The Family Shame Sample

(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

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Cover by Brad Fraunfelter

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 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.

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