Blackthorn Vale, Northumberland, England
October 29th, 1980
At precisely five o’clock in the morning, every pumpkin in Blackthorn Manor opened its eyes.
There were thirty-two of them.
Nobody had put eyes on the pumpkins.
That was the problem.
They simply appeared.
One pumpkin sitting on the kitchen windowsill blinked twice and looked directly at the kettle.
Another, which had been purchased from a market in the village only the previous afternoon, developed a pair of small green eyes and spent several minutes staring accusingly at a bowl of potatoes.
Three more acquired enormous cartoonish eyes and began silently watching the corridor.
The largest pumpkin of all, sitting beside the entrance hall, opened one enormous golden eye.
Then another.
It yawned.
The sound was remarkably similar to the creaking of an old door.
Edwin Hargrave, Head Steward of Blackthorn Manor, stopped halfway across the entrance hall.
He looked at the pumpkin.
The pumpkin looked back.
Edwin sighed.
“Not again.”
The pumpkin blinked.
“Don’t.”
It blinked again.
Edwin pointed one stern finger at it.
“I am not having a discussion with a vegetable before breakfast.”
The pumpkin’s eyes narrowed.
Edwin continued walking.
Behind him, the pumpkin quietly rolled three inches toward the staircase.
Edwin stopped.
He turned around.
The pumpkin stopped.
There was a long silence.
“Stay.”
The pumpkin remained perfectly still.
Edwin nodded.
“Good.”
He walked away.
The pumpkin waited until he disappeared around the corner.
Then it rolled another three inches.
Blackthorn Manor had always possessed a certain relationship with Halloween.
It was not a sinister relationship.
It simply enjoyed the holiday more than was strictly reasonable.
The house was old enough to remember when Halloween had been called by other names, celebrated differently in different villages, and treated with varying degrees of seriousness.
Over the centuries, some traditions had become attached to the estate almost accidentally.
Candles occasionally lit themselves.
Portraits sometimes wore masks.
The gargoyles on the western parapet had been known to decorate themselves with ribbons.
And every October, without fail, certain objects in the manor became slightly more enthusiastic than they had been during the rest of the year.
This year, apparently, it was the pumpkins.
Edwin had already made the mistake of allowing Maggie to place them inside the house.
He had made an even greater mistake by assuming that because they were vegetables, they could not move.
That assumption had been corrected at approximately four forty-seven that morning when one had attempted to enter the pantry.
By five fifteen, the kitchen staff had established a temporary policy.
No pumpkin was to be left unattended.
Unfortunately, nobody had told the pumpkins.
The manor was waking slowly around them.
Beyond the windows, Blackthorn Vale remained covered in darkness.
The last leaves clung stubbornly to the trees, their colours muted beneath the early morning sky.
A thin mist hovered over the lawns, drifting between the old yew trees and the stone paths.
The King’s Thorn stood motionless at the centre of the grounds.
For once, nothing magical happened around it.
It simply stood there.
Which was probably for the best.
Inside, the household began its ordinary morning.
Maggie entered the kitchen carrying a basket of bread.
She stopped when she saw the potato-staring pumpkin.
“Absolutely not.”
The pumpkin blinked.
Maggie placed the bread on the table.
“I don’t care what sort of ancestral enchantment you think you have.”
The pumpkin stared.
“You are not helping with breakfast.”
The pumpkin slowly turned toward the door.
Maggie narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t even think about it.”
The pumpkin turned back.
“That’s what I thought.”
By five thirty, Blackthorn Manor was functioning normally.
Or at least as normally as Blackthorn Manor ever functioned.
And somewhere beyond the estate, two members of the Blackthorn family were beginning entirely separate days.
Lord Cedric Blackthorn was not at home.
Lady Arabella Blackthorn was not at home either.
That was perfectly normal.
Unlike Alaric and Seraphina, whose lives were becoming increasingly intertwined with the responsibilities of the family estate and their respective public positions, Cedric and Arabella had constructed lives that took them in completely different directions.
They were brother and sister.
They loved one another.
They occasionally irritated one another.
They knew each other’s weaknesses.
They knew exactly which childhood stories could embarrass the other at a dinner table.
But they did not live in each other’s pockets.
They had their own friends.
Their own work.
Their own habits.
Their own relationships with the ordinary world.
And, most importantly, they had become very good at being themselves outside Blackthorn Manor.
Cedric’s life began with a telephone call.
At five forty-three in the morning, a black telephone rang in his London flat.
Cedric opened one eye.
The telephone rang again.
He did not move.
It rang a third time.
He pulled the blanket over his head.
The telephone rang a fourth time.
“Persistent little thing,” he muttered.
The fifth ring finally convinced him that whoever was calling was either very important or very annoying.
Possibly both.
Cedric reached out from beneath the blankets, found the receiver, and answered without opening his eyes.
“If this is about money, I’m asleep.”
A woman’s voice came through the line.
“Good morning to you too, Mr Blackthorn.”
Cedric opened his eyes.
“Margaret.”
“Yes.”
“What time is it?”
“Five forty-four.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because your train is at seven fifteen.”
Cedric sat up.
Silence.
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
“I knew that.”
“I suspected you had forgotten.”
“I had not forgotten.”
“You wrote it on your calendar.”
“Exactly.”
“You wrote it on yesterday’s calendar.”
Cedric looked toward his desk.
There was a calendar.
He squinted at it.
“That seems like a clerical error.”
“You wrote it.”
“Then clearly I was misled by my own handwriting.”
Margaret sighed.
Cedric smiled.
This was how most of his mornings began when he was travelling.
He eventually dressed in a dark suit, a cream shirt, and a long brown coat that had seen better days but which he refused to replace.
He inspected himself in the mirror.
“Perfect.”
The mirror disagreed.
Cedric raised an eyebrow.
The reflection raised an eyebrow back.
“You don’t pay the bills.”
The reflection folded its arms.
“Don’t start.”
Cedric picked up his suitcase.
The reflection remained unimpressed.
His career had given him the opportunity to travel constantly.
International antiquities and art dealing sounded glamorous when written on a business card.
In reality, it involved paperwork.
Endless paperwork.
Shipping documents.
Insurance documents.
Restoration reports.
Auction catalogues.
Museum correspondence.
Private collectors who changed their minds at the last minute.
Collectors who claimed not to have changed their minds.
Collectors who had changed their minds but expected Cedric to pretend otherwise.
There were also dinners.
Cedric liked the dinners.
The paperwork less so.
His public reputation was that of an eccentric but highly knowledgeable dealer who had somehow developed a talent for finding unusual works of art before other dealers noticed them.
He was charming.
He was well-connected.
He knew how to speak to museum directors and wealthy collectors without becoming impressed by either.
He also had the irritating habit of noticing when someone was lying.
His magical education had made that habit considerably easier.
But he never used magic to interfere with ordinary people.
He did not need to.
Years of experience had taught him that people revealed far more through their voices, expressions, pauses, and gestures than they ever realised.
Cedric preferred that.
Magic was useful.
People were interesting.
His first appointment that morning was with a restoration specialist named Henry Walsh.
Henry was not magical.
He had no idea that Cedric came from an old magical family.
He knew only that Cedric was wealthy, slightly strange, very knowledgeable, and surprisingly good at identifying damage in old paintings.
Henry also knew that Cedric had an irritating tendency to arrive five minutes late.
At six forty-five, Cedric arrived at the station.
At six fifty, he bought coffee.
At six fifty-two, he bought another coffee because the first one had somehow disappeared.
At six fifty-three, he found it sitting in his coat pocket.
He stared at it.
Then he laughed.
“That is becoming a habit.”
He boarded the train.
By the time the train pulled away, Cedric had already begun reading a catalogue of Renaissance paintings.
He had been working with the same collection for several months.
There was nothing particularly mysterious about it.
It was simply a collection belonging to a private family in Yorkshire.
Three paintings were being prepared for sale.
Two required restoration.
One required authentication.
Cedric was travelling to inspect all three.
That was his world.
Not ancient curses.
Not forbidden chambers.
Not dark prophecies.
Paintings.
Sculptures.
Collectors.
Museums.
Auctions.
Private estates.
People arguing about whether a particular shade of blue was characteristic of a particular artist.
Cedric loved it.
He loved the fact that art had survived centuries of human lives.
People had painted while wars were being fought.
People had sculpted while kingdoms rose and fell.
People had written music while their neighbours were arguing over fences.
The ordinary human desire to create things fascinated him.
He sometimes wondered if that was why he had chosen this career.
Not because of magic.
Because of people.
At the same time, several hours away, Arabella Blackthorn was standing ankle-deep in mud.
She was smiling.
“Perfect.”
A young conservation officer named Helen Carter stared at her.
“Perfect?”
Arabella looked down at her boots.
They were covered in mud.
Her trousers were wet at the knees.
There was a leaf stuck in her hair.
“Perfect.”
Helen laughed.
“You have a very strange definition of the word.”
Arabella glanced toward the field.
A small group of volunteers was repairing fencing around a protected woodland area.
Beyond it stood a cluster of trees turning gold and brown beneath the October sky.
Arabella was thirty-eight years old.
She had spent much of her adult life studying magical creatures, ancient enchantments, and rare forms of magical flora.
But her public career had taken an entirely different shape.
Wildlife conservationist.
Director of a private zoological foundation.
To ordinary people, Arabella was simply an eccentric but highly respected conservationist who had inherited enough money to establish a private foundation devoted to wildlife preservation, habitat restoration, veterinary research, and education.
The truth was slightly more complicated.
Her foundation did indeed care about ordinary wildlife.
Very much.
It also quietly maintained several protected areas where certain magical creatures could live without being discovered.
Arabella never discussed that side of her work with the ordinary staff.
There was no need.
The foundation had enough legitimate conservation projects to occupy everyone.
She did not have to invent anything.
She simply omitted certain details.
And she had become very good at it.
“Director?”
Arabella looked up.
Helen was holding a clipboard.
“We’ve had another report from the northern field.”
“What kind?”
“Foxes.”
Arabella smiled.
“Foxes are generally considered good news.”
“Not when they’re stealing equipment.”
Arabella laughed.
“They’re foxes.”
“They stole two gloves.”
“Then clearly the gloves were important.”
Helen gave her a look.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
They continued walking.
Arabella loved this part of her life.
There was something satisfying about working with people who did not know anything about magic.
Their concerns were wonderfully ordinary.
Fencing.
Food.
Veterinary appointments.
Funding.
Weather.
Transportation.
Paperwork.
Animals.
Animals were especially wonderful.
Animals did not care about magical bloodlines.
They did not care about family names.
They did not care whether a person could cast a spell.
A wolf cared whether you were threatening it.
A horse cared whether you were kind.
A bird cared whether you fed it.
Arabella respected that.
It was one of the reasons she had built her life around conservation.
She wanted something that belonged entirely to her.
Not to Alaric.
Not to the Blackthorn name.
Not to the estate.
Not to the expectations surrounding an old magical family.
Her foundation was hers.
And she was proud of it.
At ten thirty that morning, Arabella sat in a small office overlooking the wildlife reserve and reviewed a stack of documents.
She had three meetings.
A veterinary consultation.
A donor lunch.
A planning session for a Halloween fundraising event.
She stared at the final item.
“Halloween.”
She leaned back.
She smiled.
That was going to be interesting.
The foundation held an annual autumn event.
This year, Arabella had decided to do something different.
A children’s wildlife evening.
Costumes.
Lanterns.
Educational demonstrations.
Food.
Games.
Storytelling.
Nothing frightening.
Nothing overly formal.
Just an excuse for local families to spend an evening at the foundation.
She had also allowed her staff to decorate.
This had been a mistake.
When Arabella entered the main building that afternoon, she found a large paper bat hanging upside down from the reception desk.
She stared at it.
The bat stared back.
Arabella pointed.
“Who made that?”
A receptionist raised her hand.
“I did.”
“I like it.”
“Thank you.”
“But it is upside down.”
“It’s a bat.”
“I know.”
“They hang upside down.”
Arabella considered this.
“Fair enough.”
She continued walking.
This was what her life looked like.
Meetings.
Animals.
Staff.
Friends.
Fundraisers.
Public appearances.
Lunches.
Travel.
Occasional arguments about budgets.
And a surprising amount of mud.
Nobody looking at her would have guessed that she came from a magical family.
Nobody looking at Cedric would have guessed it either.
That was exactly how they liked it.
By lunchtime, Cedric was sitting across from Henry Walsh in a small restaurant near an auction house.
Henry placed a folder on the table.
“The client is nervous.”
Cedric opened it.
“Why?”
“He thinks the painting is worth more than we’re saying.”
“That is because everyone thinks their paintings are worth more than we’re saying.”
Henry laughed.
Cedric turned a page.
“What does he want?”
“Twice the valuation.”
“Of course.”
“He says his grandfather paid a fortune for it.”
Cedric looked up.
“That is rarely useful.”
“Why?”
“Because grandparents have terrible memories.”
Henry laughed again.
Cedric smiled.
There was an ease to their friendship that Cedric appreciated.
Henry knew him only as Cedric.
Not Lord Blackthorn.
Not the younger brother of the managing director of Blackthorn Holdings.
Not member of an old magical family.
Just Cedric.
That mattered.
At Blackthorn Manor, everyone knew everything about everyone.
Sometimes Cedric wanted somewhere he could simply sit down and be himself.
Ordinary society gave him that.
He could walk into a restaurant without the walls knowing his family name.
He could speak to a stranger without wondering whether the stranger had heard stories about his grandfather.
He could make mistakes without them becoming family history.
That freedom was worth more to him than most people understood.
Across the country, Arabella was having lunch with two conservation officers.
They were discussing the foundation’s upcoming projects.
One wanted to expand a bird sanctuary.
The other wanted funding for a veterinary programme.
Arabella listened carefully.
She disagreed with both of them at different points.
She approved one proposal.
Rejected another.
Asked for revisions on a third.
She did not behave like a distant aristocrat.
She behaved like a director who expected her staff to challenge her.
That was deliberate.
She had learned early that people became better at their jobs when they were allowed to disagree.
At the end of lunch, Helen looked at her.
“Are you coming to the Halloween event on Saturday?”
Arabella smiled.
“I am the director.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes.”
“Dressed up?”
Arabella paused.
“Perhaps.”
Helen narrowed her eyes.
“That’s also not an answer.”
Arabella smiled innocently.
“You’ll have to wait.”
By four in the afternoon, Cedric had finished his inspection.
The painting was authentic.
The restoration would be expensive.
The client would complain.
Cedric would negotiate.
Nothing dramatic.
He liked it that way.
He left the building carrying his briefcase.
Outside, the October air was cold.
London was beginning to darken.
Cedric stood on the pavement for a moment.
His watch said four twelve.
His train home was not for another hour.
He could return to the hotel.
He could work.
He could call the manor.
Instead, he walked.
That was another thing he enjoyed about his life.
Walking without purpose.
He passed shops.
Bookstores.
Restaurants.
A cinema.
A small antique shop.
He stopped outside the antique shop.
There was a carved wooden bird in the window.
Cedric studied it.
It was beautifully made.
Not magical.
Just beautiful.
He went inside.
The shopkeeper greeted him.
“Looking for anything?”
Cedric smiled.
“Not particularly.”
“Then you’re dangerous.”
Cedric laughed.
“Why?”
“People who aren’t looking usually buy the strangest things.”
“That’s true.”
They talked for twenty minutes.
Cedric eventually bought the bird.
Not because it was valuable.
Because he liked it.
When he left the shop, he carried it beneath his arm.
He smiled to himself.
Perhaps he would give it to Arabella.
Perhaps not.
At the wildlife foundation, Arabella’s day ended much later.
She was still in her office at seven thirty.
The building was quiet.
Most of the staff had gone home.
She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
A small owl sat on the windowsill.
Arabella looked at it.
The owl looked at her.
“No.”
The owl tilted its head.
“I know what you’re doing.”
The owl blinked.
“You want food.”
The owl blinked again.
“You had food an hour ago.”
The owl looked offended.
Arabella laughed.
“Fine.”
She stood.
She opened a cupboard.
The owl immediately flew inside.
“Cheeky.”
The owl landed on her shoulder.
Arabella smiled.
There were moments like this when she remembered why she had chosen her life.
Not because it was important.
Not because it was prestigious.
Because it was hers.
She fed the owl.
Then she locked her office.
By nine o’clock, Arabella was driving back toward the Blackthorn estate.
She had changed into a simple dark dress and a warm coat.
She was tired.
But she was smiling.
At the same time, Cedric was arriving at the manor.
The gates opened before he reached them.
“Show-off,” he muttered.
The gates did not respond.
He drove through.
Blackthorn Manor appeared beyond the trees.
Its windows glowed warmly against the darkness.
The house looked enormous.
Old.
Imposing.
And, from a distance, almost entirely ordinary.
Almost.
Cedric parked.
Before he reached the door, it opened.
He stared at it.
“Hello?”
No response.
He stepped inside.
The door closed behind him.
Cedric looked at the ceiling.
“Very dramatic.”
From somewhere nearby came a faint creak.
“I know.”
He walked toward the drawing room.
He heard voices.
Alaric was there.
Lucian was there.
Octavian was apparently arguing with someone about chess.
Maggie was telling someone to stop moving a vase.
Normal.
Cedric smiled.
He removed his coat.
A pumpkin rolled around the corner.
Cedric stopped.
The pumpkin stopped.
They stared at each other.
Cedric pointed at it.
“You.”
The pumpkin blinked.
“You weren’t here this morning.”
The pumpkin blinked again.
Cedric crouched.
“Have you always been able to do that?”
The pumpkin stared.
“Right.”
Cedric stood.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t see you.”
He walked away.
The pumpkin followed him.
Cedric stopped.
The pumpkin stopped.
He turned.
It rolled closer.
Cedric sighed.
“You’re going to be trouble.”
The pumpkin blinked.
“At least you’re honest.”
A voice came from the drawing room.
“Talking to vegetables again?”
Cedric looked up.
Arabella stood in the doorway.
She had arrived without him noticing.
Cedric smiled.
“I wasn’t talking to it.”
Arabella looked at the pumpkin.
The pumpkin rolled behind Cedric.
Arabella laughed.
“It likes you.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps it recognises a kindred spirit.”
Cedric put a hand over his heart.
“That was unnecessarily cruel.”
Arabella entered the room.
They walked together.
For all their differences, Cedric and Arabella had always understood each other unusually well.
Perhaps because neither had followed the path expected of them.
Cedric had chosen the world of art.
Arabella had chosen the world of wildlife.
Both had built identities outside the family.
Neither regretted it.
They sat together for a while.
They talked about their days.
Cedric told her about the painting.
Arabella told him about the foxes.
Cedric showed her the wooden bird.
Arabella examined it.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I thought you might like it.”
She smiled.
“I do.”
She placed it carefully on the table.
“Thank you.”
Cedric leaned back.
“How was your day?”
“Good.”
“Only good?”
“Very good.”
“Any disasters?”
“Two.”
“Excellent.”
“One fox stole a glove.”
“Criminal.”
“And the Halloween decorations are getting out of control.”
Cedric smiled.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
“Should I investigate?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll make it worse.”
Cedric looked offended.
“I am an excellent influence.”
Arabella laughed.
“You once convinced Lucian that eating an enchanted apple would make him invisible.”
“I told him it might.”
“An important distinction.”
“You also told him that invisibility would not work if he was wearing shoes.”
Cedric smiled.
“He believed me.”
“Exactly.”
They both laughed.
Their conversation continued easily.
They talked about family.
About work.
About friends.
About people they had met.
About their plans for the weekend.
And, eventually, about relationships.
Cedric was the first to bring it up.
“So.”
Arabella looked at him.
“So?”
“How is your love life?”
She immediately frowned.
“No.”
Cedric laughed.
“You asked me about mine last month.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I asked whether you were seeing anyone.”
“That is the same question.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It absolutely is.”
Arabella sighed.
“You are impossible.”
Cedric smiled.
“Thank you.”
She looked at him.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Cedric considered the question.
“Perhaps.”
Arabella’s eyes narrowed.
“Perhaps?”
“Her name is Eleanor.”
“How long?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you haven’t told anyone?”
“I am telling you.”
“You are telling me because I asked.”
“Details.”
Arabella smiled.
“Is she magical?”
“No.”
“Does she know?”
“No.”
“Are you planning to tell her?”
Cedric’s expression became thoughtful.
“I don’t know.”
Arabella did not tease him.
She understood.
Their family had lived beside ordinary people for generations.
They had friends among them.
Employees.
Neighbours.
Colleagues.
Sometimes lovers.
Sometimes spouses.
Sometimes people who knew everything.
Sometimes people who knew nothing.
There was no single rule for such things.
The Blackthorns had never been a family that believed magic made them better than anyone else.
If anything, their unusual position had taught them the opposite.
The ordinary world was enormous.
There were millions of people living lives completely unrelated to magic.
They had dreams.
Failures.
Friendships.
Families.
Careers.
Arguments.
Love.
Grief.
Joy.
They were not lesser because they could not perform spells.
They simply lived differently.
Arabella looked toward the window.
“And what do you like about her?”
Cedric smiled.
“She doesn’t care about antiques.”
Arabella laughed.
“That’s your reason?”
“One of them.”
“What are the others?”
“She laughs at me.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“She doesn’t know who my family is.”
“That’s probably why.”
Cedric looked at her.
“Exactly.”
Arabella nodded.
She understood.
Cedric’s relationship was still new.
He did not know where it would go.
He did not want to decide yet.
That was the point.
For once, he wanted something that did not begin with expectations.
Arabella eventually admitted that she had been seeing someone as well.
Cedric nearly dropped his tea.
“You?”
She gave him a warning look.
“Don’t.”
“I am merely surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because you reject everyone.”
“I do not.”
“You rejected the zoologist from Edinburgh.”
“He talked about himself for three hours.”
“Fair.”
“You also rejected the diplomat.”
“He talked about himself for four hours.”
“Fair.”
“And the professor.”
“He talked about himself for five.”
Cedric smiled.
“At least you’re consistent.”
Arabella rolled her eyes.
Her own relationship was more complicated.
The man she had been seeing worked in environmental research.
He knew her as Arabella.
He knew her foundation.
He knew she came from a wealthy family.
He knew she had unusual connections.
But he did not know about magic.
Not yet.
Perhaps never.
She did not know.
And she did not want to think about it that evening.
There was no urgency.
That was another thing about the Blackthorns.
They had lived long enough to understand that not every question required an immediate answer.
Sometimes people needed time.
Sometimes relationships needed room.
Sometimes life simply needed to be lived.
Cedric leaned back.
“You realise we’re getting older.”
Arabella looked at him.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
“You were the one who mentioned your birthday last month.”
“I was required to.”
“By whom?”
“Myself.”
Cedric laughed.
They sat quietly for a while.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees.
The manor creaked.
Somewhere upstairs, a door closed by itself.
Neither sibling reacted.
After several minutes, Arabella stood.
“I need tea.”
“You always need tea.”
“So do you.”
“Mine is medicinal.”
“Tea is not medicinal.”
“Mine is.”
“What is in it?”
“Tea.”
She stared at him.
Cedric smiled.
“Exactly.”
They went into the kitchen.
Maggie was still there.
She looked at the two of them.
“No.”
Cedric stopped.
“No what?”
“No cooking.”
“We weren’t going to cook.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Arabella looked at Cedric.
Cedric looked at Arabella.
Maggie crossed her arms.
“I know both of you.”
Cedric smiled.
“We’re simply getting tea.”
“Good.”
They began preparing it.
For several minutes, nothing unusual happened.
Then the largest Halloween pumpkin rolled into the kitchen.
Maggie pointed at it.
“Out.”
It stopped.
Cedric laughed.
Arabella covered her mouth.
Maggie looked at them.
“This is not funny.”
The pumpkin rolled forward.
Maggie picked it up.
The pumpkin’s eyes widened.
“No.”
She carried it toward the back door.
The pumpkin’s expression became increasingly offended.
Cedric whispered to Arabella.
“I think she has hurt its feelings.”
“Good.”
Maggie opened the door.
She placed the pumpkin outside.
It rolled back in.
Maggie closed her eyes.
“Fine.”
She pointed toward the corner.
“You stay there.”
The pumpkin obeyed.
Everyone stared.
Maggie nodded.
“See?”
Cedric raised his cup.
“Excellent management.”
Maggie gave him a look.
“Go to bed.”
“It’s not even ten.”
“Then go somewhere else.”
Arabella laughed.
The evening continued.
There was no revelation.
No mysterious stranger arrived at the gates.
No ancient prophecy awakened.
No dark force stirred beneath the estate.
The Blackthorn family simply lived.
That was the thing nobody outside the family understood.
The most extraordinary part of being a Blackthorn was not the magic.
It was the ordinary life they had built around it.
They went to work.
They travelled.
They argued.
They fell in love.
They bought groceries.
They complained about weather.
They forgot appointments.
They teased one another.
They worried about money even when they had plenty.
They attended parties.
They visited friends.
They helped neighbours.
They raised children.
They cared for animals.
They sat around kitchens at night.
And sometimes, when Halloween approached, they argued with enchanted pumpkins.
Cedric eventually returned to the drawing room.
Arabella followed.
They sat with the rest of the family.
Octavian was still playing chess.
Alaric was pretending not to watch.
Lucian was reading.
Seraphina, six months pregnant, was resting comfortably in an armchair while listening to everyone argue.
Cedric looked around.
He smiled.
Arabella noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She smiled too.
The family continued talking.
Outside, the wind moved through Blackthorn Vale.
The Halloween decorations stirred gently in the corridors.
One pumpkin rolled slowly toward the staircase.
Nobody noticed.
It reached the first step.
Paused.
Then rolled back.
Perhaps even the pumpkin understood that there were limits.
At eleven thirty, the house began settling.
At midnight, most of the family had gone upstairs.
Cedric remained awake for another twenty minutes.
Arabella remained awake for another thirty.
They both had separate lives waiting for them in the morning.
Cedric would return to London.
Arabella would return to her foundation.
Their work would continue.
Their friendships would continue.
Their complicated relationships would continue.
Their lives would continue beyond the boundaries of Blackthorn Manor.
And that was precisely the point.
The Blackthorns were not waiting for destiny.
They were not sitting around expecting some great event to announce itself.
They were living.
The story of their family had not truly begun yet.
For now, there was only a house.
A family.
A growing child still waiting to be born.
A Halloween approaching.
A world outside the gates that was much larger than magic.
And two siblings discovering, in their own separate ways, that they could belong to that world without ever having to give up the strange little world they had been born into.
At five minutes past midnight, the last light in the drawing room went out.
The manor became quiet.
Then, from somewhere downstairs, came a tiny rolling sound.
One pumpkin crossed the entrance hall.
It stopped beneath the grand staircase.
It looked toward the dark windows.
Its eyes glowed faintly.
Then it smiled.
And went to sleep.
For another night, Blackthorn Manor had nothing important to say.
And nobody minded.
There would be plenty of time for important things later.