The orchard carried a dim glow in the remnants of morningfog, 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.Naturalhad 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 beenbefore 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 furiousca-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 andHelen 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.”
