‘So? Nothing to say for yourselves, either of you?’ Mother asked, her blue eyes fixed on them. Lucian dropped his head and muttered, ‘Sorry.’ Leon echoed him.

  ‘Mark me, there’ll be no more roaming out before breakfast.’ She jerked her chin towards the kitchen door. ‘Scullery, now—before your father spies you.’

  Leon groaned, filthy from head to heel. Lucian—ankle-deep in gravel and muck—followed without a word, the grit grinding between his toes. He could not tell what was worse—the beast in the woods, Lewis’s threats, or Mother’s temper.

  The heat of the hearth met him the moment he stepped over the threshold. Even though the kitchen lacked its usual bustle of housemaids and errand boys, the place felt busy enough. Mother let the staff start their day later and made Lucian and his siblings see to their own breakfast; she said it taught them responsibility and the value of labour.

  Only Mrs Edith Browne, their housekeeper, was there. To them she was not just staff; she was Aunt Browne—had been for as long as Lucian could remember. He had grown up on Mother’s stories of the days when they had worked side by side, years before Father ever looked twice at the quiet girl polishing stair rails. Mother always said Auntie was more like a sister and he liked her very much.

  She turned sharply as they entered. Leon gave her a crooked little grin, as if he had won some secret game.

  ‘Leonard Daiwik, wipe that smile off your face,’ Mother snapped. ‘Your poor auntie had only just got those clothes clean.’

  Auntie crossed the room, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘Nell is right, lads,’ she said with a stern stare. Small as she was, she carried herself like a soldier on parade, and that stare of hers could make even Lawrie, their oldest brother, shift on his feet.

  ‘Lettice says you’ve been playing with frogs. Is that so?’

  Lucian gave a small nod.

  ‘Frogs, of all creatures. Frogs! Filthy and slimy, they are.’ Mother pointed a finger at them. ‘I’ll not hear of such nonsense once you boys are at the academy—my lads grubbing in the mire like that. Your father will be furious.’

  She reached for a basket by the door. ‘I’ll go see what keeps Lawrence; he should have been back with the eggs by now. When I come in again, see that you’re not sat at my table with half the riverbank still plastered over you.’

  She swept out of the kitchen.

  ‘Now then,’ Auntie said. ‘Scullery, the pair of you. Lavender water’s set. Wash proper. I’ll have no jesting and no dawdling.’

  ‘Yes, Auntie,’ they sighed together and traipsed towards the scullery in silence.

  ‘If Martha sees us like this, she’ll skin us alive with her tongue…’ said Leon as they went down the hall.

  Lucian nodded, growling inside. The only person he dreaded more than Lewis was Martha. Martha Cromwell, the senior housemaid, with her ruler always to hand. Ruthless and a gossip. She had helped raise every Daiwik child from the first cry to the first scolding and would gladly rap their knuckles for the smallest mischief, hard enough to leave them smarting. Lucian had long learnt to keep his distance.

  Just by the cellar door, on a low table, lay Father’s old penknife. He must’ve left it there after mending a strap or the like. Lucian’s fingers moved faster than his thoughts, and the cool blade slipped into his pouch. No one marked it. Foolish, perhaps, but his ribs still throbbed. If Lewis ever cornered him again, Lucian wouldn’t be helpless.

  His hand stilled at his pouch for a moment. He didn’t want to Lewis—not truly. He only prayed it would be enough to make Lewis back off.

  Leon spoke again, but Lucian’s mind had already run ahead of him. Could Lewis be right? Mayhap his tricks had something to do with the Crown’s clerk favouring him and Leon. Sometimes the surges came so swift that things happened before Lucian even knew what he was doing—too late to hide them.

  .

  Lewis was wrong. Lucian wasn’t .

  He hadn’t made any dark bargain. How could he have? And that feeling—the warm rush that had run through him when his fingers glowed—had not felt foul.

  It had felt .

  It had felt good—really good. He would try it again. He had to. And yet the shame of wanting to feel it one more time gnawed at him. But it had to be somewhere no one could spy him—away from Lewis, away from Tess, away from Leon too.

  Somewhere safe, but where?

  Tess swept out from the pantry and Lucian let out a sharp yelp, like a boy caught sneaking gingerbread from the kitchen dresser.

  ‘Calm yourself, will you?’ she said, raising her chin with a little sneer, a red shawl slipping off one shoulder. ‘You squeal worse than the hens.’

  ‘What d’you want now?’ Leon said, already sounding put out.

  ‘Ma says I’m to see you scrub up proper.’

  ‘Liar. She’s gone off to the hen-coop.’

  ‘We can wash ourselves well enough without you standing over us, Tess.’ Lucian grumbled and moved on. She followed them into the scullery.

  ‘Ma’s in a fine taking, isn’t she?’

  ‘Because you can’t hold your tongue, that’s why.’ Leon shot back as he poured water into a shallow copper basin.

  ‘You were eavesdropping again, weren’t you?’ Lucian said, working a wet cloth down his cheek. ‘Forever poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.’

  ‘I know. It’s a gift,’ Tess said, quite pleased with herself. She tapped a finger against her chin. ‘But did you know Lewie’s been asking questions? I heard him talking with Lawrie of it. He reckons there’s something strange about Luce. What am I to tell him if he asks me?’

  Lucian stared at his sister in disbelief. The narrow room seemed to press in on him, heat and steam tightening round his chest. If Lewis prised it out of her—if he started bawling witch in town…

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone. Keep your tongue out of it for once.’

  Tess folded her arms—her own star-shaped birthmark stood out clear on her flushed cheek. ‘I’ll need a good reason to keep it.’

  ‘I knew you wanted something. That’s why you’re here. What do you want for it?’

  ‘Nothing much. Just a wee little trick. Make me some violets bloom?’

  ‘I won’t,’ Lucian said at once. ‘You know I mustn’t be using my tricks. What if I can’t hold them and singe your hair clean off? The King’s man’ll be here soon enough.'

  Leon shot her a withering look. ‘What d’you want with violets?’

  ‘They’re out of season and I don’t understand where that fat frog came from, but it weren’t natural, that it weren’t. Without my help to hide Luce’s slips, folk’ll be calling him a witch soon enough—with all them queer tricks of his going round.’

  Heat rushed to Lucian’s face; he could almost feel Lewis’s fist at his shirt again. Tess had seen more than the frog since his tricks started, but she had never pressed him like this before. If he refused her now, she might well run straight to Lewie—or to Mother. He knew she would. Better to string her along, keep her sweet, and wait until they were off to Temple Newsam. All he had to do was keep to the schoolroom or Father’s study before she could corner him again.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll try. But you hold your tongue—and help me keep Lewis off me.’

  Leon gawped at him. ‘Are you daft?’

  Lucian shot him a glare.

  ‘Stay out of it, little Leon,’ Tess said, stepping forward and giving Lucian’s hand a brisk shake, as if they were in town watching Father seal a bargain. ‘I know how to manage Lewie. I’ll have my violets.’ She turned and bounced away, humming to herself.

  ‘You shouldn’t have promised her anything,’ Leon hissed as they went back to their washing. ‘You’re the one as keeps saying you don’t want to be using your tricks. Next, you’ll be blooming flowers for half of Leeds.’

  ‘What else was I to do? You know how she is. I told her I would; I just didn’t tell her when. By the time we’re heading to the academy, it’ll be too late.’

  ‘Ah, zounds, that’s clever. But, Luce—there was too much truth in what you told Tess. What if your tricks run away with you and do something you can’t mend? What are we to do then? You tried to clear the frost and set the grass to smoulder… what if it had caught proper fire? You ought to be more careful, not less. And Tess won’t leave this be, I tell you.’

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  Lucian stared at his twin and marked real concern in his eyes. He was right. Lucian had been careless—Tess had seen him that morning, and Lewis too. If they had marked his slips, others might as well. A pull tugged at him to bolt for the woods, where no one would press him with questions and he could try his tricks in peace. Mayhap feel that warmth rise through him again. Yet the image of the black hound crept back, sharp as ever—the red eyes in the trees, the teeth, the size of it—waiting amongst the trunks.

  After a deal of spilt water and an earful from Auntie, Lucian and Leon were at last allowed to sit at the long wooden table in the dining room. Lewis and Lukey were already there—Lewis with a cup of ale at his elbow, Lukey bent over a thick open book, reading so intently he did not look up, a rag of cloth pressed to his nose.

  Lucian slid into his usual seat opposite Lukey, just as Lawrie’s voice—carrying in from the kitchen—came loud and tight with frustration.

  ‘Mother, I tell you, not one fresh egg. None. Only those hard ones. I’ve never seen the like…’

  ‘It cannot be,’ came their mother’s voice, troubled. ‘They were stones, Lawrence. Not eggs. Did you check every nesting box? Under the straw as well?’

  ‘Twice. Pulled up the straw, ran my hands through the lot. Only the stones under the hens. We’ve a coop full of cursed poultry.’

  ‘Hush!’ snapped Mother. ‘Mind your tongue.’

  In spite of himself, Lucian’s gaze flicked back to Lewis. Hatred and accusation burnt in his brother’s eyes, and Lucian looked away at once. He held his pouch tight, feeling the hard piece of metal through the thin leather, and his shoulders loosened a little.

  He had wished for no eggs this morning. But then, he wished it every morning. It couldn’t be his tricks—not this time. He had felt none of the signs: no strange coldness, no rush of warmth. His fingertips hadn’t glowed, nor had he felt dizzy or worn out. He hadn’t even been near the coop.

  , he told himself.

  Lydia, their sister, breezed in, carrying a bowl of cherries. She set it down on the table with a little flourish.

  ‘Perhaps the hens have had enough of Lawrie’s face in the mornings. Frightens them stiff,’ she said as Lawrie stepped in the room with a stoneware jug of small beer and two pewter mugs clinking in his hands, the usual smugness on his face.

  ‘Next time, you go,’ Lawrie muttered, scowling. ‘Mayhap they’ll take you for their mistress. Lyddie of the hens—there’s a title for you.’

  Lewis, Lucian, and Leon erupted into laughter.

  Lyddie and Lawrie were the eldest of the seven Daiwik children—seventeen and twins like Leon and Lucian—though they could scarce look less alike. Lyddie was slighter, with fair hair and high cheekbones, while Lawrie stood very tall, broad in the shoulder and square in the jaw. The one sure likeness between them was the star-shaped birthmark on the cheek—the same mark every Daiwik child bore, as did Father.

  Lyddie spun round and shot a sharp glare as Lawrie took his seat. She opened her mouth to retort, but Thomas, their father, stepped in.

  Like Lawrie, he was already dressed for the day’s work, and Lucian could almost hear the servants and clerks at the mill saying, 'Mr Daiwik, sir,' as he passed. Lawrie looked as though he had stepped straight out of Father’s wardrobe: same dark waistcoat, hair combed neatly back. Only Father’s strange reddish-purple hair, deep green eyes, and trimmed beard set him apart.

  ‘Good morrow.’ Father’s eyes settled on Lawrie. ‘Already finished?’

  ‘Aye,’ Lawrie said. ‘The lads were hard at it in the woolshed when I arrived, and I set the ledger straight. Wool’s sorted, the last scoured batch weighed by the steelyard, and Hardwicke’s share is ready for Mr Browne in marked sacks, tied and counted for the cart.’

  ‘Very well,’ Father said. ‘I’ve set a shilling aside for the hearth tax. Keep it safe till the collector comes at Michaelmas.’

  ‘Father,’ said Lawrie, his voice thin as if unsure how to say it. ‘There are gaps in the ledger—entries missing. I’d not lay blame, but…’ His gaze flicked to Lewis.

  ‘I didn’t do it. Haven’t touched the woolshed ledger in an age.’

  Father’s eyes caught on Lewis’s near-empty cup of ale and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face.

  ‘Are you certain, Lawrence?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Lawrie. ‘I went through it twice.’

  ‘Perhaps some fees are astray. I’ll see to it.’ Father took his place at the head of the table and turned to Lewis.

   ‘Hearths seen to?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Lewis, his cheeks as flushed as his bushy hair. ‘I cleaned the parlour’s—it draws better now—and the one in the main hall as well.’

  ‘Didn’t Luke help?’

  ‘Nose started running and so did he.’

  ‘Are you unwell, Luke?’ Father said, but Lukey was slow to heed him. Lewis cuffed him on the neck so sharply that his spectacles flew from his nose. Lucian and Leon burst out laughing.

  ‘Ouch!’ Lukey yelped, half in pain, half in outrage. ‘Why would you do that for?’

  ‘Lukey, put your book aside,’ Father said, sharply. The room settled in an instant. ‘Are you feeling ill?’

  Lukey closed the book, wiping his nose with the rag.

  ‘Nay, Father. It is my summer wheeze again. I shall be all right.’ He put his spectacles back on and added, ‘Father—the headmaster is writing to Oxford, or maybe Cambridge. He is very pleased with my Latin and Greek. Will the college fees, food, lodging, and the travel be a problem?’

  Beside him, Lewis rolled his eyes and looked away.

  ‘Not at all. We’ll manage it

  ‘Playing about with frogs, Thomas.’ Mother said briskly as she came in, setting a fresh warm loaf on the table. ‘Those two cannot help themselves, can they? You’d best mark me—those woods are growing more and more dangerous of late. Be mindful.’

  Father winked at them as Mother took her seat beside him. Tess dropped with a sulky huff into the place next to Leon, her sleeves and shawl smudged with soot and flour. Aunt Browne followed, carrying a bowl full of steaming porridge.

  Father cleared his throat. ‘Let us say grace.’

  The room fell still.

  ‘Lord, we thank thee for these thy gifts. Bless this food to our use and us to thy service, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  Bread went from hand to hand, and spoons began to tap softly against the bowls’ rims. For the first time since the riverbank, Lucian’s mind eased.

  ‘Lawrie has had no luck with the eggs. Third day running,’ Mother said. ‘We must see to it.’

  ‘Fox, I reckon. I spied a black one slinking by the coops at night.’ Father turned to Lawrie. ‘Let Pritchard set the hounds by the hens. That’d make it think twice.’

  Lawrie frowned as he scraped the edge of his porridge bowl.

  ‘I don’t think it’s foxes, Father. Yesterday morning there wasn’t a single proper egg. Only those stones again—round, smooth, same size as eggs but heavy. I piled them at the back of the coop. This morning, another handful under the hens.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Father said, leaning back a little, the mug in his hand forgotten. ‘Never heard the like.’

  ‘Not the only strange thing of late,’ Lyddie said, setting down her cup. ‘Have you heard about Judith?’ Lyddie shot a glance at Auntie.

  ‘Who?’ said Father.

  ‘Auntie’s friend. The widow from Kirkgate. Judith Wyre.’

  Auntie went very pale and shook her head.

  ‘What of her?’ Lawrie said, eager.

  ‘Well… she’s been cried out as a witch. Meggie and I heard some maids talking of it. The constable’s after her. Two nights since, they found her by the narrow bank near Quarry Hill, under a tree, drawing marks in the mud with a stick and chanting. There was a ring of fire round her. A full circle. No logs, no coals—just flame. Folk in town are saying she was doing things best left unnamed.’

  Lewis, Leon, and Tess all glanced at Lucian. He felt himself sink in his chair, just as Auntie’s chest rose like a duck bristling to fend off her ducklings.

  ‘Judith was no witch,’ she said. ‘She sat beside me at sermons. Never missed a Sunday. Never said a word out of place. Always happy to speak the Lord’s Prayer. Lies, those are. There must be another explanation.’

  ‘Browne’s right—utter nonsense,’ scoffed Father. ‘There’s no such thing. Leeds is full of daft tales.’

  ‘It’s no alehouse tale, Father,’ Lyddie insisted. ‘The constable and his men hauled Judith to the gaol that same night. By morning she was gone. Took the baker’s lad with her.’

  ‘Jonas?’ Auntie gasped. Just like Lucian, Lukey and Leon jerked their heads up, looking alarmed at Lyddie. ‘Jonas Rudd? Are you certain?’

  ‘Aye, Auntie. Rudd from Kirkgate.’ She spoke as if she knew something that they didn’t.

  ‘Jonas’s our friend!’ said Leon. ‘Did she steal him?’

  ‘I know you lads played together,’ said Lyddie, coolly. ‘But I never liked him. The maids say Judith took him when she fled. Others swear they saw Judith and Jonas running down Boar Lane before they vanished by the White Horse Inn. Left no mark behind, they didn’t.’

  ‘Incredible,’ Lukey said, eyes wide behind his spectacles. ‘I mean—poor Jonas. Frightening and all, but the tale itself is remarkable.’

  ‘She’s guilty and deserves the rope,’ Lewis said flatly. ‘That’s why she slipped the gaol. But why take the lad?’

  Lyddie lifted one shoulder. ‘He meant to flee, didn’t he? Everyone knows the baker’s deep in his cups most nights. The maids say Jonas made a bargain with Judith and slipped home in the middle of the night with her dark craft. There’s talk he’s a witch as well…’

  ‘Then both of ’em deserve the gaol,’ Lewis said. ‘Let ’em hang; it’s all one to me.’

  ‘That’s harsh talk, Lewie,’ Mother said. ‘Witchcraft and magic

  ‘Well,’ Lyddie said, ‘Jonas and Judith have vanished from town. If ever they’re found, there’ll be trouble enough for them.’ She turned towards the younger ones. ‘Best not get caught up with the likes again. Jonas being a witch and all. Folk talk, you know.’

  ‘And that’s exactly the trouble,’ Father said with a wave of his hand. ‘You’ll believe anything when fear’s got its grip. Townsfolk love a bit of mischief, that’s all. Judith lost her wits after her husband died. Mayhap she was helping the lad. Nonsense, all of it.’

  Lucian stared at his hands, turning them over—a faint sheen of light ghosted through his fingertips. Witches were meant to be wicked and in league with the Enemy, weren’t they?

  Yet Lucian was sure Jonas wasn’t like that at all. Neither was he.

  Poor Jonas.

  He had always been kind, slipping Lucian and Leon pastry, sharing tales, and running the streets with them while Auntie bought flour and bread. If folk had cried Jonas a ‘witch’ for no more than being seen with Judith, what hope was there for Lucian?

  A shrill sound rang out—all heads had turned to the noises coming from the garden—hooves pounding, wheels grinding on gravel, men’s voices calling, and boots striking the cobbles.

  A hard knock shook the front door.

  ‘Who would call at this hour? I await no one.’ He turned to Auntie. ‘Will you see who it is?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Daiwik.’

  She hurried out.

  Leon nudged Lucian. ‘Strange, isn’t it? Too early for trade folk. Could be bad news… What if they’re coming because they found out…’

  He mouthed the word ‘’.

  Lewis shifted in his chair with a crooked little grin—he was watching them. Lucian kept his gaze away from him—stomach rolling, the cold in him stirring like it had been listening.

  The tale of Judith’s gaol and Jonas’s disappearing wouldn’t leave his mind. It tangled with the knock and the sound of horses, and in the snarl of it he saw torches, ropes, gallows, and himself dragged out into the street.

  Each tick of the clock seemed to drag.

  Leon kept darting glances—at Lucian, at Lewis, towards the door. Lawrie and Lyddie whispered to each other, their eyes bright and restless as they kept looking that way. Lukey stared at nothing, eyes gone far away. Tess carried on eating, calm as if she’d heard none of it, though her eyes flicked from one pale face to the next.

  Out in the hall, hurried voices rose, followed by the thuds of quick footsteps. The door creaked open. Aunt Browne slipped inside—cheeks pale as if she had seen a ghost and beside her, Mr Pritchard followed.

  The estate steward filled the doorway, broad in the shoulders, hair thinned at the crown. He went straight to Father, not even glancing at the table.

  ‘Sir. There’s talk in Leeds. A coach bearing the King’s arms was seen coming in Temple Newsam, with armed horsemen alongside. Folk say they’re bound this way, to the estate.’

  ‘What?’ said Father. ‘Already?’

  ‘Coming unannounced?’ Lewis said, scowling. He shot Lucian a sharp look, as if the blame lay squarely on him. ‘Disrespectful, that is,’

  Lawrie nodded. ‘I was under the impression they weren’t to come for another month.’

  ‘Fletcher’s carter says the King’s pressed for time,’ said Mr Pritchard. ‘Says they’re surveying mills and estates all around Yorkshire. I reckon they’re checking on the Mathematical school first before coming to Leeds.’

  Lucian met Leon’s eyes and for one thin heartbeat, relief tried to rise—it wasn’t the constable, then.

  But… it was worse. Far worse.

  Did the chapter feel like a natural bridge from Chapter 1 to the larger story? How invested are you in turning to Chapter 3?

  How real did the family dynamics feel (e.g., sibling rivalries, parental authority)? Which interactions stood out as authentic or forced?

  How sympathetic is Lucian here? Did his internal fears (about tricks/hound) deepen your connection to him?

  Did the historical fantasy elements (e.g., routines, dialect) immerse you, or pull you out? Any confusing spots?

  What stakes feel highest by chapter's end? Does the knock/visitor arrival land as a compelling escalation?