That night, I lie awake for a long while, thoughts oscillating between my worries over the oath and a dull, aching sadness about my uncle and cousin. I hoped, more than anything, to find family here. But in all my fantasies, they were worlds apart from Alistair and Mikhail.


    And it’s all thanks to Hodge that they are here right now instead of my parents.


    “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him,” I whisper over and over to the darkness, as though it might answer back. And this time… I can’t stop it. Tears slide down my cheeks, dampening the roots of my hair, and soon, I’m muffling sobs with my pillow so that Alistair and Mikhail don’t hear.


    The words echo in my mind until I fall asleep.


    When Prunella knocks on my door to announce breakfast, I drag myself up and glance outside. The bedroom I chose faces the hilly grounds behind the manor, which are currently so thick with mist that I can’t even make out the sea in the distance. It’s as though all the color has been leached from the world, leaving behind a vast veil of gray.


    I change quickly, then go downstairs.


    I’m nearly to the dining room when I hear a noise from my father’s den. Peeking through the crack in the door, I see Alistair rummaging through a desk drawer.


    I throw open the door, which has the desired effect. Alistair jumps back and hits his head on a dusty lampshade behind him.


    “Good morning,” he says stiffly, brushing the dust from his hair. “Did you sleep well?”


    “What are you doing?”


    “I’m looking for a key to the chest,” says Alistair, gesturing to the chest behind the desk. “You don’t happen to know where it is?”


    I shake my head slowly. Strange. The chest was unlocked when I first arrived. “What do you want out of it?”


    “I’m looking for your mother’s journal actually,” says Alistair. “I know Wendy kept one, and I thought it would be nice to read—for sentimental purposes, of course. You haven’t come across it?”


    “Nope,” I lie, though this reminds me that I dropped it in the cellar after nearly becoming plant food. Alistair has already taken my parents’ bedroom. He isn’t getting my mother’s journal too. “But that chest was open when I was in here the other day.”


    Alistair fixes me with a stern look. “Riley, I can assure you that I am not as gullible as my son. And I would appreciate it if you would stop telling him ghost stories. He nearly had Prunella move all his things to another bedroom before I talked some sense into him.”


    With that, Alistair leaves the room.


    Gritting my teeth, I follow him into the dining room, where Mikhail is already seated at the far end of a long oak table. While Alistair joins his son at the head of the table, I sit at the opposite end and cross my arms, silently fuming.


    Prunella enters carrying a tray with three plates.


    “Thank you,” I say as Prunella hands me a plate. Runny eggs and blood sausage.


    Just then, a mound of dust scuttles across the dining room floor. Alistair raises a hand and, with a spark of purple, it’s gone, a trail of dust left in its wake.


    “Prunella, you really must do something about those wretched things,” says Alistair, throwing a disgusted look at our surroundings. “The infestation won’t clear up until this place has had a proper clean.”


    “What are they?” I ask.


    “Dust mutts,” says Alistair. “They’re fond of causing mischief but are otherwise harmless.” He waves a dismissive hand, then finishes his breakfast quickly and stands. “I’m off to the Council. Riley, you remember your magic lesson this morning with Horsewood?”


    My stomach jerks. I try to ignore the way Mikhail’s lips curve into a smirk.


    ***


    After breakfast, I leave the manor for my magic lesson. As I pass the large willow tree, I again hear the faint echo of wind chimes. I stop and examine the tree. I could’ve sworn that two eyes like dark puddles just appeared deep within the trunk. And with my gaze focused on the spot, I can make out the faint outline of a narrow head.


    The dark eyes blink, flashing eyelids made of bark. This time, I’m sure of what I saw. Tentatively, I close in, reaching out to—


    “Hands off!”


    With a yelp, I recoil as though I’d been shocked.


    A creature emerges from the trunk. It’s short, with a green body and a mop of thick matted leafy hair, like the vines of the willow tree.


    “You can’t just go around poking people in the face!” it says in a high-pitched voice that rings through the air.


    “Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was, um, in that tree…” I tilt my head. And then before I can stop myself, I say, “You don’t look like a person.”


    The creature narrows its eyes.


    I gulp. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude—”


    “I’m a dryad,” it drawls.


    “Ah.” I stare blankly. “And, um, what are you doing here?”


    “I live here.” The dryad pats the tree with a dirty, clawed hand.


    My forehead rises. “In the tree?”


    “Of course,” it says, with a tone that implies this was a stupid question. “The life of a dryad is tethered to its tree.”


    “So… you can’t leave?” I ask. “Like ever?”


    “No. My spirit is attached to this tree,” says the creature, gazing fondly at it. “If I ever left, it would die. As would I.”


    “Do you have a name?”


    “Tilly. I already know who you are,” it adds, when I open my mouth. “I’ve been watching you.”


    I blink, unnerved. “Oh, erm…”


    “And if you don’t get a move on, you’re going to be late to magic lessons,” say Tilly.


    I curse and sprint for the telehub, glancing at my watch as I go. It’s nearly ten o’clock, and Horsewood doesn’t strike me as the patient type. It isn’t until I’m stepping into a portal that I wonder how Tilly knew where I was going. Can dryads read minds?


    Inside Wingate Castle, I run down a number of labyrinthine corridors and stairwells, desperately trying to recall the path that Waldon and I took the day before.


    Nearly ten minutes and several wrong turns later, I finally find it. When I open the door, Alpheus Horsewood is seated at the table, fingers steepled in front of him.


    “Do you have a problem with punctuality?” asks Horsewood, without looking up.


    “I—sorry,” I pant. “Won’t happen again.”


    Horsewood finally turns to look at me, surveying me beneath his bushy brows. “Kindly ensure it doesn’t. I’m a busy man.” I nod. Horsewood clears his throat. “Good. We may begin at last. Sit down.”


    I sit across from him and clasp my hands together to stop their trembling.


    “I see that you are already wearing a signet ring,” says Horsewood. “Has someone explained to you its significance?”


    I shake my head.


    “Well, you see, magic is the art of drawing on the magical energy that exists far beneath Aurelia’s surface and manipulating it in a way that achieves the desired ends of the user. A signet ring serves as a necessary conduit for channeling that energy. The stone that witches use is the amethyst crystal.” He gestures to my ring. “It allows us to conjure and control inanimate objects by use of purple magic. The other three magical orders use different stones.”This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    “Why?”


    “Because their magic is different,” says Horsewood. “The ability to perform certain magic depends on the presence of a special gene, unique to each order. Werewolves have the power to physically influence living beings through green magic. This is referred to as ‘manipulation.’ Vampires can influence emotions through blue magic, called ‘projection.’ And harpies control air through yellow magic, known as ‘aeromancy.’”


    “So… witches can’t perform any of those spells?”


    “Correct,” says Horsewood. “Without the right gene, no amount of study or practice would enable witches to manipulate living bodies like werewolves can or emotions like vampires can. Just as neither of those orders can conjure something from nothing like we can.”


    “What sort of things can witches conjure?”


    “It’s easier to go over what cannot be conjured,” says Horsewood. “Aside from Aurelian currency, there are two limitations. We cannot conjure anything that’s alive nor anything imbued with a magical property. Make sense?”


    “Yes.”


    “Good. Now, before we begin, there’s one more thing we ought to discuss,” says Horsewood. “You might have noticed by now that witches typically attract magical partners, called familiars. This usually happens when you’re a teenager, but can occur at any point in a witch’s life. For some, it may not happen at all, though this is rare. I presume you do not have a familiar yet?”


    I shake my head. “Where do I find one?”


    Horsewood raises a thick brow. “You do not find it. It finds you.”


    “Oh.” Interesting. “Well, what do they look like?”


    “A familiar comes in the form of a firedrake. They are a breed of dragon,” Horsewood says. Then, upon seeing my face, he clarifies, “Small dragons. It’s a special breed.”


    My mind goes to the strange dragonlike birds I’ve seen around. Those must be familiars.


    “You see, through something called impression, where a familiar tastes your blood and vice versa, a familiar establishes a permanent bond with their chosen witch, tying its own life to theirs. It’s this bond that gives familiars a telepathic connection with their partner, so that they can almost always find their witch—even spy for them.”


    I gape at him. “How does that work?”


    “With a special spell,” says Horsewood. “It allows a witch to see through the eyes of their familiar, so long as they are within a certain proximity.”


    “What else can they do?” I ask.


    “Well, aside from running errands for their witch and assisting with complicated spells, familiars also hold mild healing powers that can help to restore their partner’s strength—it’s particularly effective against the ill effects of magic use. They’re also prized shapeshifters that can assume most animal forms. You’ll find they are quite coveted in Aurelia.”


    “Where’s your familiar?” I ask, looking around the room.


    “Sleeping, probably,” says Horsewood, his lip twitching. “Familiars aren’t allowed inside public places like schools and businesses, except in private offices.” I open my mouth, but Horsewood holds up a hand. “We can discuss familiars in greater depth once you’ve bonded with one. For now, we have a lot to go over.


    “We’ll start with Class I spells,” says Horsewood. “This is beginner magic. Once you’ve mastered that, we will move on to Class I.”


    “How many classes are there?”


    “Five,” said Horsewood. “Each progressing in the level of difficulty. Class One spells involve manipulating existing objects. Class Two involves conjuring or summoning tangible objects, and Class Three involves conjuring energy sources, such as fire, light, and energy shields. Class Four and Five spells are almost entirely combative in nature and are extremely complex. It’s unlikely we’ll get to those anytime soon.”


    I rub my sweaty palms on my pants. What will Horsewood do when he realizes I can’t do magic? Will he assume something went wrong with the oath?


    “Now, magical prowess comes from three things—knowledge, practice, and a controlled mind. This last one is imperative. You can study the art to your heart’s content, but if you are unable to control your emotions, you will find yourself unable to control your magic.”


    With that, Horsewood places a pencil in the center of the table and motions for me to rise.


    I stand up, my trembling legs barely supporting me. Perhaps if I fuss enough, they might allow me to live out my life on the island with the Human Order.


    “Now, with your mind, I want you to tell this pencil to move,” says Horsewood. “The word you are looking for is motus.”


    “Am I supposed to say it aloud?”


    “For now,” said Horsewood. “While you are learning, it will help you focus your attention. In time, you’ll find that verbal diction is not necessary, as you can achieve the same results by merely thinking the spell in your mind.”


    “Motus,” I say.


    As expected, nothing happens.


    “That’s all right,” says Horsewood. “As I said before, magic requires focus and control. Try again, with more authority this time. Do not break eye contact.”


    “Motus.”


    Once again, nothing.


    “As you’re saying the spell, are you also believing that it will work?” Horsewood asks.


    No, because I’m a fraud. “Um. Sort of.”


    “‘Sort of’ isn’t enough. Belief is just as vital as intent where magic is concerned,” says Horsewood. “Let’s try something else. Close your eyes.”


    I do as directed.


    “Take a moment to clear your mind of any feelings of doubt. Fill it instead with an image of the pencil moving into the air, around the room, wherever you direct it.”


    I attempt to trick myself into believing I’m a witch. My staying in Aurelia depends on it, after all. I wish I had some way to fake it, just once.


    “Now, open your eyes and repeat after me: I am a super powerful witch, and I can fly this pen out of the ditch.”


    I fight the urge to roll my eyes. In a barely audible voice, I repeat the stupid children’s mantra.


    “Excellent, let’s try again.”


    I glare at the pencil. “Motus!”


    Nothing.


    “Why don’t you try touching the pencil?” suggests Horsewood. “Feel the wood in your hands—establish some connection with the object.”


    Feeling stupid, I do as I’m told and pick up the pencil, quelling the urge to snap it.


    “Good. Now try again.”


    “Motus,” I say for the fourth time. Then a fifth. A sixth. The only thing that happens is my eyes begin to water. I blink, rubbing at them.


    Finally, Horsewood sighs. “Just give it time. Magic is difficult. It’s an art, and it takes an enormous amount of both knowledge and practice to master. It is not as simple as merely saying a spell or waving a hand.” He takes out a folded note and hands it to me. “Please give this to your cousin. It’s for his next lesson.”


    I pocket it. “You’re giving Mikhail magic lessons too?”


    “In a sense,” says Horsewood. “As head of the guardians, I’ve been working to prepare Mikhail for his upcoming induction as the Witch Guardian.”


    “What’s that?” I ask.


    “They didn’t tell you?” asks Horsewood. “I’m speaking of the Guardian’s Legacy, of course, which has existed in Aurelia for centuries. There’s a chosen guardian for every order, and the legacy continues down a family line. It’s been in the James family for some time. The title is an honor.” He pauses. “Your father was the last guardian for the Witch Order. Mikhail will become the next when he attains the age of fifteen in a matter of weeks. He’s confirmed that he’s getting the dreams. We’ve been priming him for the role so that he’ll be ready to begin his duties immediately.”


    I think back to when Waldon told me about my father being a different type of agent for the Council. This must be what he meant.


    I bid Horsewood farewell and take the telehub back to Skeleton Grove. As I meander down Melody Lane, I anxiously twist my signet ring, trying in vain to ignore the dread roiling in my stomach. I’m sure Atticus will deport me if it’s discovered that I tricked the oath. When it’s discovered. After today’s disastrous lesson, I can’t help feeling it won’t be a long way off.


    A rustling noise yanks me from my thoughts. I glance sideways into the dense thicket. A bush quivers as something moves through it. I skid to a halt. Whatever is in there halts as well.


    When nothing jumps out, I continue walking. The rustling resumes, moving parallel with me through the thick patches of undergrowth. I freeze again, squinting into the forest, heart thumping. Through a sparse patch of foliage, I finally see it. A large snake with two green eyes that glow in the shadows.


    Sucking in a breath, I stand still as a statue, fearful of startling it. For a moment, it simply watches me. Then it slithers slowly toward me. Instinct takes over, and I bolt, sprinting as fast as I can the rest of the way. I’m wheezing by the time I reach the front steps.


    If only I didn’t have to pass through a forest full of hostile creatures every time I walk to and from the manor.


    Shouting breaks out inside the manor then, jolting me. I ease open the door, where I’m met with the pleasant sound of Alistair’s voice ringing through the house.


    “—you expect me to believe that the washer did this?” He’s livid.


    “I swear, sir. I put them in the wash as always, and when I came back, they were like that.”


    “These are my best clothes! I ought to fire you for this—”


    I follow the voices to the dining room, where I find Alistair, face purple, on one side of the table and Prunella on the other, in tears. Between them lies a bundle of clothes. No… wait. I look closer. Maybe they were clothes once, but they certainly aren’t anymore. Now they’re a pile of shredded and tattered rags.


    Expensive rags.


    Mikhail stands in the background, lips pressed tightly together, clearly trying hard not to laugh. His familiar, Drax, is perched on his shoulder. I eye it enviously.


    Alistair’s furious gaze fastens on me as the door closes with a snap. “You!” he blusters, rounding on me. “You did this.”


    “I—what?” I ask, bewildered by the accusation.


    “This!” he bellows, pointing at the pile of shredded clothes. “You wanted to get back at me for taking your parents’ old bedroom, didn’t you?”


    My skin grows hot. “I did not! I’ve been gone all morning. I just got back—”


    His eyes narrow. “You clearly did something to the washer before you left—cursed it or—”


    “I don’t even know where the stupid thing is!” I say, cutting him off. “And I couldn’t even levitate a pencil today, let alone curse a bloody washing machine.”


    Alistair takes several deep breaths through his nose as he studies my face.


    I cross my arms. “Ask Horsewood if you don’t believe me. I’m sure he’d love someone to vent to right about now.”


    Alistair huffs, turning again to Prunella. He jabs a finger at the pile of tatters. “Clean this mess up,” he orders, then marches from the room.


    Once he’s gone, Mikhail snorts. “You couldn’t levitate a pencil? I could do that before I was five.” He lowers his voice. “You know what that means, don’t you?” Mikhail sneers, before strutting toward the door. He’s halfway there when he trips over his own feet and falls.


    It’s my turn to snort. I pull the note from my pocket and drop it on the floor next to him. “From Horsewood.”


    Mikhail clutches it and grunts as he climbs back to his feet. He shoots me a dirty look and throws open the door.


    I step toward Prunella. “Let me help you with that.”


    Prunella brings over a bin, and I begin tossing in the scraps. A round silver pin in the mess catches my eye. It looks expensive. In my fury at Alistair, I deliberately throw it into the bin with the shreds.


    “I promise I didn’t do anything to the washer,” I say, hoping that Prunella doesn’t think I’m to blame for the trouble she’s in.


    “I know,” says Prunella. “He just… he… It’s no matter. I’m used to it.”


    The words spill out of me before I can stop them. “Why do you work for him?”


    Prunella looks at me. “I help support twin nieces back home.”


    “By home… you mean—” I wrack my brain for the name of the human settlement “—Phantom Island?”


    Prunella nods. “There’s a lot of poverty there. Not much in the way of employment.”


    I can only imagine how bad it must be if the best option is working for Alistair.


    ***


    I return upstairs and fall backward onto my bed, sighing heavily. Things aren’t going at all like I hoped. I thought I’d finally feel a sense of belonging in Aurelia. As it turns out, I’m just as much of an outsider here as I was at the community home.


    Still, there was one small satisfaction from today.


    I smile faintly, thinking of the mysteriously locked chest and Alistair’s destroyed suits. Whatever’s haunting the manor likes my uncle and cousin about as much as I do.