Chapter 1
The Orator stood outside the ornate ivory gates at Sinclair Estates, checking his pocket watch with the rapid tap of his foot. He muttered under his breath, cursing the Prime Minister for his own tardiness. The pale and tan pebbles beneath his leather shoes glistened in the morning light. They crunched under his step as he hastily slipped between the gates as it elegantly opened itself.
The hydrangea lined pathway showed off vibrant year round blooms, despite the climate in northern England. Purple, blue, white, green and pink florals encased in vivid green leaves magically bound to never wither.
The two story white doors slipped open from one another, a silent invitation. The Orator didn’t hesitate to cross the threshold into the glittering marble foyer of the manor.
He had been an elected official, rubbing elbows with the Magical elite for nearly ten years, and still he never stopped marveling at the luxury the Sinclairs obtained, and hold onto.
One of the Sacred Seventeen families.
Their home boasted carved statues, fine marble, golden bannisters, ornate frames and a painted ceiling one could get lost in. The grand entry way ran the length of the house. On the far end sunlight poured through enormous glass paned doors, which stood open, leading to the balcony.
“Ambrose,” called the Orator, as the front door clicked shut behind him. His voice echoed across the hall. There came no reply.
He moved towards the balcony. The grand staircase to his left, marbled, like the rest of the floor with gilded golden railings, twisted to the floors above.
“Orator Moon.”
The Orator turned. The Premier came jogging down the stairs. Life in his step.
“Ambrose,” said Moon. “Thought you might be on the balcony enjoying a morning cigar. Apologies for my tardiness, you know how hard it is to meet with the Prime Minister right now. I have a better chance of an audience with King George himself.”
Ambrose shook his head. “You mean Elizabeth?”
“Old habits,” huffed Moon.
Ambrose laughed. “No need to apologize, old chap.”
Ambrose spoke with London high society ease. As all Sacred Seventeen did.
Ambrose Sinclair was younger than the Orator. Which was odd for a Premier. Premiers were typically wartime generals with the most battle experience, the highest record of duel wins, men in their sixties. But Ambrose had just turned forty five, his youngest daughter in her final years of schooling.
She was a topic of discussion Ambrose had forbidden. His daughters memory charm skills would make her a great asset in the war, if harnessed properly perhaps she could end it all together. But truthfully the Orator was far too frightened to ever bring the idea up again. He may have the highest ranking office in the Magical world as The Orator, but the Sinclairs had Pureblood. Ancient and unbreakable magic ran through their veins. And while Moon was welcomed into their fold as their worldly leader, he was no fool. Ambrose could snap him in half with a blink.
And would proudly do so for his children.
The Premier was unyielding in keeping his children away from the war. Though, Moon couldn’t blame him, after what happened to his firstborn. Still, he wondered. . . The Witch would be twenty-one soon. An adult in their world. Perhaps she could make the decision on her own.
Regardless of his young age, Ambrose won the Magical Militia with a landslide vote. Every year. Ambrose Sinclair had a knack for leading the Magicals. They rallied behind his speeches and swooned over his tomcat smile. And now, more than ever, when the Orators Office found themselves entangled in a human war, Ambrose was needed.
The Orator straightened. “I’m here to discuss the events of last night.”
Ambrose’s eyes darted to the balcony, he was silent for a moment, contemplating, and then chose to answer.
Through the ornate glass doors was a lavish stone balcony that expanded over The Gardens, which, like the hydrangeas out front, were enchanted with everlasting and endless life. The balcony was suited with terraces and plants, soft plush furniture and a sunrise view.
And Maeve Sinclair herself.
Ambrose’s youngest sat sipping tea in an ivory and sapphire blue tea cup, well aware her father knew she was there and listening intently to their political strategy. Maeve had never expressed a personal interest in the war, or politics, but she understood the value of knowledge. Information. The potential for the upper hand. All were as valuable as her own Magic.
She placed the dainty bit of porcelain on it’s matching saucer. The smell of her favorite tea as intoxicating as ever.
The sunrise over Sinclair Estates could have been award-winning in Maeve’s opinion. Blue and violet light danced across the vast gardens.
Endless summer, the servants called it.
But summer was ending in the human world, where seasons still prevailed. And Autumn was calling, beckoning students back to their studies. And calling Maeve back to Vaukore, the most ancient and prestigious Magical academy. Only the best and the brightest were admitted after their eighteenth birthday.
