Chapter One
One Hundred and Sixty-Two Years Ago
Bone-tired after a day’s work,I stand at the foot of our quarter-mile drive, watching our carriage disappear into the distance. My husband, William, set me down here on the side of the road, pleading urgent business with the shifters.
“Hestia,”he said,“do try not to fret. I shall return home within the hour, provided there are no further complications.”
William is usually easier to manage, an unkind truth I would never voice. The world is difficult enough without a husband problem in addition to being a woman with strong magic.
Still…
I scowl at the endless stretch of stone ahead. “Would it have killed him to let me out at the door?”
Part of me longs to chase the carriage and slap him.
Yet, as always, I bowed my head in meek acknowledgement. It has become habit now, a survival tactic. I tell myself it is easier that way, and things could be worse; he might drink or be cruel.
My booted feet crunch on grey stone, my heavy leather workbag thumps against my thigh, and my left knee aches as I stride towards our late Georgian manor house. The late evening air smells of damp earth and coal smoke; mist hangs low over the fields, softening the outlines of the hedgerows.
The manor stands on the town’s outskirts, open fields stretching on every side. Rectangular and tastefully trimmed in white, it rises four storeys, its corridors lined with gilt-framed portraits and shelves where books sit two deep. My late father’s trade as a magical antiquarian stuffed the place with curiosities.
I reach the house and step inside. The door slams behind me with a familiar thud, shutting out the chill evening, and I catch the faint clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen and the murmur of voices in the parlour. The air smells of stew, baking bread, and beeswax polish. Dinner preparations are underway.
The scullery maid appears, balancing an empty bucket against her leg. She startles when she spots me, then straightens. I arrange my face into something that feels like a smile; the staff worry if I do not.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening, Ma’am,” she says, a little breathless. “I have drawn your water so you may wash before dinner.”
“Thank you, Sarah.”
She helps me remove my coat, hat, and gloves, her cold fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons, and I hurry to my room on the third floor, desperate to cleanse my skin.
I have spent the day in a filthy, windowless basement that reeked of mildew, stale air, and dust thick enough to chew.
In my bedroom, the tin basin still steams. I strip off my grimy dress and wash my hands, face, and neck; grey water drips from my elbows and spatters into the basin. No amount of scrubbing quite rids me of the grit, but the rose-scented soap offers a hint of comfort, cutting through the dirt embedded in my skin.
Already, I feel more myself.
Once dry, I slip into a fresh cotton gown and sweep my dark brown hair into its usual up-do, securing it with the plain tortoiseshell comb I have had for years.
Outside, I hear hooves clattering on stone and glimpse, through the wavering glass, a dilapidated carriage followed by a dozen riders winding up the drive towards the front doors. Lanterns bob, throwing yellow light over mud-splashed boots and harness.
“What on earth is going on?” I mutter. “Who arrives at this hour?”
When they dismount, they glance about furtively. One man’s eyes catch the light, and his eyes glow.Beast shine.My mind blanks for half a heartbeat, and for a moment I cannot breathe.
The Shifters have come to our home.
To call at the house so near dinner, just before dusk, is highly uncouth; it simply is not done. Even from up here, Ihear the maid greeting them at the door. I check my reflection. My hazel eyes are red-rimmed and sore. I tut, straighten my dress and sweep into the corridor.
I stomp downstairs, pause on the first-floor landing to steady my temper and lean over the polished bannister.
The shifters crowd the hallway below, bringing with them dirty boots, low voices, and the faint stink of leather, musk, unwashed men and—dare I admit it—wet dog.
As I prepare to descend the final flight, a shimmer ofmymagic appears. A scrap of paper materialises in the air, flutters like a leaf, and settles in my palm, warm from the spell. Only my family can use my magic to send messages this way; one glance at the handwriting tells me it is William’s.
My dearest Hestia,
