Chapter 6

B aron knelt beside a lemon tree, pulled his gloves off, and reached through a patch of clover to the soil beneath. Was it drier than usual? He wished his magic could give him an impression beyond his physical senses, as it did when he touched liquid, but he was not a Stone Caster, so the ground did not yield to him.

"My predictions could be off," said Walter nervously from above him. Though the groundskeeper was younger than Martin by a few decades, he stood with a permanent stoop, likely from too many hours atop an orchard ladder.

"Even if they are ..." Baron stood, brushing the dirt from his fingers and replacing his gloves. "The harvests have been declining. That much is undeniable."

He inspected a few leaves but found no discoloration or holes. The orchard was well-tended and healthy, but a surprise cold snap two winters previous had cost them a line of trees at the edge of the estate, and the remaining trees had produced less in subsequent harvests. The loss hadn't yet spelled disaster for the estate, but it would if Baron did nothing to fix it.

"Try the new fertilizer," he ordered. "In the meantime, I'll reach out to a friend to see if she can assist."

"Yes, my lord." Walter bowed, then hurried off.

The orchard carried a dim glow in the remnants of morning fog, each yellowing lemon peeking like a candle through dense green leaves. As Baron made his way up the rows of trees, he paused beside a stone bench, the only one in the orchard. It was not crafted of polished stone, but rather was the dull gray of natural rock. Natural had been his father's preferred decorating aesthetic.

How many times had Baron sat beside his father on this bench, surveying the orchard and discussing harvests? Now, after more than three months, he'd still not touched it. Just looking at it brought to memory a chaos of panicked voices.

Baron closed his eyes, surrounded by ghosts in the morning fog.

My lord, your father's collapsed!

The physician's on his way.

Baron, what do we do?

Lord Reeves, can you hear me? He's taken on fever.

He's convulsing! Hurry—

Exhaling slowly, Baron stepped forward, forcing the ghosts back as he refocused his attention on the orchard. The Reeves estate lay directly on the border between the southern and northern regions of Loegria. To the north, places like Sutton—the capital, where the palace was—would soon be seeing frost as autumn advanced and then regular snowfall in winter. To the south, places like Port Tynemon experienced thick humidity year-round with a particularly miserable heat in the summer. The lands between danced the climates, and Baron's land in particular was an oddity—warmer than its closest southern neighbors and possessing a perfect humidity. A few dozen acres that seemed handcrafted for growing lemons.

Baron's father had thought that to be exactly the case; he suspected one of his ancestors had hired a few Stone Casters to work in tandem and cultivate the land. If so, it would have been before the law requiring Caster registration, as the event had never been recorded.

It would explain why winter temperatures at the estate had been creeping steadily colder the last few years, why lemon production was dropping. A Cast, once placed, was generally considered to be permanent, but nature could erode even the most permanent of things, and it seemed the natural Loegrian climate was reclaiming the Reeves estate at last.

One more worry for Baron to juggle.

As he approached the manor house, he heard the loud squawk of an antagonized bird. A flurry of black feathers erupted on the far side of the mansion, presumably from Baron's bedroom window. With a few more furious ca-caws , the black crow disappeared into the clouds.

Baron's breath quickened. He glanced around, but though servants bustled through the yard and estate buildings, none of them paid the sky any mind. Even if they had, they were familiar with the crow, at least by reputation. Supposedly, it was Baron's easily flustered messenger bird.

In truth, it was his easily flustered half brother Corvin.

The messenger-bird lie had been an accident. Mr. Shaw, one of the residents of the nearby hamlet, worked as a falcon trainer for the nobility, and he'd been first to notice the black crow that frequented the skies around the Reeves estate. While Baron had assisted his father in the hamlet one afternoon, Mr. Shaw questioned the lord baron directly about the bird's strange behavior.

"He don't fly like a crow," the man said, squinting with suspicion. "And he's young-size, but I never seen his murder or his roost mates."

Baron's father told the man he was imagining things, yet Mr. Shaw would not be dissuaded.

"He's mine," Baron said, speaking without thought. He swallowed. "He's my ... messenger bird."

"Oh?" Mr. Shaw's squint grew more suspicious. "Crows are crafty beasts. How'd you ever get one tamed?"

Seeing no other option, Baron gave a partial truth. "My brother Corvin has an affinity for birds. He managed it."

Mr. Shaw's face lit up with glee, shining around a toothy grin. He wagged a finger first at Baron, then up at the sky, as he said, "You send that crow with a message for me. I want to see it. And then you send that brother of yours to my door. I won't let a talent like that go to waste—I aim to see what he can do with a falcon."

For the last four years, Corvin had apprenticed as a falcon trainer to Mr. Shaw, and the boy had never been happier. With a proper outlet for his talent, he managed to transform with more control, which meant a better guarded secret. Baron's father had opposed the arrangement for a few weeks until Corvin's newfound joy won him over, but he never stopped worrying.

Baron worried as well, yet as much as his father wished to keep the boy contained at home, Baron knew a truth only another magic user could understand—Corvin's gift was half his identity. Rather than keeping his brother caged, Baron wanted to offer him an excuse to be in the sky when he desperately needed it.

Even so, it froze him in place whenever his brother transformed. Just the chance of discovery ...

With quick steps, Baron resumed his path. He swung by the stables first to request that his horse be saddled and ready in an hour, and then he circled the house, seeking the back entrance to the kitchen.

In order to reach it, he had to wade through a small herd of stray cats first. At least a dozen of them, with patterns of gray, black, and orange splashed across white, all mewled as if they'd never been fed a day in their lives despite the fact that Leon and Helen both stood at the kitchen door, actively tossing scraps of food to the insatiable horde.

Leon met Baron's eyes and looked away, like a criminal caught. He hadn't turned into a cat, which meant whatever war the twins had waged, Corvin carried more emotional stake in it than Leon.

Though Baron had intended to confront his brother, Helen's presence gave him pause. His hesitation allowed one of the smaller black felines to climb the leg of his pants. He glared down. The cat yowled up.

"Ooh." Helen laughed, the lines of her face crinkling with grandmotherly enjoyment. "Come to feeding day without food. That's your fault, my lord."

Carefully, Baron pried the cat free. "Helen, I wonder if you might send a tea tray to my study. I'll be visiting Stonewall shortly, but I have business to attend first, and I'd welcome the refreshment."

"Certainly, milord." She tossed her final handful of scraps to the cat army. "I always hope to see my favorite on feeding day, but she's rarely here. That big white one with the sleek coat and those adorable peach-colored tufts on her ears."

Beside her, Leon blanched. "That's a boy! He's a boy."

"Nonsense! You should see the way all the other ones crowd around her, trying to impress the pretty girl."

"He's the king," Leon said hotly. "That's why they crowd around. He's in charge."

Baron cleared his throat. "The tray?"

Helen retreated into the kitchen, and Baron stepped forward to pull the door closed. He sighed.

"What did you say to Corvin?" he asked quietly.

Leon scowled, picking at the bone scraps in his hands, flinging bits of fish meat to his noisy subjects below.

"I told him I'm not going to school," the boy grumbled at last.

That hadn't made the list of expected answers. Baron raised an eyebrow.

"Birdbrain's all set on going to Fairfax next year, like you did, and fine, he can go if he wants, but I'm not going. That's all."

"All right ..." Baron considered his words. "I enjoyed my time at Fairfax, but that doesn't mean it's suited to everyone."

"Exactly. School's for people like you and beak-face."

"People like . . . ?"

"People with brains." Leon hucked the remainder of the fish carcass across the yard, sending the cats dashing after it. "People with manners. People with sense."

Baron smiled gently. "If you're interested in a formal education, I don't doubt your capability for a moment. Besides that, manners can be taught and sense can be practiced."

"You forgot brains."

"It's a misconception that anyone can operate without one, so I think you'll find yourself already properly equipped for that requirement."

Leon picked at a spot on his apron, avoiding Baron's eyes. "Dad wasn't going to let either of us go."

Baron swallowed. "He said that?"

When Leon looked up, the boy's eyes had shifted, his pupils narrowing to those of a cat. It was a swift change, there and gone in a blink, but it betrayed the emotion churning inside. Just because Leon hadn't fully transformed didn't mean he wasn't bothered.

The great secret of the Reeves estate was that all three of Marcus Reeves's sons had been cursed with magic. Despite the scorn and fear directed at Baron, he was still the safest of the group. His twin brothers were Animal Affiliates. Shapeshifters.

The last time an Affiliate—Dorothy Ames, a little girl of ten—had been discovered in the kingdom, she'd been executed. There was no registration law, no branded witch's mark that could protect the twins. The official folklore of Loegria said only one shapeshifter was born to each century, a savage animal that consumed a human child and took its place. Once the demon was rooted out, supposedly, the country would be safe for another hundred years.

Ironic, then, that Baron knew three Affiliates, none of them particularly savage, though Leon put in a good effort with some insults.

"Father didn't understand," Baron said softly, "what it's like to live with ... this. But he tried. More than anything, he wanted to protect you and Corvin."

Leon didn't respond other than to slide his hands into his pockets.

"I have an errand in Stonewall. If you'd care to accompany me, we can stop by that bakery you like, and you can interrogate them for the secret of their blueberry scones."

"Sure." Leon looked away. "The crow will want a few biscuits too."

"I'm sure that can be arranged."

They reached Stonewall just before noon. True to its name, the city stood encircled by a wall with four gates, one oriented in each major direction. As a central market of the kingdom, it was always bustling, shepherds grazing their flocks outside the wall, traders on every street calling greetings through open windows.

Despite Leon's grumbles at being forced to dress nicely and ride a "smelly horse," he cracked a smile at a few of the sights. Once he focused on the bakery, though, his expression turned feral.

"Practice those manners," Baron reminded him sternly, "even if they refuse to hand over an ingredient list."

Which was exactly what they did. Leon and the head baker exchanged heated words over the priceless nature of baking secrets, and Baron bought a dozen scones and half as many biscuits to smooth over the encounter.

"A real cook would teach me," Leon complained as they exited. "I could do an apprenticeship like feather-head."

Baron was inclined to agree, but he only shrugged—and secretly hoped the boy hadn't been turned away because he stood with a Caster. Baron hadn't missed the baker stealing glances at his brand, just as everyone did.

Seeing to his errand at last, Baron visited Edith alone. Leon chose to wait outside, dissecting a scone as if its layers could be read like pages in a book.

The Stone Caster took several minutes to answer her door, and her scowl softened into a smile upon recognizing Baron.

"You too?" she asked, beckoning him inside with a nod.

Baron blinked. "Me what?"

As he stepped inside, he saw her home had been completely emptied of furnishings. All that remained were a few personal trunks and a table of odds and ends.

"You're . . . moving?"

"Abandoning a sinking ship is what I would call it," Edith said, shaking her head. "Didn't you get a letter from Morton?"

Clearly seeing his bafflement, she brought him a letter written in a tall, slanted script. An invitation from Clarissa Morton for any willing Caster to join the woman at her estate in Northglen.

Baron's blood ran cold.

"Don't look at me like that," Edith snapped. "Weston Knowles might be going to Northglen, but I'm not. I'm leaving this whole sinking country. Been considering it for years, honestly; this is just the final push. I've been branded and berated, and once Morton gets on with whatever this is—some hopeless rebellion against a king—even the freedoms I have left will be taken. So I'm taking my leave."

She tossed a few items into the uppermost trunk and closed it with a decisive click .

"I hadn't imagined ..." Baron trailed off as he stared at the letter in his hand.

When he looked up, Edith's expression had softened once again. "What did you need from me, Baron?"

"My father's orchard. He thought it was cultivated by Stone Casters years ago, and I hoped you might renew the Cast."

Before he finished, she was already shaking her head. "Marcus visited me about this in the spring, a few days before he passed. I told him it's possible in theory , but it's far beyond my Casting capacity. Common folk hire me for house repairs and to craft statuary—though honestly, I've stopped taking orders larger than busts because anything else leaves me laid up in bed for days with my head pounding like death itself. So to imagine putting my hands on acres of land and ordering it to obey? I can already hear the soil laughing."

Baron knew well the feeling of inadequacy in magic. He forced back the memory of his father's death and said, "Perhaps working together with other Stone Casters, then."

Edith raised an eyebrow. "Marcus suggested that as well. Did he get the idea from you? I've never heard of a combined Casting. We're all solitary creatures, I thought."

"The idea came from Patriamere." That was an oversimplification, but Baron didn't feel the need to explain his inheritance. His mother had come from a bloodline of magic users in the neighboring country, and though there hadn't been a Caster in her direct line for several generations, her family had nevertheless passed down a set of priceless books containing information about magic.

The books were gone now. Just like his mother.

His stepmother was still alive, still out there somewhere. Baron had tried to find her after his father's death and accomplished nothing.

"You have family in Patriamere," Edith said with a nod. "That's where I'm headed. My advice? Do the same. Leave now, while you can."

Baron gave his thanks for her consideration, then helped her carry the trunks to a waiting carriage.

But he didn't leave. He couldn't. Not with his father's last wish repeating constantly in his mind. Baron had a duty in Loegria.

Once he and Leon returned to the manor, Martin met them at the door, delivering a folded parchment with a wax seal. This one was twice the thickness of a regular party invitation and as smooth as a sheet of ice. Even before registering the falcon stamped in wax, Baron knew it had come from the palace.

Idly, he rubbed the brand on his neck, feeling the indentations of an old wound long since healed. Then he broke the royal seal to read the invitation, though the details didn't matter—whatever the event, he would be required to present himself for approval to a court seat.

A ball. Princess Eliza's seventeenth birthday.

"We'll attend," Baron said. Somehow the words emerged in a normal tone despite the tightness of his throat.

Martin nodded.

Leon pursed his lips toward the parchment. "How many heirloom vases do you think a palace has?"

His brother's words seemed the perfect summation of Baron's dread.