Chapter 17: The Land That Chose Its Own

Blackthorn Vale, Northumberland, England — Autumn, 1983

Blackthorn Manor had never been particularly interested in the passage of time.

It acknowledged the seasons, certainly.Full novel: Blackthorns Chronicles — read the rest free on N​o⁠v​e⁠l​C⁠o​d⁠e​x⁠.​o⁠r​g⁠

The gardens surrendered their roses to autumn, the lake gathered a thin veil of mist on cold mornings, and the woods surrounding the estate changed from green to gold before surrendering their leaves to the wind.

The family observed birthdays, celebrated anniversaries, and occasionally complained that Christmas seemed to arrive sooner every year.

The staff retired, married, raised children, and returned to the manor after holidays with stories about the ordinary world beyond its gates.

Yet time, for all its authority elsewhere, behaved rather differently within Blackthorn Vale.

The first indication was so gradual that nobody could agree upon when they had noticed it.

Lady Isolde’s hands remained remarkably steady, her complexion retaining a softness that women half her age would have envied.

Lord Octavian’s silver hair had changed little in several years, and the fine lines around his eyes seemed to have reached a comfortable arrangement with his expression, refusing to deepen no matter how frequently he smiled.

Lord Alaric appeared to have discovered a private disagreement with ageing, while Lady Seraphina possessed the same graceful bearing she had maintained for years, despite a household, a husband, several children, and the particular exhaustion that came from raising a family whose definition of an ordinary afternoon included enchanted furniture.

The staff were affected, too.

Edwin Hargrave, the estate manager, had grown accustomed to acquaintances remarking that he looked remarkably well for a man of his age.

Maggie Pembroke insisted that good food, sensible habits, and the refusal to tolerate nonsense were responsible for her continued vigour.

Thomas Wren attributed his physical condition to walking the estate perimeter every morning, even when the weather was so disagreeable that sensible people remained indoors.

Clara Bell, meanwhile, had begun receiving compliments from former schoolmates who could not understand why she appeared scarcely older than she had several years before.

Nobody had discovered a spell responsible for it.

No one had found an enchanted fountain hidden beneath the manor, nor a potion tucked away in some forgotten laboratory.

The family had investigated the matter in their own fashion, with Isolde consulting old healing records, Octavian examining the estate’s oldest enchantments, and Arabella proposing several increasingly improbable explanations involving ancient woodland spirits.

The answer, if there was one, seemed to belong to the land itself.

Blackthorn Manor was not simply a building protected by powerful magic.

Its foundations reached into something older than the family could entirely explain, and its influence extended beyond the house, across the gardens, through the orchards, and into the cultivated fields where the estate produced vegetables, fruit, grains, herbs, and other goods sold in the neighbouring settlements.

Those goods were sold at modest prices.

It was one of the few matters upon which the family and the estate’s ordinary customers seemed equally determined.

The Blackthorns possessed considerable wealth, but Maggie considered it a disgrace to charge a widow an unreasonable price for potatoes simply because the estate could grow potatoes larger than a man’s head.

Alaric agreed, although he occasionally complained that Maggie’s definition of a reasonable price appeared to have been calculated specifically to frustrate accountants.

The produce was plentiful, fresh, and unusually good.

Apples retained their sweetness long after other fruit had begun to soften.

Root vegetables remained firm through weeks of storage.

Herbs grown in the eastern beds possessed remarkable fragrance, and the manor’s honey had acquired a reputation among local bakers for making ordinary cakes taste as though somebody had secretly improved the recipe.

There was, however, a peculiarity that even the most practical villagers eventually noticed.

Certain people seemed to receive the very best of it.

Not necessarily the wealthiest customers, nor those who arrived first, nor those who brought the largest baskets.

Sometimes a grocer’s assistant would find that the apples reserved for her household were sweeter than any she had tasted before.

A retired postman might discover that the potatoes he purchased from the estate kept perfectly well through an unusually long winter.

A city clerk visiting relatives in Blackthorn Vale might carry home a small bag of pears and find that his children, who ordinarily rejected fruit with astonishing determination, suddenly asked for seconds.

Occasionally, the produce seemed to select its recipients before the transaction had even taken place.

A basket of plums would remain unremarkable until a particular customer approached the stall, at which point their skins would acquire a delicate sheen.

A bundle of herbs might release its fragrance only when a certain person reached for it.

On rare occasions, a fruit would roll away from several outstretched hands before settling neatly against the shoes of someone standing at the back of the queue.

The villagers noticed.

Naturally, they talked.

They also ate their vegetables, made their preserves, and continued going about their business.

The selected customers rarely thought themselves chosen by anything.

They assumed they had good health, strong constitutions, or excellent family genes.

Those from the city were especially inclined to such explanations, having little patience for the suggestion that a basket of pears might possess opinions about human beings.

The Blackthorns never corrected them.

Octavian had once remarked that there was little harm in allowing people to enjoy a blessing without insisting that they understand its origin.

Isolde agreed, provided nobody attempted to charge extra for the privilege.

The land, after all, had its own preferences.

It seemed to recognise patience, kindness, and people who took care of what had been entrusted to them.

It did not always choose the most deserving person by any human definition, and it was certainly not a reliable judge of character in every circumstance.

Yet the pattern persisted.

People who treated the land gently, who wasted little, and who shared what they received often seemed to find themselves favoured by its harvests.

The manor’s influence was not a cure for every illness, nor a promise of endless youth.

It did not prevent accidents, erase grief, or make the Blackthorns immune to the ordinary troubles of life.

Whatever nourishment passed from the soil into its chosen produce was subtle, personal, and impossible to measure with the instruments available to ordinary science.

Some of those who ate it seemed to recover their energy more easily.

Others maintained their health unusually well.

A few simply appeared younger than their years.

And within the manor, the effect was more pronounced.

The family had lived with it for so long that they had gradually stopped expecting their reflections to change as quickly as those of other people.

The staff had reached a similar understanding.

They did not mistake themselves for immortal, nor did they assume that the years had stopped altogether.

They merely accepted that Blackthorn Vale had a different relationship with ageing, and that the manor’s affection was expressed in ways nobody could confidently explain.

By the autumn of 1983, this had become one more peculiar fact of household life.

It belonged alongside the kitchen knives that chopped vegetables without being touched, the garden gates that opened only for people they recognised, the portraits that offered unsolicited commentary, and the small brass lamp in the western sitting room that refused to illuminate a book unless its reader genuinely intended to finish the chapter.

It belonged, too, beside Cassian Blackthorn, who had recently celebrated his second birthday.

And if the estate had a favourite among the youngest members of the household, nobody who had watched the nursery curtains open by themselves whenever Cassian awoke would have been foolish enough to suggest otherwise.

The manor had welcomed Cassian with a degree of enthusiasm that even his family found difficult to explain.

He had no magical affinity in the conventional sense, yet objects responded to him with a readiness that sometimes made the household’s most accomplished enchantments appear unnecessarily complicated.

Wooden blocks assembled themselves into towers when he was pleased, cushions drifted toward him when he became sleepy, and his favourite toy horse occasionally galloped across the nursery floor without anyone touching it.

Cassian considered these developments perfectly ordinary.

At two years old, he had more important matters to attend to than the philosophical implications of a floating teddy bear.

He was concerned with biscuits, his mother’s arms, the whereabouts of his older siblings, and the deeply unsatisfactory habit of grown-ups putting interesting things on shelves he could not reach.

His family, meanwhile, had developed an instinctive habit of watching him with affection that bordered on ridiculousness.

Lord Octavian maintained that the boy required room to discover the world for himself, then quietly enchanted the nursery rug to soften whenever Cassian attempted to run.

Lady Isolde declared that children needed proper meals, sufficient sleep, and the occasional indulgence, then personally ensured that Cassian’s afternoon biscuits were slightly larger than everyone else’s.

Alaric claimed he would raise his youngest son to be independent, only to abandon important correspondence whenever Cassian wandered into his office holding a wooden spoon and demanding attention.

Seraphina was the worst offender, according to her husband.

She denied the accusation with the composure of a woman who had never once been observed allowing Cassian to walk past her without checking whether his collar was straight.

On that particular autumn morning, she was carrying him through the main corridor, one arm supporting his little body while he examined the silver buttons on her sleeve.

He had recently discovered that buttons could be counted, and he was determined to count every button belonging to every person in the household.

Unfortunately, he had not yet mastered the difference between counting and naming numbers.

“One,” Cassian announced, touching the first button.

“Very good,” Seraphina said.

“Two.”

“Excellent.”

“Seven.”

“An ambitious calculation.”

Cassian smiled at her, satisfied that he had achieved something remarkable.

Behind them, Clara Bell was carrying a collection of baby items toward the nursery.

There were folded blankets, freshly laundered clothes, a small wooden box containing soft toys, and a knitted cardigan that Maggie had insisted was necessary despite the fact that the nursery was warm enough to grow oranges.

“Lady Seraphina,” Clara called gently, “I’ve brought the things you asked for.

The blue blanket has been mended, and the little wooden animals have been cleaned.”

“Thank you, Clara.

Would you leave the cardigan on the nursery chair?

Cassian may need it when we go into the gardens later.”

“I shall, my lady.”

Clara adjusted the stack against her hip.

The wooden animals rattled softly inside their basket, and one small carved rabbit attempted to climb over the edge.

Clara caught it without breaking her stride.

Cassian watched the rabbit with profound interest.

“Rabbit,” he said.

“Yes, darling.

A rabbit.”

The carved toy sprang into the air.

Clara stopped.

Seraphina glanced at it, then at her son.

Cassian laughed delightedly as the rabbit performed an awkward somersault before settling on his mother’s shoulder.

“Rabbit fly!”

“Apparently,” Seraphina replied.

Clara sighed with the exhausted patience of a nursery maid who had learned that asking why was rarely productive.

“I’ll put the rest away before the entire basket decides to follow him.”

“That would be sensible.”

The rabbit leapt from Seraphina’s shoulder and landed neatly in Cassian’s hands.

He hugged it to his chest as though he had personally rescued it from a terrible fate.

Seraphina continued toward the main hall, where several members of the family usually gathered between their morning responsibilities and the evening meal.

She could already hear voices from the adjoining sitting room, accompanied by the faint clink of china and the occasional burst of laughter.

It sounded, she thought, like a perfectly ordinary morning at Blackthorn Manor.

That was generally when trouble began.

Lucian Blackthorn had discovered that living an ordinary life was considerably easier when one possessed the means to make it extraordinary whenever necessary.

At twenty-two, he was officially employed as a junior clerk at a well-known automobile manufacturer operating under Blackthorn Holdings.

The company possessed factories, administrative offices, and distribution networks that extended far beyond Britain.

Its vehicles were respected for their reliability, and its management enjoyed the considerable advantage of being backed by a holding company with enough money to survive several spectacular financial mistakes.

Lucian could have worked almost anywhere within that organisation.

He could have occupied a comfortable office, attended meetings with senior executives, or spent his mornings pretending to understand reports prepared by people who believed that adding unnecessary pages made their conclusions more impressive.

Instead, he worked at a desk in an administrative department, processing documents, checking figures, organising files, and occasionally explaining to a colleague why a particular invoice had been entered incorrectly.

He loved it.

The salary was respectable, the responsibilities were manageable, and nobody expected him to save the company before lunchtime.

He was not required to make important decisions, attend endless meetings, or endure the dreadful experience of having his name mentioned in a conversation about future leadership.

Most importantly, almost nobody knew that he was a Blackthorn.

To his colleagues, he was Lucian Blackthorn, a pleasant-looking young man from a respectable but unremarkable background.

He dressed neatly enough to satisfy the office rules, rented a cheap studio apartment in London, and travelled to work using public transport.

He owned no car, had no expensive hobbies, and displayed remarkably little interest in the social ambitions that seemed to consume several of his colleagues.

He was, in his own estimation, living very well.

The fact that his family could have purchased the entire building in which he worked without causing any meaningful inconvenience to their finances was a detail he preferred to leave unmentioned.

His studio apartment was small, shabby, and situated in a building whose landlord regarded maintenance as an optional service.

The wallpaper had begun to peel beside the kitchenette, the bathroom tap occasionally produced a noise resembling a distressed animal, and the heating system required a degree of persuasion normally reserved for stubborn magical artefacts.

The furniture had come from second-hand shops.

His bed creaked whenever he turned over, his small table possessed one uneven leg, and the curtains were of a colour that Lucian privately described as surrender.

He found the arrangement comfortable.

He had a bed, a kettle, a desk, a few books, a wardrobe, and enough floor space to walk from one end of the room to the other without striking anything.

What more could a man reasonably require?

His colleagues did not understand this attitude.

Some considered him desperately poor.

Others believed he was too lazy to improve his circumstances.

A few suspected that he possessed some secret financial difficulty, although none could agree on what it might be.

The truth was considerably more entertaining.

Lucian had no interest in paying London prices for luxuries he could obtain more conveniently elsewhere.

He was perfectly capable of living in an expensive flat, but doing so would have meant attracting attention, explaining his finances, and possibly being invited to dinner parties by people who considered a man’s worth proportional to the size of his sitting room.

He would rather spend his evenings reading.

He would rather sleep.

And, whenever the opportunity presented itself, he would rather be at Blackthorn Manor.

The five-hour journey between London and Northumberland was therefore less of a difficulty than it appeared.

His colleagues assumed that he spent weekends travelling home when he could afford the fare.

In reality, Lucian possessed a discreet magical item that allowed him to return to the manor whenever he pleased.

It was a small, dark brass device, no larger than an ordinary electrical switch plate, with a polished blackthorn leaf engraved across its surface.

His father had presented it to him when he began working in London, describing it as a practical solution to a problem that Lucian had not yet admitted was a problem.

The device obeyed its owner and no one else.

When Lucian entered his apartment, closed the door, and pressed the little leaf, the familiar surroundings of his studio gave way to the warmth of his private room at Blackthorn Manor.

There was no theatrical flash, no thunderclap, and no unpleasant sensation of being pulled through the universe by one’s ankles.

The transition was as simple as stepping through an ordinary doorway.

The return journey was equally straightforward.

Lucian could leave his London flat in the morning, spend the day performing his clerical duties, and be back at the manor in time for tea.

He could sleep in his own bed, eat Maggie’s cooking, and see his family without paying for a railway ticket or spending half the evening wondering whether a delayed train would prevent him from reaching home.

The only condition was that the device must be used discreetly.

Lucian considered this an entirely reasonable restriction.

He had no desire to explain the disappearance of a junior clerk to the Metropolitan Police, and his family had no desire to explain why a young man appeared to be commuting between London and Northumberland without ever purchasing a train ticket.

Consequently, Lucian maintained his little deception with considerable success.

He arrived at work on time.

He completed his assignments.

He drank inexpensive tea, avoided unnecessary expenses, and never complained about the long hours when a supervisor asked him to stay late.

He was an exemplary employee.

He was also, to the frustration of several men in his department, extraordinarily handsome.

Lucian had inherited the family’s good looks without inheriting any particular desire to make use of them.

His dark hair rarely stayed perfectly arranged for long, his eyes possessed a sharpness that made him seem more attentive than he generally wished to be, and his face had the sort of symmetry that caused people to look twice before remembering what they had originally intended to say.

He was tall, lean, and physically fit without displaying the slightest interest in bodybuilding.

His clothes were modest, his shoes were well maintained, and his entire appearance suggested a young man who had been blessed with good features and had subsequently forgotten to do anything ambitious with them.

The women in the office noticed.

They noticed when he held a door open for someone carrying a stack of files.

They noticed when he rolled up his sleeves to sort through a difficult collection of paperwork.

They noticed when he smiled at a joke, and they noticed when he arrived with his hair slightly untidy after a particularly windy morning.

Some made excuses to visit his desk.

Others volunteered to help him with tasks they could easily have completed themselves.

A few had begun arranging their tea breaks around his schedule.

Lucian remained oblivious to the more elaborate schemes, although he was not unaware of the attention.

He simply did not consider it a matter requiring immediate action.

He had no desire to date anyone, and he had no intention of encouraging a romantic relationship merely because other people found him attractive.

He liked his independence, valued his free time, and had enough complications in his family life without adding a disappointed girlfriend to the list.

His closest friends understood him.

Unfortunately, most of them were no longer nearby.

Peter, who had once shared several particularly disastrous adventures with him, was working overseas and had recently become engaged.

The announcement had arrived in a letter accompanied by a photograph and an account of the circumstances that had led to his proposal.

Lucian had congratulated him sincerely, then written back to ask whether the prospective bride knew about Peter’s tendency to burn toast while attempting to make tea.

Peter’s reply had been brief and deeply unhelpful.

She knows.

She has accepted the risk.

Lucian had laughed so hard that he nearly spilled his tea.

His other friends were occupied with their own careers.

Some worked in offices, some had entered technical professions, and others were trying to establish themselves in businesses that seemed determined to make their owners miserable before rewarding them with any money.

They met when circumstances permitted, exchanged letters when they could not, and occasionally discussed the possibility of arranging a proper gathering.

Lucian was usually the one who suggested postponing it.

He preferred quiet evenings, familiar company, and the freedom to leave a conversation whenever he became bored.

His friends had long since accepted that inviting him somewhere expensive was an exercise in futility.

They also knew that his apparent poverty was not quite as straightforward as it seemed.

Lucian never borrowed money.

He never asked anyone to pay for his meals.

He never complained about being unable to afford something, and he displayed an almost suspicious indifference to the prospect of promotion.

Yet he occasionally possessed information about subjects he had no obvious means of learning, and there were evenings when he vanished from the city for several hours without offering a convincing explanation.

His friends had their suspicions.

They had learned, however, that asking Lucian a direct question often resulted in an answer so technically accurate and completely useless that the original question seemed an embarrassing waste of time.

They had therefore decided to leave him alone.

It was one of the reasons Lucian liked them.

At the automobile company, his greatest difficulty was not the workload but the people who believed that appearance, family connections, and ownership of a motorcar were reliable measures of personal importance.

Several of the male employees had connections to the administrative department through relatives.

One was the nephew of a senior manager, another was the son of a supplier, and a third seemed to believe that owning a reasonably expensive car gave him a natural right to comment on the circumstances of everybody who arrived at work by bus.

Lucian was a favourite subject.

“Still taking the bus, Blackthorn?” one of them asked on a Friday morning, leaning against the edge of Lucian’s desk.

The man was called Graham, and he possessed a motorcar that he discussed with greater enthusiasm than the engineers who had designed it.

“Yes,” Lucian replied without looking up.

“Must be inconvenient.”

“Occasionally.”

“You ought to get yourself something decent.

Makes a difference, you know.”

“I shall remember that.”

Graham waited for further discussion.

Lucian continued checking the figures on his desk.

“There’s a good little car on the market,” Graham persisted.

“Nothing too expensive.

You could probably get one if you stopped wasting money on whatever it is you do with your evenings.”

“Sleep,” Lucian said.

Graham blinked.

“Sleep?”

“Very expensive habit.

Difficult to give up.”

A woman at the adjoining desk covered a laugh with her hand.

Graham straightened.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you could at least try to get somewhere in life.”

Lucian finally looked up.

His expression remained pleasant, his eyes entirely untroubled.

“I’ve got somewhere to be at five.

That’s generally enough for one day.”

The woman beside him laughed outright.

Graham muttered something about people who did not appreciate advice and walked away.

Lucian returned to his paperwork.

He did not dislike Graham personally.

The man was simply tedious, and Lucian had discovered that the most efficient way to deal with tedious people was to give them as little material as possible.

His appearance, unfortunately, made this difficult.

The women in the department continued to find reasons to speak to him, and the men who disliked him continued to interpret every friendly conversation as a personal insult.

Lucian was not arrogant about his looks, but neither did he possess the insecurity required to apologise for them.

If someone asked for help, he helped.

If someone made a joke, he laughed.

If someone flirted with him, he responded politely and returned to his work.

His lack of romantic ambition became a matter of considerable speculation.

Several women assumed he must already have a girlfriend, while others decided that he was shy.

One particularly determined clerk declared that he was probably waiting for the right person.

Lucian, had he heard this, would have found the suggestion deeply inconvenient.

He was not waiting for anyone.

He was waiting for the kettle in the staff room to boil.

On Friday afternoon, after finishing his last assignment, he placed the documents in their proper folders, tidied his desk, and prepared to leave.

He had no car to retrieve from the company car park and no expensive dinner reservation to keep.

He simply collected his coat and walked toward the entrance.

A young woman from the accounts department caught up with him.

“Lucian, are you doing anything this weekend?”

“Sleeping.”

She laughed, uncertain whether he was joking.

“And after that?”

“Probably more sleeping.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

She looked at him for a moment, then smiled.

“Well, if you change your mind, some of us are going to a restaurant tomorrow evening.”

“That sounds pleasant.”

“You could come.”

“I could.”

She waited.

Lucian offered her a friendly smile.

“I hope you have a lovely evening.”

She watched him leave with the expression of someone who had been given an answer without receiving one.

Outside, the afternoon was cold, the pavement damp from recent rain.

Lucian walked to the bus stop with his hands in his coat pockets, looking like an ordinary young man returning to an ordinary home.

He was, in fact, looking forward to a quiet evening in a house where the portraits would probably criticise his hair, his aunt would be preparing to leave the country again, his grandmother would insist that he eat something, and his youngest brother would attempt to climb him like a tree.

It was, he thought, a considerable improvement over the restaurant.

By the time Lucian reached his studio, the London sky had begun to darken.

He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

His small room greeted him with the familiar smell of old books, cold tea, and the faint dampness that no amount of ventilation seemed able to remove.

He removed his coat, hung it on the back of the door, and examined the uneven table.

The table examined him back, in the sense that one leg immediately began to wobble.

“Not today,” Lucian told it.

The table stopped wobbling.

He placed his keys beside the kettle, loosened his collar, and pressed the engraved blackthorn leaf on the brass plate near the door.

For a fraction of a second, the room seemed to become unusually quiet.

Then Lucian was standing in his bedroom at Blackthorn Manor.

The familiar warmth of the house surrounded him.

The faint scent of polished wood, herbs, and a distant fire replaced the stale air of his London apartment.

Beyond his windows, the gardens lay beneath a pale autumn sky, and somewhere in the corridor a portrait was arguing with another portrait about the historical accuracy of a painting.

Lucian smiled.

“Home,” he murmured.

He changed into a clean shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and left his room.

The corridor seemed to recognise him.

A wall lamp brightened as he passed, and a small decorative raven perched above a doorway turned its head.

“You’re late,” it announced.

“I’ve been at work.”

“So you say.”

Lucian glanced at the raven.

“You know, for an object that spends all day sitting on a wall, you have an extraordinary amount of commentary.”

“I have an extraordinary amount of experience.”

“You’ve been there for forty years.”

“Forty-seven.”

“My apologies.

That changes everything.”

The raven clicked its beak in disapproval.

Lucian continued down the corridor, laughing quietly to himself.

He had not even reached the main staircase before he heard a familiar voice.

“Lucian?”

He turned.

Lady Arabella Blackthorn stood near the entrance to the eastern gallery, dressed in a travelling ensemble of dark blue and silver.

A small suitcase rested beside her, accompanied by a larger trunk that appeared to contain considerably more belongings than a short journey ought to require.

Arabella had always been difficult to discourage from travelling.

She possessed an insatiable curiosity about magical creatures, ancient spells, forgotten civilisations, and anything that might be discovered beyond the boundaries of her own experience.

When she announced that she was going somewhere, the family generally assumed that she had already arranged the necessary transport and would be departing before anyone could suggest an alternative.

This time, she was preparing to travel to China.

Lucian approached her with a smile.

“Good evening, Aunt Arabella.

Still travelling by aeroplane?”

Arabella turned, her expression brightening when she saw him.

“Lucian!

You’re home.

I thought you might be spending another evening in that dreadful little London box you insist on renting.”

“It’s a studio.”

“It’s a cupboard with ambitions.”

“It has a kettle.”

“So does the servants’ pantry, and that doesn’t make it a suitable residence.”

“There’s a bed, too.”

“How generous of the landlord.”

Lucian placed a hand over his heart.

“Your concern is deeply moving.”

Arabella laughed and reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt.

She had been doing that since he was a boy, and no amount of sarcasm had ever persuaded her to stop.

“China,” she said, returning to the subject of her journey.

“I shall be leaving tomorrow morning.

There are several places I wish to visit, and a friend has arranged introductions to a few people who possess knowledge of old magical traditions.”

“That sounds considerably more interesting than my weekend.”

“Your weekend sounds like a medical condition.”

“I shall endeavour to recover.”

Arabella shook her head affectionately.

“Do you know how much easier this would be if I could simply use magic to travel?”

“You’ve mentioned it.”

“Several times, I know.

But my boyfriend would be appalled if he discovered that I had been disappearing across continents through enchantment rather than using ordinary transport.

He is fascinated by science, engineering, and the rational explanation of things.

He has worked very hard to build his understanding of the world, and I will not destroy his peace of mind simply because I find airports tedious.”

Lucian considered this.

“Perhaps he would enjoy a discussion about magical transportation.”

“He would demand an explanation of the mechanism.”

“You could provide one.”

“He would ask for measurements.”

“That might be difficult.”

“He would request experimental evidence.”

“That would be more difficult.”

“And then he would insist on knowing whether the process violated the conservation of energy.”

Lucian smiled.

“I see the problem.”

Arabella folded her arms.

“Exactly.

Magic is not within his scope of understanding, and I have no intention of forcing it upon him.

He is a good man, Lucian.

I would rather spend five hours in an aeroplane than make him question everything he believes simply to save myself a little inconvenience.”

Lucian’s expression softened.

He understood the sentiment better than he could explain.

The Blackthorns possessed extraordinary abilities, but their lives were not made meaningful by the constant use of those abilities.

They lived among ordinary people, loved people who did not share their powers, and accepted that not every inconvenience needed to be solved through magic.

“That’s probably wise,” he said.

“Besides, the aeroplane gives you time to read.”

Arabella brightened.

“I have brought three books.”

“Only three?”

“And two notebooks.”

“How restrained.”

She laughed again, then gave him a thoughtful look.

“Your Uncle Cedric, on the other hand, would never tolerate such restrictions.”

“Uncle Cedric doesn’t tolerate restrictions of any kind.”

“Precisely.

That’s why he insists on dating magical beings.”

Lucian leaned against the wall, already anticipating the story.

Arabella’s smile grew wicked.

“Do you remember the trouble he had with that dryad?”

“Which trouble?”

“The occasion when he returned home with half a tree growing out of his coat.”

“Ah.

That trouble.”

“And then there was the elf.”

“Was that the one who enchanted his boots to sing?”

“Every time he walked.”

Lucian began to laugh.

Arabella continued mercilessly.

“Then he became involved with a vampire who objected to his habit of eating garlic bread, followed by a siren who could not understand why he insisted on humming while she was singing.

And I have not forgotten the beast woman.”

Lucian covered his mouth, attempting to compose himself.

“Please tell me the beast woman wasn’t responsible for the torn trousers.”

“She was responsible for the trousers, the waistcoat, and one particularly expensive jacket.

Your uncle claimed that the incident was entirely accidental, although I noticed that he was grinning when he told the story.”

“That sounds like Uncle Cedric.”

“He came home looking as though he had wrestled a hedge and lost.

Your grandmother made him stand in the entrance hall while she examined the damage, and your grandfather laughed so hard that he had to sit down.”

Lucian shook his head.

“Poor Uncle Cedric.”

“Poor Cedric?

Poor me!

I was the one who had to listen to him explaining why a perfectly ordinary courtship had required three replacement garments and an emergency visit to the village tailor.”

“Perhaps he should learn to date more sensibly.”

“Your uncle considers that a personal insult.”

“Then I shall say it again when he arrives.”

Arabella laughed and squeezed his arm.

“You’re a dreadful nephew.”

“I learned from the best.”

For a moment, they stood together in the warm corridor, enjoying the comfortable ease of a conversation that needed neither explanation nor ceremony.

Arabella asked about his work, and Lucian gave her a carefully edited account of his clerical duties, omitting the details of his colleagues’ opinions about his financial circumstances and the women who appeared to have made a hobby of visiting his desk.

She listened with genuine interest.

“And you enjoy it?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Even though you could have a much more important position?”

“Especially because I could have a much more important position.”

Arabella studied him, then nodded.

“Your grandfather will be pleased to hear that.”

“Please don’t tell him.

He’ll decide I’m becoming sensible.”

“That would be a tragedy.”

“An irreversible one.”

They both laughed.

Then, from somewhere beyond the gallery, came the sound of running feet, followed by Maggie Pembroke’s unmistakable voice.

“Lord Dorian!

You rascal!

Stop borrowing my pots and pans!”

Arabella closed her eyes.

Lucian looked toward the corridor.

“Oh, good,” he said.

“The evening has begun.”

Dorian Blackthorn appeared around the corner at a speed that suggested the household had declared war upon him.

He was carrying a saucepan in one hand and a smaller pot beneath his other arm.

A wooden spoon protruded from his pocket, and his expression conveyed the profound conviction that he had done nothing whatsoever to deserve the pursuit that followed him.

Maggie Pembroke came after him, her apron tied firmly around her waist, her face flushed with indignation.

“Put those back this instant!”

“I need them!” This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.

“You need your head examined!”

“They’re important!”

“They are my cooking pots!”

Dorian accelerated.

Maggie accelerated, too.

For a woman who had spent decades supervising kitchens, directing servants, and managing the appetites of the Blackthorn family, she possessed an astonishing turn of speed.

Dorian rounded the corner, spotted Lucian and Arabella, and attempted to make a dignified escape through the gallery.

The saucepan slipped from his hand.

It stopped in midair.

For one hopeful second, Dorian looked relieved.

Then the saucepan turned around and began following him.

Arabella pressed her lips together.

Lucian folded his arms.

Dorian looked over his shoulder, saw the saucepan approaching, and increased his pace.

“Maggie!” he called.

“It’s doing it again!”

“Because you enchanted it to return to my kitchen!”

“I thought that would be helpful!”

“Helpful?

You borrowed six pans yesterday!”

“Only four!”

“Six!”

“Two were small!”

Maggie reached the corner, pointed one finger at him, and delivered a look capable of stopping a lesser man in his tracks.

Dorian stopped.

The saucepan struck him gently on the back of the head.

Lucian laughed.

Arabella made a small, strangled sound and turned away.

Dorian slowly turned toward the floating utensil.

“That was unnecessary.”

The saucepan rattled indignantly.

“Don’t argue with it,” Maggie snapped.

“It’s more sensible than you are.”

She seized the pot beneath his arm, retrieved the wooden spoon from his pocket, and held out her hand for the remaining saucepan.

Dorian surrendered it with the air of a man being deprived of his inheritance.

“What were you making?” Lucian asked.

“Something useful.”

“That narrows it down considerably.”

Dorian glared at him.

“I was experimenting.”

“With Maggie’s cookware?”

“It was the appropriate equipment.”

“For what?”

Dorian hesitated.

Arabella leaned forward with interest.

“Yes, Dorian.

What exactly were you attempting to accomplish with six cooking pots?”

“Seven,” Maggie corrected.

“He borrowed seven.”

Dorian looked betrayed.

“You said six!”

“I found another one in the west passage!”

Lucian began laughing again.

Dorian pointed at him.

“You’re supposed to be my cousin.”

“I am.

That’s why I’m enjoying this.”

Maggie reclaimed the saucepan from the air and marched back toward the kitchen, muttering about the declining standards of the younger generation.

Dorian watched her go.

“I shall never understand why she becomes so upset.”

“Perhaps,” Arabella suggested, “it has something to do with the fact that you keep stealing her equipment.”

“I borrow it.”

“Without asking.”

“She knows where I am.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

Dorian considered this, then shrugged.

“Well, the experiment was nearly successful.”

Lucian raised an eyebrow.

“What experiment?”

Dorian smiled.

“That would be telling.”

The saucepan, now several yards away, suddenly rattled in Maggie’s hand.

Dorian immediately ducked.

Arabella laughed so hard that she had to lean against the wall.

The commotion drew several more family members toward the main hall, where the fire was burning and a tray of tea had been placed on the low table.

The room had always been one of the manor’s favourite gathering places, partly because it was spacious enough to accommodate the entire family and partly because its windows overlooked the gardens, which frequently provided better entertainment than the people inside.

Lord Octavian Blackthorn was seated beside the hearth, his ivory cane resting against his chair.

His expression was composed, but the amusement in his eyes suggested that he had heard every word of the argument about the cookware.

Lady Isolde sat nearby with a book open on her lap, wearing her reading glasses and holding a cup of tea.

She had the air of a woman who had long ago accepted that peace within her family was not a permanent condition but a temporary interval between incidents.

Alaric stood beside the mantelpiece, reading a letter that he had apparently been attempting to finish for the last twenty minutes.

Every time he reached the end of a paragraph, someone interrupted him.

Cedric had claimed an armchair near the window and was eating biscuits with the concentration of a man who believed that food was a sacred responsibility.

He looked up when Lucian entered.

“Ah, there he is.

Our favourite clerk.”

Lucian bowed slightly.

“Uncle.”

“How was London?”

“Still there.”

“Tragic.”

“Devastating.”

Cedric grinned.

“And your colleagues?

Have they discovered that you are secretly the most important person in their building?”

“Not yet.”

“Excellent.

Continue the deception.

It’s much more entertaining when people underestimate you.”

Alaric lowered his letter.

“That is precisely the sort of advice I would expect from you, Cedric.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“I chose to receive it as one.”

Octavian’s shoulders moved with a quiet chuckle.

Lucian crossed the room and bent to kiss his grandmother’s cheek before greeting his grandfather.

Isolde caught his hand as he straightened and examined him with the attention of a woman who had raised children long enough to recognise when one was attempting to conceal fatigue.

“You look thin.”

“I ate lunch.”

“That is not the same as eating properly.”

“I had a sandwich.”

Isolde looked at him over her glasses.

“What was in it?”

“Sandwich.”

“Lucian.”

“Cheese.”

“And?”

“Bread.”

Cedric choked on his biscuit.

Isolde closed her book.

“Your mother will hear about this.”

“Grandmother, please.

I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“A reputation for being impossible to feed.”

Octavian reached for his tea.

“Perhaps we should send him home with a basket of the estate’s produce.

It might improve his constitution.”

“His constitution is perfectly sound,” Isolde said.

“His judgement concerning meals is the problem.”

Lucian smiled and sat beside his grandfather.

The manor seemed to settle around them.

The fire shifted in the grate, and the heavy curtains moved gently despite the absence of a draught.

Somewhere above the mantelpiece, a painted gentleman cleared his throat as though preparing to offer an opinion.

“Don’t,” Octavian told him.

The portrait closed its mouth.

Arabella entered a moment later and announced her departure plans to the assembled family.

She received the expected combination of good wishes, warnings, and questions about the length of her journey.

Alaric asked whether she had arranged reliable transport from the airport.

Isolde wanted to know whether she had packed enough warm clothing.

Octavian inquired about the people she intended to meet, and Cedric demanded to know whether she would be returning with anything interesting.

“That depends upon your definition of interesting,” Arabella replied.

“A creature that bites.”

“No.”

“A spell that explodes.”

“No.”

“A bottle of something that makes people tell the truth.”

Arabella paused.

Octavian looked at her.

“Arabella.”

“What?

I was considering the possibilities.”

“Do not bring anything home that requires a warning label.”

Cedric looked disappointed.

Arabella laughed and promised to behave herself, which nobody believed for a moment.

Lucian watched the exchange with quiet affection.

This was the part of his life that mattered most, the ordinary familiarity of people who knew one another’s weaknesses and loved one another despite them.

The family could argue about anything from international travel to the proper way to boil an egg, but their disagreements rarely threatened the warmth beneath them.

Even Cedric’s reckless habits were tolerated because everyone understood that he would abandon any adventure the moment one of his relatives genuinely needed him.

Arabella’s flights, Alaric’s business, Seraphina’s responsibilities, Lucian’s modest employment, and the many small occupations of the household might have seemed unrelated to an outsider.

At Blackthorn Manor, they were simply different parts of the same life.

And at the centre of it all was a two-year-old boy who had recently decided that walking was an inferior method of travelling whenever somebody could carry him.

Seraphina arrived in the main hall a few minutes later, still holding Cassian in her arms.

Clara followed at a short distance, having finally delivered the nursery supplies.

The little boy had acquired a wooden rabbit, a ribbon that he had somehow removed from his mother’s sleeve, and a biscuit that nobody remembered giving him.

He looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Good evening,” Seraphina said as she entered.

The room’s conversation softened.

Cassian immediately spotted Lucian.

His face brightened.

“Lu!”

Lucian rose so quickly that Cedric nearly lost his remaining biscuit.

“There he is.”

Cassian stretched both arms toward his brother.

Seraphina adjusted her hold and handed him over.

Lucian lifted the boy carefully, settling him against his chest.

Cassian immediately seized a handful of his shirt, inspected his face, and patted his cheek with the solemnity of a physician examining a patient.

“Hair,” Cassian announced.

“Yes,” Lucian agreed.

“I still have it.”

Cassian tugged at a strand.

“More.”

“I shall endeavour to grow another head of it.”

Cassian laughed and pressed his forehead against Lucian’s chin.

Lucian’s expression changed in the way it always did when he held his youngest brother.

The lazy amusement remained, but something gentler settled beneath it.

He kissed Cassian’s hair, adjusted the little boy’s collar, and carried him toward the window so that he could see the gardens.

“Have you been behaving yourself?” he asked.

Cassian nodded.

Seraphina smiled.

“He has been very good.”

“Excellent.

Have you been terrorising the nursery?”

“No.”

“Have you been making the toys fly?”

Cassian considered the question.

“Rabbit fly.”

“Of course it did.”

Cassian laughed again.

Lucian bounced him gently, and the little boy settled against his shoulder with the complete confidence of someone who had never doubted that his family would always be there to catch him.

Alaric watched them from beside the mantelpiece.

The expression on his face was one he rarely displayed in public, an unguarded softness that would have surprised anyone accustomed to his reputation in business.

“Your brother has been asking for you,” Seraphina told Lucian.

“Has he?”

“Several times.”

Lucian looked down at Cassian.

“You could have written.”

Cassian answered by patting his face.

“Very eloquent.”

Isolde set her book aside and beckoned them closer.

“Bring him here.

I want to see whether he has grown since breakfast.”

“He has,” Lucian said.

“How do you know?”

“He was shorter this morning.”

“That is not how growing works.”

“It is the method I have adopted.”

Octavian shook his head, smiling.

“That boy has inherited the family’s worst habits.”

“Which boy?” Alaric asked.

“All of them.”

Cedric lifted his cup in agreement.

Seraphina sat beside Isolde, accepting a fresh cup of tea from a floating tray that had been enchanted to serve the family without spilling a drop.

The tray paused in front of Cassian, who regarded it with fascination.

“Tea,” he said.

“Not for you, darling,” Seraphina replied.

Cassian frowned.

“Tea.”

“Milk for you.”

He considered this injustice.

The cup of milk rose from a side table and drifted toward him.

Cassian watched it approach, then glanced at his mother with a triumphant expression.

Seraphina sighed.

“One day, you will learn that being able to move things does not mean you should.”

Cassian drank his milk.

He did not appear convinced.

The children had a talent for finding trouble even when the adults had taken precautions against it.

Lysandra Blackthorn, now seventeen, was a particularly good example.

She had reached an age at which she was expected to behave with the dignity of a young lady, but her appearance had changed so little over the preceding years that people unfamiliar with the family frequently mistook her for fifteen.

The estate’s unusual influence upon ageing had become especially noticeable in her case.

Her features retained a youthful softness, her complexion remained clear, and she possessed the energy of someone who had never encountered a reason to sit still when she could be doing something more interesting.

Lysandra was not troubled by the discrepancy.

She was far too busy enjoying herself.

At that moment, she was dancing in the corridor outside the main hall, wearing a pair of comfortable shoes and listening to music through a Walkman.

Lucian recognised the device immediately.

He stopped in the doorway.

His Walkman.

The one he had left in his bedroom before going to London.

Lysandra was moving with such enthusiasm that she failed to notice him.

She turned, swayed, and nearly collided with a decorative pedestal.

The small silver vase resting upon it tilted dangerously, then righted itself with an indignant little bounce.

Lucian folded his arms.

He waited.

Lysandra continued dancing.

He waited a little longer.

Finally, he walked toward her.

She turned just in time to see him approaching.

Her eyes widened.

“Lucian—”

He tapped her lightly on the back.

Lysandra shrieked.

The portrait hanging beside them suddenly leaned out of its frame.

“Run, child!” it cried.

Lysandra ran.

Lucian ran after her.

The portrait settled back into its frame with the satisfied expression of a spectator who had correctly predicted the outcome of a race.

From the sitting room, Cedric called, “Poor child!

She’ll never have a moment’s peace!”

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Arabella replied.

“I enjoy all family traditions.”

Lysandra raced around the corner, clutching the Walkman to her chest.

Lucian followed at a measured pace, which was deeply unfair because he had longer legs and knew the corridor better than she did.

She darted through the gallery, nearly collided with Dorian, and veered toward the staircase.

Dorian, who had apparently decided that borrowing the kitchen equipment was no longer a productive activity, stepped aside.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he informed her.

“Move!”

“That’s no way to speak to—”

She brushed past him.

Dorian turned toward Lucian.

“She’s gone that way.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lucian continued after her.

Dorian considered the situation, then decided that it looked entertaining enough to justify joining in.

Within seconds, three young Blackthorns were running through the corridor, pursued by a portrait that had begun shouting contradictory instructions.

“Left!”

“Other left!”

“Mind the vase!”

“Not that staircase!”

A small enchanted lamp flickered as they passed.

The carpet rippled beneath their feet, not enough to trip them, but sufficient to make their pursuit considerably more ridiculous.

Lysandra laughed as she ran.

Lucian was laughing, too.

Dorian had become distracted by the floating saucepan that appeared at the far end of the corridor and was now following him with renewed determination.

The chase might have continued for several minutes had they not reached the main hall.

Seraphina stood near the entrance, holding Cassian.

All three stopped almost simultaneously.

Lysandra straightened her clothes.

Lucian adjusted his shirt.

Dorian attempted to look as though he had been walking at a perfectly respectable pace.

The transformation was immediate and almost impressive.

“Good evening, Mother,” Lucian said.

“Hello, Mama!” Lysandra added.

Dorian bowed.

“Lady Seraphina.”

Cassian peered over his mother’s shoulder.

“Run?”

Seraphina regarded the three of them.

“Indeed.

I had gathered as much.”

Nobody spoke.

Then she looked at the Walkman in Lysandra’s hands.

“Is that your brother’s?”

Lysandra glanced down.

“Yes.”

Lucian lifted an eyebrow.

“I was borrowing it.”

“Without asking?”

Lysandra looked at Dorian.

Dorian looked at the ceiling.

Cassian giggled.

Seraphina’s expression remained perfectly composed.

“Dinner is at seven, and please be careful.

I should prefer not to explain to Maggie why one of you has broken a vase, another has lost a shoe, and the third has somehow acquired a saucepan.”

Dorian immediately looked offended.

“I haven’t got a saucepan.”

A saucepan rounded the corner behind him.

Everyone looked at it.

The saucepan stopped.

Dorian closed his eyes.

Seraphina sighed.

“Please return that to the kitchen.”

“Yes, Lady Seraphina.”

“And Dorian?”

“Yes?”

“Ask Maggie before borrowing anything else.”

Dorian nodded with exaggerated solemnity.

“Of course.”

Seraphina gave them all a small smile.

“Very good.

You may continue.”

They exchanged glances.

Lysandra ran first.

Lucian followed.

Dorian hesitated only long enough to retrieve the saucepan, which immediately attempted to escape his grasp.

Their mother watched them disappear around the corner, shaking her head with an expression of helpless affection.

Cassian clapped his hands.

“Run!”

“No, darling,” Seraphina told him.

“You are going to have your tea.”

He considered this for a moment, then rested his head against her shoulder.

The family had resumed its usual business.

The Blackthorn children had never been particularly cruel to one another, despite their enthusiasm for teasing.

Their games could be loud, their arguments occasionally dramatic, and their pranks sufficiently elaborate to require an intervention from Maggie, but there were boundaries they understood without needing to discuss them.

Nobody was permitted to turn a joke into genuine humiliation, and nobody was allowed to exploit a sibling’s weakness simply because it was convenient.

Lucian might chase Lysandra through the corridors, but he would be the first to defend her if someone outside the family made an unkind remark.

Dorian might borrow Maggie’s pots and pans without permission, but he would abandon any experiment immediately if one of the younger children became frightened.

Even Cedric, whose romantic adventures had supplied the family with years of entertainment, was unexpectedly dependable when a relative needed help.

They could be troublesome.

They could be ridiculous.

They could also be trusted.

This was one of the principles Octavian had insisted upon throughout the children’s upbringing.

Power was useful, but it did not excuse poor behaviour.

Magic could solve problems, but it could not substitute for kindness.

A family member’s abilities were never a reason to treat them as less important, and the absence of those abilities was never a reason to treat them as inferior.

Cassian’s existence had only strengthened that conviction.

He was the youngest, the smallest, and the only member of the immediate family who could not perform conventional magic.

Yet he had never been treated as a disappointment.

His parents encouraged his curiosity, his siblings competed for his attention, and his grandparents regarded his unusual abilities with a mixture of pride and fascination.

They did not know exactly what he would become.

They did not need to know.

For now, he was two years old, he liked milk, and he believed that his older brother was the most entertaining person in the world.

Lucian, for his part, considered this an honour.

It was also a responsibility he took seriously.

When he finally caught Lysandra in the smaller sitting room, he did not snatch the Walkman away from her.

He merely stood in front of her and held out his hand.

“May I have my property back?”

Lysandra looked at the device, then at him.

“One more song?”

“No.”

“Half a song?”

“No.”

“Ten seconds?”

Lucian waited.

She sighed dramatically and handed it over.

“You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a victim of theft.”

“You left it lying around.”

“In my bedroom.”

“Which is in the manor.”

“An astute observation.”

She grinned at him.

He reached out and ruffled her hair.

Lysandra immediately swatted his hand away.

“Stop that!”

“Stop stealing my things.”

“I borrowed it.”

“Ask next time.”

“I will.”

Lucian gave her a sceptical look.

She smiled sweetly.

He smiled back.

Then she attempted to step past him, and he caught her lightly around the shoulders.

“Lucian!”

“Apologise.”

“Never!”

“Then you shall suffer the consequences.”

He tickled her.

Lysandra shrieked with laughter and tried to escape.

She twisted away, caught his wrist, and retaliated by tickling his side.

Lucian laughed despite himself, attempting to defend himself without actually hurting her.

For a few moments, they were no longer a seventeen-year-old girl and a twenty-two-year-old man.

They were simply siblings, indulging in a familiar contest whose outcome had never mattered nearly as much as the laughter.

Dorian appeared in the doorway.

“Excellent.

A fight.”

“Help me!” Lysandra demanded.

Dorian considered the possibilities.

Then he joined Lucian.

Lysandra’s betrayal was immediate and spectacular.

“You are both dreadful!”

“Thank you,” Lucian replied.

She managed to escape by diving behind the sofa, but Dorian circled around the other side.

Lucian caught her hand, and the three of them dissolved into laughter again.

They would have continued until somebody surrendered, but Maggie’s voice rang through the corridor.

“If I find any of you running through my kitchen, I shall personally assign you to peel potatoes until Christmas!”

The three siblings froze.

Lucian released Lysandra.

Dorian stood up.

Lysandra emerged from behind the sofa, attempting to look respectable.

“She’s terrifying,” Dorian whispered.

“She can hear you,” Lucian whispered back.

A distant voice answered.

“I certainly can!”

They fled in three different directions.

Maggie Pembroke was not a woman who could be easily intimidated, and the Blackthorns had learned this at an early age.

She had worked at the manor long enough to understand the difference between a genuine emergency and a family member making an unnecessary fuss.

She knew which enchantments were safe to ignore, which cupboards should never be opened without supervision, and which children could be trusted with a knife only if someone stood nearby holding a fire extinguisher.

Her authority in the kitchen was absolute.

The knives chopped vegetables when she instructed them.

The mixing bowls returned to their shelves when she finished using them.

The ovens maintained their temperatures, the pantry doors remained closed when they were supposed to, and the kitchen staff understood that no magical convenience was worth creating additional work for Maggie.

Dorian had apparently forgotten this.

He discovered the consequences when he entered the kitchen in search of something to eat and found Maggie standing beside a long wooden table covered with vegetables.

She turned slowly.

Dorian stopped in the doorway. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.

“Good evening, Maggie.”

“Lord Dorian.”

“I was wondering whether there might be something available.”

“There is.”

“Excellent.”

“A basket of potatoes.”

Dorian looked at the basket.

Maggie looked at him.

“Peel them.”

He stared at her.

“All of them?”

“Every last one.”

“But I haven’t done anything.”

“You borrowed my pots and pans.”

“I returned them.”

“After they chased you through the manor.”

“They’re very enthusiastic pots.”

Maggie placed a peeler beside the basket.

Dorian examined the implement as though it were an unfamiliar weapon.

“Surely there is someone else who could do this.”

“Certainly.

There are six people in the kitchen who know how to peel potatoes.

Unfortunately for you, they are all busy, and you are not.”

Dorian sighed.

Maggie smiled pleasantly.

“Would you like me to fetch your grandmother?”

He picked up the peeler.

“No, thank you.”

“Excellent.”

She returned to her work.

Dorian began peeling potatoes with the concentration of a man who had just discovered that his evening entertainment had become a form of unpaid labour.

After a few minutes, he glanced at the enchanted knives.

“Could I use one of those?”

“No.”

“It would be faster.”

“You would make a mess.”

“I am perfectly capable of—”

The potato slipped from his hand.

Maggie raised an eyebrow.

Dorian retrieved it.

“Perhaps not.”

“An admirable moment of self-awareness.”

He continued peeling.

The kitchen staff did their best not to laugh.

Maggie was not cruel.

She would never have assigned a genuine burden to someone merely for the pleasure of watching them struggle.

But she understood the Blackthorns well enough to know that they occasionally needed reminders that other people were not employed solely to clean up after them.

Besides, Dorian had been warned.

He had borrowed her cookware repeatedly, enchanted several pieces to perform an experiment he refused to explain, and allowed the results to pursue him through the corridor.

If he wished to conduct experiments in the future, he could begin by learning to return equipment in good condition.

An hour later, Dorian had peeled the potatoes, washed the peeler, and returned the basket to the proper place.

Maggie inspected his work and pronounced it acceptable.

He looked as though he had survived a siege.

“May I go now?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you.”

“After you wash your hands.”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

Dorian washed his hands.

From the doorway, Lucian watched the exchange with an expression of profound satisfaction.

“Don’t even think about it,” Maggie warned him.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You are thinking loudly.”

Lucian smiled.

“Good evening, Maggie.”

“Good evening, Lord Lucian.

Dinner is at seven.

If you intend to eat, you will be seated on time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of being late.”

“And if you have brought home any more of those dreadful habits from London, leave them outside.”

Lucian placed a hand over his heart.

“I am wounded.”

“You’ll recover.”

He laughed and left the kitchen.

Maggie returned to her preparations, shaking her head.

The family might possess extraordinary power, but there were some matters that remained beyond the reach of enchantment.

One of them was persuading Dorian Blackthorn to leave her pots and pans alone.

As the afternoon moved toward evening, the manor’s peculiarities became more noticeable.

The garden windows brightened whenever the sun emerged from behind the clouds.

A small brass bird in the entrance hall flew from one perch to another, carrying messages between the rooms.

The doors leading toward the library opened for Octavian without his needing to touch the handles, while a particularly stubborn cupboard refused to open for anyone who had not first apologised to it.

Nobody remembered why the cupboard required an apology.

Octavian maintained that it had been insulted by a visiting wizard several decades earlier, although Isolde suspected that the original explanation had become confused over time.

The cupboard, for its part, appeared content with the arrangement.

In the nursery, Clara finished arranging the freshly laundered clothes.

She placed the blue blanket at the foot of Cassian’s bed, set the wooden animals on their shelf, and checked that the curtains were securely fastened.

The curtains immediately opened.

Clara looked at them.

“Not yet.”

They closed.

She turned toward the bed.

They opened again.

Clara folded her arms.

“I have work to do.”

The curtains remained open.

She sighed.

“Fine.

You may stay that way.”

The curtains fluttered in apparent satisfaction.

Clara was not frightened by the manor’s habits.

She had been employed at Blackthorn Manor long enough to understand that some objects possessed preferences, some rooms had moods, and some enchanted household items were more difficult to manage than the children themselves.

She had once spent twenty minutes negotiating with a wardrobe that refused to release a particular dress because it considered the occasion insufficiently important.

Another time, she had found a staircase leading to a room that did not appear on any plan of the house.

The staircase had disappeared when she returned with Maggie, who had declared that the manor was simply being difficult.

The staff had learned to adapt.

They were not expected to understand every mystery, only to exercise good judgement and avoid making unnecessary trouble.

Clara finished the nursery and descended toward the main hall, where she found Seraphina speaking quietly with Isolde.

Cassian was seated on a cushion between them, surrounded by toys that seemed to multiply whenever he became bored.

“Everything is ready, my lady,” Clara reported.

“Thank you.

You may take the rest of the afternoon for yourself once the nursery is checked.”

Clara smiled.

“Very good, my lady.”

Cassian lifted a wooden horse.

“Clara!”

She turned.

“Yes, Master Cassian?”

“Horse.”

“Yes.

A horse.”

He pushed it toward her.

The wooden horse galloped across the carpet.

Clara watched it run, then glanced at Seraphina.

“Shall I retrieve it?”

“Perhaps let him enjoy himself for a moment.”

The horse circled the table.

Cassian clapped.

“Again!”

The horse galloped faster.

Isolde closed her book.

“That is quite enough, young man.

We do not race horses in the sitting room.”

The wooden horse stopped immediately.

Cassian stared at it in betrayal.

Seraphina kissed the top of his head.

“Grandmother is right, darling.”

Cassian looked from one woman to the other, searching for an ally.

He found none.

After a moment, he picked up the horse and hugged it.

The manor, perhaps sensing that its youngest resident had suffered a grave injustice, caused a small wooden cart to roll out from beneath a nearby table.

Cassian’s face brightened.

Seraphina glanced toward the ceiling.

“Really?”

A floorboard creaked innocently.

Isolde laughed.

Lord Octavian had always maintained that the estate’s greatest mystery was not its magic but its apparent preference for behaving like a member of the family.

The house reacted to the people who lived within it.

It recognised familiar footsteps, responded to familiar voices, and occasionally appeared to arrange circumstances in ways that suggested an understanding of matters no ordinary building could possibly comprehend.

It did not obey every request.

It did not always act sensibly.

But it possessed a kind of familiarity with the family that no architect could have designed and no enchantment could easily have reproduced.

The manor had watched the Blackthorns grow up, welcomed their marriages, endured their arguments, and sheltered them through periods of uncertainty.

Its influence extended into the gardens and fields, where the harvest seemed to recognise certain people as naturally as the doors recognised their masters.

Octavian did not claim to understand the connection.

He had spent enough of his life studying magic to recognise the danger of assuming that something was simple merely because it was familiar.

He had also lived long enough to appreciate the value of leaving some questions unanswered.

When Isolde asked him whether he believed the manor was responsible for the family’s unusual ageing, he considered the question carefully.

“I believe it contributes,” he said.

“That is not quite an answer.”

“It is the answer I possess.”

She regarded him over her glasses.

“You have always been evasive.”

“I have always been careful.”

“You have always been both.”

He smiled.

Isolde returned to her book, but after a moment she looked up again.

“And the produce?”

Octavian glanced toward the windows.

“I believe the land recognises something in the people who receive it.”

“What?”

“I cannot say.”

“Kindness?”

“Perhaps.”

“Patience?”

“Possibly.”

“Good genes?”

Octavian laughed.

“That is certainly what the people in the city seem to think.”

Isolde shook her head, amused.

“They are grateful for the health, and they assume they have been fortunate.

There is nothing wrong with that.”

“No,” Octavian agreed.

“There isn’t.”

He watched the autumn light settle over the garden.

“The land has never asked to be understood.

It simply gives what it wishes to give.”

“And takes what it wishes to take,” Isolde reminded him.

“Indeed.”

They sat quietly for a while.

Neither had forgotten that the manor’s affection did not make it harmless.

Magic could protect, nourish, and preserve, but it could also become unpredictable when treated carelessly.

The family respected the estate because they understood that its power was not theirs to command in every circumstance.

The produce might favour particular people, but it was not a substitute for medicine.

The manor might slow the visible signs of ageing, but it could not promise immortality.

And the Blackthorns, for all their abilities, remained a family of living people who could be injured, frightened, or lost.

Octavian had no intention of allowing his descendants to forget that.

He also had no intention of stopping the manor from spoiling Cassian.

Some mysteries, he decided, were best left alone.

By half past six, the main hall had become a gathering place once more.

Alaric had finished his correspondence.

Seraphina had changed into a comfortable evening dress.

Arabella had gone to check her travel arrangements, and Cedric had finally been released from his punishment in the kitchen.

Dorian, having learned from experience, was avoiding Maggie.

Lysandra had returned the Walkman to Lucian’s room, although she insisted that she had not technically stolen it.

Lucian accepted this explanation because he preferred to preserve his energy for more important matters.

Cassian had spent the preceding half hour attempting to persuade his grandmother that biscuits constituted a suitable replacement for supper.

Isolde had rejected the proposal.

Cassian had appealed to his grandfather.

Octavian had pretended to consider the matter before agreeing with Isolde.

Cassian had then approached his father, who had made the mistake of laughing.

The little boy was now sitting on Alaric’s knee, regarding his father with the grave disappointment of someone who had discovered a serious defect in an otherwise promising relationship.

Alaric kissed his forehead.

“I know, little one.

It’s a cruel world.”

Cassian pointed toward the biscuit tin.

“Bis-ket.”

“After dinner.”

“Now.”

“After dinner.”

Cassian looked at Seraphina.

She shook her head.

“Your father is right.”

Cassian sighed.

The biscuit tin moved a few inches closer to him.

Alaric looked at it.

The tin stopped.

“Nice try,” he told his son.

Cassian grinned.

His father laughed and lifted him into the air, eliciting a delighted squeal.

“You’re becoming far too clever.”

Cassian responded by grabbing his father’s nose.

“Ow.

Betrayal.”

Seraphina smiled from her chair.

“That is what happens when you encourage him.”

“I encourage nothing.

I am a victim.”

“Of course.”

Alaric kissed Cassian’s cheek and settled him back onto his knee.

Lucian watched them from the opposite sofa, his expression thoughtful.

He had spent years watching his father balance responsibility with affection, authority with humour, and an imposing public reputation with the willingness to be utterly ridiculous in the privacy of his own home.

It was a quality Lucian admired, even if he had inherited more of his grandfather’s patience and his uncle’s reluctance to take life too seriously.

He did not aspire to his father’s position.

He did not need to.

For now, he was content to be the eldest son who worked in an ordinary office, rented a shabby flat in London, and returned home through a magical device whenever he wished to spend time with his family.

He could imagine no better arrangement.

At seven o’clock, Maggie announced dinner.

The family assembled around the table with the customary mixture of good manners and minor disputes.

Alaric took his place beside Seraphina, Octavian settled at the head of the table, and Isolde sat close enough to Cassian to ensure that he would eat something more substantial than bread.

Lucian sat between Lysandra and Dorian, which was either a fortunate arrangement or a deliberate attempt to provoke another incident.

Arabella joined them for the meal, having postponed her packing until later.

Cedric took the seat opposite her and immediately began asking questions about China, including several that had nothing whatsoever to do with geography.

The meal was warm, plentiful, and entirely ordinary by Blackthorn standards.

Vegetables from the estate’s own fields accompanied the main course.

The bread had been baked that morning, the butter came from a nearby farm, and the apples served afterward were from the eastern orchard.

Lucian took a bite of an apple and paused.

It was exceptionally sweet.

He glanced toward his grandfather.

Octavian noticed.

“Good?”

“Very.”

“From the eastern orchard.”

Lucian examined the apple.

“Has it been enchanted?”

“Not by anyone in the family,” Octavian replied.

Cedric leaned forward.

“Perhaps the apple likes him.”

“Perhaps,” Isolde said, sounding perfectly serious.

Dorian picked up an apple from the bowl.

It was perfectly ordinary.

Lysandra selected another.

Hers was sweet, too, though not quite as sweet as Lucian’s.

She frowned at the fruit.

“That’s unfair.”

Lucian took another bite.

“Perhaps it likes me.”

“You are insufferable.”

“I’ve been told.”

Cassian reached toward the fruit bowl.

Seraphina offered him a small, carefully prepared piece of apple.

He tasted it, considered the flavour, and immediately held out his hand for more.

“Again!”

“Chew first,” Isolde instructed.

Cassian chewed.

Then he reached for another piece.

The family laughed.

It was possible that the land had chosen the apples for them.

It was possible that the differences in sweetness were the result of some obscure property of the soil.

It was even possible that the family’s familiarity with the estate had made them more sensitive to things that outsiders overlooked.

Nobody could say with certainty.

They ate their supper, discussed their day, and continued with the conversation.

That, too, was part of the Blackthorn way of life.

They could acknowledge the inexplicable without allowing it to dominate every ordinary pleasure.

Magic was woven into their existence, but it was not the only thing that mattered.

They valued their meals, their friendships, their work, their disagreements, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that everyone had returned home safely.

Even Lucian, who spent his working days pretending to be an ordinary clerk in London, understood that the most extraordinary part of his life was not the ability to travel home without taking a train.

It was the fact that there was always somewhere to return to.

After dinner, the household drifted toward the sitting room.

Cedric resumed his account of a disastrous meeting with an acquaintance who had mistaken his interest in magical creatures for an invitation to introduce him to an aggressive collection of enchanted poultry.

Arabella listened with the expression of a woman who was already preparing to add the story to her private collection of evidence against her brother.

Alaric and Octavian discussed business, although their conversation repeatedly wandered toward the subject of the estate’s harvest.

Isolde returned to her book, and Seraphina sat with Cassian in her arms while he struggled to keep his eyes open.

Lysandra settled beside Lucian on the sofa.

For several minutes, she behaved herself.

Then she leaned toward him.

“Can I borrow your Walkman tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you haven’t returned it yet.”

“I did.”

“After I caught you.”

“That was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Of course.”

She nudged his shoulder.

“Please?”

Lucian looked at her.

Lysandra gave him her most innocent expression.

He sighed.

“Ask me tomorrow.”

She smiled triumphantly.

“Thank you!”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“I know.”

She settled back against the sofa, entirely satisfied.

Lucian shook his head, smiling.

Across the room, Dorian was attempting to convince Maggie that he had learned his lesson about borrowing kitchen equipment.

Maggie listened with the scepticism of someone who had heard similar promises before.

“You may help me prepare tomorrow’s breakfast,” she said.

Dorian looked horrified.

“Breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t know how to cook.”

“Then you will learn.”

“Could I perhaps begin with something easier?”

“Certainly.

You may peel potatoes.”

Dorian stared at her.

Maggie smiled.

“Good night, Lord Dorian.”

She walked away.

Cedric laughed so loudly that Octavian had to remind him to lower his voice.

Cassian stirred in Seraphina’s arms.

The room immediately became quieter.

Seraphina adjusted the blanket around him and brushed a hand over his hair.

His breathing settled again, his small fingers curled against her dress, and he returned to sleep with the complete trust of a child who knew he was surrounded by people who loved him.

Lucian watched him for a moment.

Then he leaned forward and gently touched his brother’s foot beneath the blanket.

“Good night, little menace,” he whispered.

Cassian did not wake.

Seraphina glanced at Lucian, her expression soft.

“He was looking for you earlier.”

“I know.”

“He likes having you home.”

Lucian looked down at his brother.

“I like being home.”

She smiled.

There was no need to say more.

The evening continued slowly, as evenings at Blackthorn Manor often did.

Arabella eventually excused herself to finish packing for China.

She kissed Isolde, embraced Seraphina, and promised Octavian that she would send a letter as soon as she arrived.

Cedric insisted that she bring him something interesting, and she promised to consider it, which was the closest anyone expected her to come to an agreement.

Alaric returned to his office to finish a few documents.

Isolde went to the library, taking her book with her.

Octavian remained by the fire, occasionally tapping his ivory cane against the floor as he listened to the house settling around him.

Lysandra and Dorian were sent upstairs after one final argument about the Walkman.

Lucian escorted them part of the way, then continued toward his own room.

He had work in London the following morning.

There were reports to check, documents to file, and colleagues who would undoubtedly ask whether he had considered purchasing a car.

There would be tea in the staff room, a desk full of paperwork, and at least one woman who would find a reason to ask what he intended to do on Saturday evening.

Lucian looked forward to it with a peculiar sort of contentment.

His life was simple because he had chosen to make it simple.

He possessed the means to live extravagantly, but he preferred to spend his money carefully, his time comfortably, and his energy on things that mattered to him.

He could have pursued a grand career within Blackthorn Holdings.

He could have announced his family connection and watched his colleagues scramble to reconsider every assumption they had ever made about him.

He could have purchased a car, moved into an expensive apartment, and allowed the world to believe that his success was the result of ambition.

Instead, he would return to his studio, press the little brass leaf, and come home.

It was a good arrangement.

When he reached his bedroom, he found that the lamp beside his bed had already been lit.

His slippers had been placed neatly beside the chair, and a small plate containing two biscuits rested on the bedside table.

There was a note beside them.

Eat something before you go to sleep.

The handwriting belonged to Isolde.

Lucian smiled.

He ate the biscuits.

Then he changed into his nightclothes, opened the window for a moment, and looked out over the estate.

The gardens were quiet beneath the darkening sky.

The eastern orchard stood in shadow, its branches moving gently in the breeze.

Beyond the fields, the woods formed a dark line against the horizon, and the distant lake reflected a thin ribbon of moonlight.

Somewhere in the village, people were preparing for bed.

Some of them had eaten produce from the estate that day.

Some would sleep soundly, wake refreshed, and attribute their good health to excellent genes or a fortunate constitution.

Others would return to their ordinary work in the city, unaware that the apples they had purchased at a modest price had been selected for them by something they could neither see nor understand.

The land would continue to grow its harvest.

The manor would continue to shelter its family.

And time would continue to move according to rules that nobody had quite managed to decipher.

Lucian closed the window and turned off the lamp.

For a moment, the room remained dark.

Then the small brass leaf on the wall gave a faint, warm glimmer, acknowledging its master before falling silent.

Lucian climbed into bed.

He was asleep within minutes.

By midnight, the manor had grown quiet.

Maggie had finished checking the kitchen, although she paused to ensure that Dorian had returned every borrowed pot and pan.

Clara had completed her final nursery inspection.

Thomas Wren had checked the outer doors and the estate’s protective boundaries, then retired with the satisfaction of a man whose evening had been mercifully free of serious incidents.

Edwin Hargrave had finished his remaining administrative duties and left the household to its rest.

Arabella’s luggage stood ready near the entrance, waiting for the journey that would begin in the morning.

Cedric had finally gone to bed, still muttering about the unfairness of being denied access to the kitchen’s enchanted equipment.

Alaric had finished his paperwork, and Seraphina had carried Cassian to his nursery, where she tucked him beneath his blanket and kissed his forehead.

He stirred when she turned away.

“Mama.”

She returned to his bedside.

“Yes, darling?”

Cassian reached for her hand.

Seraphina took it.

“Sleep now,” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

His fingers relaxed around hers.

She remained beside him until his breathing became steady again, watching his small face soften in sleep.

The night-light beside his bed glowed gently, and the curtains drew themselves closed against the cold.

Seraphina kissed his forehead once more.

“Good night, my little one.”

Then she left the nursery door slightly ajar and went to join her husband.

In the main corridor, the portraits had finally stopped arguing.

The brass bird had returned to its perch, the enchanted lamps had dimmed, and the stubborn cupboard had closed itself with a satisfied click.

Blackthorn Manor settled into silence.

It did not sleep as human beings slept.

Somewhere within its ancient foundations, the old magic continued to move, passing through the walls, the gardens, the orchard, and the fields beyond.

It touched the roots of the trees and the dark soil beneath them, carrying something that had belonged to the estate long before the family learned to give it a name.

The land remembered the people who tended it.

It remembered those who treated its harvest with care, those who shared what they received, and those who came to its gates seeking nothing more than an honest living.

It remembered the family whose generations had made their home within its boundaries, and the staff who had become part of that home through years of service, affection, and shared mischief.

Perhaps this was why the Blackthorns seemed to grow old more slowly.

Perhaps it was why the produce sometimes favoured particular people, carrying a quiet nourishment that left them healthier than they had expected to be.

Perhaps the manor was preserving something that no ordinary measure of time could adequately describe.

Or perhaps the truth was stranger still.

The estate offered no explanation.

It merely continued to grow, to shelter, and to choose.

And beneath its ancient roof, a two-year-old boy slept peacefully, unaware that the world beyond Blackthorn Vale was full of people who would one day wonder why certain families never seemed to age as quickly as everyone else.

For now, Cassian had his mother, his father, his grandparents, his siblings, and an entire household willing to indulge his every curiosity.

Lucian had his quiet room, his ordinary job, and the freedom to return home whenever he pleased.

Arabella had a journey ahead of her.

Cedric had been deprived of Maggie’s pots and pans.

And the manor, satisfied with the day’s events, kept watch over them all.

Tomorrow would bring new work, new arguments, new laughter, and almost certainly another incident involving an enchanted kitchen utensil.

At Blackthorn Manor, that was as close to an ordinary life as anyone had ever managed to achieve.