Cook can do a stew what’ll mend your bones, I’m tellin’ you.’

  Leon’s brows rose. ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Aunt’s friend, she is.’ Jonas pointed up at the upper floor. ‘And that up there’s Hewitt’s and Sage Li’s lodgings. Where Judith and I stayed when we first came to Grovewell.’

  ‘That’s my alehouse, lads.’ said Hewitt as he dropped onto a chair by a round oak table beneath the hedge’s shade. ‘Best you mind your step while we’re under its roof.’

  The side door opened, and a warm scent of broth spilt out. A woman stepped into the doorway, broad and kindly, with round cheekbones and plain black hair pulled back neat. The sage greeted her like an old friend and asked for four servings of lamb stew.

  She gave a little bow and tapped the board three times.

  Plates, mugs, and jugs rose up from the wood as if they had been waiting beneath it all along.

  Lucian’s chair scraped a fraction as his whole body went tight. Leon didn’t so much as blink, only stared with that bright, hungry amazement on his face. Jonas, red-faced, looked like he was trying not to laugh outright.

  The woman’s mouth quirked and she strode back inside without another glance.

  Lucian reached for the water. It was cold and clean, tasting of nothing at all. He peered into the mug, half expecting to see grit or rust at the bottom. In Leeds, water always carried something with it. Dirt, iron, a foulness you could not name.

  But here… it was only water.

  Leon leaned his elbows on the table and looked hard at Hewitt.

  ‘So where’s the Primordium? Is it in Vicis too?’

  The sage clapped Jonas on the back. ‘He ought to know that by now. Go on then, lad. Tell ’em.’

  Jonas flushed to the ears and started counting on his fingers.

  ‘Grovewell’s got three rings, aye. Planisvicis—or just Vicis—is the outer. Stalls and trade, folk comin’ and goin’, and a bit o’ play besides.’ He glanced at Leon, then at Lucian, checking he had them. ‘Then comes Lexis and—nay, I mean Planislexis. That’s where folk bide. Lessons, practice yards, halls for drills, better shops, and Primordium grounds sit there an’ all.’

  Leon cut in at once. ‘So we’re not marching to the very middle, then?’

  ‘Nay. Not right off. The very middle’s Planiscaedis. Magi call it the golden Caedis too. Concordium’s there, Myrrhvault, Verdant Haven, Wellsages’ lodgings, all that matters most.’ He swallowed, looking at the sage. ‘That’s how it’s set?’

  He nodded in approval. ‘Very well, lad. Better than last time. Right enough.’

  The names stacked up in Lucian’s head like stones—Why? Why Latin again? But before he could complain aloud, the side door opened again.

  A plump woman came out with four bowls of steaming hotpot and a long loaf floating in front of her, guided by a wand that looked more like a ladle than anything else. The bowls and bread settled on the table neat as service back in the estate. The woman looked them over quick.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said, her voice, warm around the edges. ‘Heard our dear Jonas were here. You doin’ well, lad, aye? And your aunt too? Good, good.’ Her gaze slid to Lucian and Leon. ‘And you lot’ll be James’s new novices, then. From Leeds, I’ve heard.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hewitt said. ‘These two are Lucian and Leon Daiwik.’ He tipped his head towards her. ‘Lads, this is Winifreda Sykes. Best gossip in Grovewell.’ His grin made it plain he was jesting, even if Lucian couldn’t tell whether she liked the title.

  Winifreda gave him a small shove with her shoulder.

  ‘Hush with you, James. You’ve a sharp tongue for a man as wants feeding.’ She looked back to the boys. ‘You little ones ought to come by once term starts. This place gets dull, and I’ve need of a bit of diversion.’

  Lucian reached into his pocket and brought out the golden spelltag and meant to pay for the meal. Winifreda’s eyes flicked to it, and her mouth went firm.

  ‘Away with that, child. No charge. Fair, aye?’

  Lucian’s cheeks heated.

  ‘Thank you, mistress,’ he said, respectful, the way Mother would expect.

  ‘Eat whilst it’s hot, then,’ she smiled at them, turned and swung her wand at the fallen leaves, sending them skittering aside as she went.

  After the meal, Sage Hewitt waved his wand over the table, and three magus straps appeared there. Plain leather belts, runes worked into the length, fitted with small pouches.

  Leon didn’t wait. He snatched one up, buckled it round his waist, and turned on his heel as if he’d been given a soldier’s sword, twirling and strutting like a merry andrew.

  Jonas burst out laughing. But Lucian couldn’t join in.

  He didn’t understand why Merrick’s words still stuck to him, repeating themselves over and over in his head. Bathing charms. He’d said. Did they stink that badly? If they did, no wonder that black hound found them by the river. It’d been drawn not by Lucian’s magic, but by his stench.

  He couldn’t be that dirty. Could he?

  ‘You lads seem well amused,’ a soft voice cut through Leon’s snickers and Lucian’s thoughts. Lucian turned and a very pale, very tall woman stood by the sage. She looked as though she had stepped out of some travelling show. Wrapped in long crimson and gold robes that flowed to the ground, hiding her boots from view. Her black hair was parted and gathered into two bundles, held fast by a broad golden piece, square as a little door

  ‘Ah, Jiang,’ said Hewitt and he stood up. ‘Lads, this is Sage Jiang Li. Pyralux Fons.’

  ‘Good to finally meeting you Lucian and Leon.’ she said, dipping her head in a little bow, her dark, almond-shaped eyes as thin as slits.

  They did the same, but Lucian couldn’t speak—he was stunned by her beauty. He had never seen someone with such a feature.

  ‘I’m litoralis magus, who was charged to watch over your house. Since May. Primordium sage also. In Grovewell, I teach. In Leeds I’m only very lucky foreigner from far land, owner of the White Horse Inn.’

  Lucian frowned. The way she spoke made it difficult to piece the information together.

  ‘You’ve been watching us?’ said Lucian.

  ‘What? Why?’

  She smiled and exchanged an amused look with Sage Hewitt. ‘You don’t trust, yes?’

  ‘You lads can trust her,’ said Jonas, standing up to give the woman a hug. ‘Brilliant she is, and helped us a lot she did.’

  ‘You kind, Jonas,’ Li said and took a seat, so did Sage Hewitt and Jonas. ‘In my land, I’m Taiost Witch. I have valuable abilities for spying and scrying—seeing in mirrors and such things.’

  Leon frowned. ‘I thought “witch” was an oath.’

  ‘Not in my land,’ said Lie, simply.

  ‘She’s the Taiost Witch. The only one in the country, she is,’ said Jonas proudly.

  ‘True. Barlow sent me to your estate because before I come to this country, I meet someone like you. He also carry this same power. But he wasn’t seventh child of seventh child. That’s what makes you different. Special. Unique. You were born with exceptional magic. Wild and rare.’

  ‘You mean to say that my tricks are wild like that because I’m a seventh? That’s why I can’t hold them?’

  She leaned forward and around her neck hung a heavy round pendant of pale jade, carved with twelve small empty holes circling a larger symbol he did not know.

  ‘Yes,’ she said and placed a hand over his, closing her eyes.

  ‘And no,’ she straightened a little, smiling at him. ‘Magic has two core—light force and dark force—two face of same coin. Those who study such matters name them First Light and Oldest Darkness, because they’re born as one is. Most folk can hold only one force. But you, Lucian, you call and command both together. As one. That’s rare.’

  Leon looked impressed and Jonas gawped at Lucian with alarm in his eyes.

  ‘Barlow says he’ll remove me and Leon if I reveal my tricks to anyone.’

  Her eyes softened.

  ‘Yes, I understand. I do not trust Barlow. He only think of himself. I only wish show you how hold your rare magic. You need not carry this burden alone.’

  ‘Lad, come to us if anything troubles you,’ Hewitt added. ‘We’ll aid you the best we can.’

  The sages—they sounded honest—plain in it.

  Lucian wanted to believe them, but should he?

  Barlow and Allerton had offered nothing of that sort. They had shown no sign of wishing him or Leon well—not truly. They only wanted them out of the way—docile and tamed, bound to rules and secrecy.

  But these sages… Lucian’s and Leon’s wellbeing seemed to come first. At least, that was what he was meant to think.

  ‘I don’t trust Mr Barlow, either,’ Lucian said at last. ‘He only cares for his sacred secrecy law.’

  ‘True enough that is,’ Jonas cut in, voice flat and bitter. ‘He cares for no one.’

  They all turned to him.

  ‘Beg your pardon, Sage Hewitt and Sage Li. But I meant it. Soon as Aunt opened her shop, Barlow came round. Questioned her. Wanted word of Leeds.’ His nostrils flared. ‘There’s something he wants there, in the town. Perhaps he wants to capture corrupt magi. Aunt says he’s ambitious and keen. Wants Archsage Sorell’s spot in the Concordium, he does. Take it from him, mayhap. She does not like him. Neither do I.’

  Sage Hewitt’s mouth tightened, and for a moment Lucian thought he might snap. Instead, he spoke with caution.

  ‘Barlow’s ambitious—that’s plain enough.’

  ‘I’m lost, then…’ said Lucian feeling low, ‘my tricks—they only bring trouble and I can’t hold them. It just bursts out of me. If this is what magic does, I want no part of it. Light or dark.’

  ‘You do not like the magic?’

  ‘I…’ Lucian faltered.

  When his tricks rushed through him and the thing he wished for came to pass—it felt wonderful. The cold. The warmth. Even with both of them together filling his bones. If he dared, he’d call on it again and again. Yet the same longing made his life miserable. The cost was too heavy—the fear of being found out, the harm his wild tricks might bring—not only to himself but to his family too. Better, perhaps, to live as a Nullkin—blend in—blind to it all but safe. Happy.

  He held her gaze.

  ‘Both. Since our birthday, my tricks have been… growing, right? And Mr Barlow said that Mr Allerton’s been sensing my tricks since then. So… I reckon if Mr Allerton could sense them, so could others. Barlow must’ve known that. What if the creatures came to Leeds because of my tricks? I’d rather… can you not take it off, away from me?’

  ‘I’m afraid it does not work so.’ Li said gently. ‘Your magic as much part of you as your heart, your thoughts, your soul. You cannot cut it off any more than you can cut off your shadow.’

  ‘But what if… What if I hurt someone? Or someone finds out?’

  ‘Fear is natural,’ Li said, with a warm smile. ‘I’m to watch you and your family, yes? To make sure your magic doesn’t break laws. Leeds already full of whispers. Townsfolk feel something haunts them. They look for reasons, for tales to tell. If we don’t give them right one, they’ll make their own. It won’t be long for them to point at your estate.’

  ‘You’ll help us? My family too?’

  Sage Hewitt nodded. ‘We’re here for you, lads.’

  ‘I still don’t understand. Why my magic spills out of me and Leon’s doesn’t?’

  ‘There’s war happening in you. Each primordial force fighting for domain. Means you need more training and more strength to keep the two force in balance so they don’t rule you. If you lean too far to one side and break that balance, then Light blind you, or Darkness eat away your will. One will swallow the other, and you’ll be lost. Leon’s in balance. He need only practice.’

  Sage Li swept a hand lightly through the air. A small round mirror, framed in dull silver, formed itself upon her palm. Neat engravings marked the edge—it reminded him of the little mirror Sage Hewitt broke in the dining room.

  She offered it to him and Lucian took it. As soon as he touched it—a jolt ran through him—the mirror was more than it seemed.

  ‘What does it do?’ he asked.

  ‘We talk. Silver’s bound with spell,’ she said. ‘Keep mirror close. When your magic is too much, breathe on the glass and write my name: Jiang Li.’ She drew a finger across the surface, writing the letters. ‘Then I come. You must only do this when you’re alone, you or Leon, yes?’

  Lucian and Leon nodded.

  ‘Jonas—and you, Leon… Lucian. Keep close. Keep secret. Folk in Grovewell ought not know Lucian’s seventh,’ Li said.

  ‘Why not?’ Lucian’s brow furrowed.

  More secrets. Magic seemed steeped in them.

  ‘Old tales, even among Nullkins, lads. Folklore, most of it, mayhap. Different each time, mind… but we know of only two other magi—seventh child of a seventh child—who had abilities the rest of our kind don’t. Rayslend Isaac was one, too.’

  Leon frowned. ‘One what?’

  ‘A seventh child, lad. Like Lucian, lad,’ said Hewitt, plain as stone.

  ‘He was…’ said Lucian. ‘Like me?’

  Sage Li leaned in and took both his hands in hers.

  ‘Aye, Lucian. Similar only. I think he held the same abilities. Hold of First Light and Oldest Darkness. For me… I think it only reason blood and bone magic not affect him, like it did other corrupt magi.’

  Lucian’s stomach dropped, hard.

  He had the same powers as the worst magi that had ever lived—not only that, he was a seventh child of a seventh child as well. What did that make him? And if evil could be as deadly as it was powerful—

  Water blurred his eyes. Sage Li gave his hands a squeeze.

  ‘Do not fret, Lucian.’

  Sage Hewitt leaned forward.

  ‘It might well be you share those gifts, lad. But it’s only a theory. Rayslend were famous for seeing magic as it truly was—its weaving threads. I warned you, lads. There are magi inside and outside the Wells who’d see you as a threat… or use what you’ve got for their own end.’

  He paused, and his gaze went past them, to the far sky, as if he were weighing something he did not fancy saying aloud.

  ‘I reckon you ought to keep it secret, lad. Truth isn’t your ally now—not in Grovewell, nor outside it, mind. Keep your mouth shut and your magic calm. We suspect the presence about your estate may be one of Rayslend Isaac’s followers, see? And a magus who can cast both blood and bone has the making to be as dangerous as Rayslend ever was. If that art rises again, it could drag us back into dark times—magi and Nullkin alike.’

  His eyes went to Leon, then back to Lucian.

  ‘Or mayhap they already know about your gifts, Lucian, and they’re looking to turn you. There’s been a change in both worlds since May, lads. And somehow… you’re sat right at the heart of it all.’