“Your magic is messy,” Thorven agreed. “Abberwyn folks remember the history books better than they let on. They remember the Great Silence—fifty years back, when the mines collapsed?”
I paused. “I thought that was a structural failure.”
“That’s the official story.” Thorven’s green eyes narrowed, scanning the hazy glass roof of the conservatory. “Truth is, a group of mages tried to Silence the mountain’s groaning. Tried to hush the earth instead of listening to the warning.” He lookedat me, his expression unreadable. “When you stop a scream, sometimes you trap the pressure inside until it blows. That’s what they’re afraid of. You bottling things up until there’s an explosion.”
A chill walked up my spine.
“But you didn’t bottle him up,” Olin noted, pointing a trembling finger at Rusty, who was now happily chewing on a begonia leaf. “He looks... lighter.”
“Because I didn’t silence him,” I said softly, staring at the spot where the oily shimmer had been. “I think I just broke the muzzle.”
Thorven grunted, a sound that might have been approval. “Whatever you did, keep doing it. But keep your eyes open. This rot in the manor, it’s got a flavor to it now.” He turned to Olin. “Get a broom, man. The place looks like a wyrm’s breakfast.”
As Olin scrambled to obey, Thorven cast one last look at me, his voice dropping low. “And maybe get those arms bandaged before the Lord sees you. He’s in a mood today. I think I’ve heard the piano at dawn, and the bloody house is locking doors just for the fun of it.”
“Stay close to the wall, little one.” I ushered Tessaly past the looming alcoves of the corridor leading back to the main hall, my body a shield between her and the shadows. Beside me,Thorven walked with his hand hovering near the heavy iron key-ring at his belt, his eyes darting to the stone plinths.
We passed the Serpent sentinel, its stone scales glistening with an unnatural sheen of moisture, coiled tight. It didn’t move, though I could have sworn its eyes tracked the mud I trailed on the pristine floor.
“I don’t like the big cat,” Tessaly whispered, pressing a dirt-smudged fist into her mouth.
“Neither do I,” Thorven grunted.
We neared the second alcove. The Leonine sentinel sat there, a monstrosity of grey marble and furred muscle. Its mane was half-stone, half-coarse hair that bristled as we approached.
I tensed, my magic rising sluggishly in response to the threat. “Just keep walking. Don’t look it in the eye.”
We were abreast of it when a roar shook the dust from the ceiling sconces. The Sentinel launched itself from the plinth, aiming straight for my throat.
Move.The command died in my throat.
The beast slammed into substantial nothingness inches from my nose, with a loudcrack.
The impact sent a tremor through the floorboards so violent I lost my footing. It wasn’t my magic. It was the air itself. The manor groaned, the timber and stone screaming with the effort of holding back its own guardian.
The Sentinel hung suspended in mid-air, pressed against the invisible barrier, its claws scrabbling against the empty space. It whined—a pathetic sound that curdled in my gut—before anunseen force shoved it backward. It skidded across the stone and collapsed back into its alcove, those eyes fixed on me.
“That’s it,” Thorven snarled, stepping in front of me, though the danger had passed. “I’m calling him. This has gone too far.”
“You will do no such thing.” My voice shook, and I hated it. I grabbed his sleeve, leaving a smear of potting soil on the leather. “Fenrik’s barely holding the curse back as it is.”
“It almost took your head off, lady! If the house hadn’t—“
“But the housedid,“ I said, though my heart was hammering. “The manor handled it.”
“Handled it?” Thorven gestured wildly at the cowering beast. “It’s a bloody miracle you aren’t lunch.”
“Language, Mr. Hearthcleft. There is a child present.”
We both jumped. Mrs. Crane materialized from the shadows of a door, her black dress immaculate, her silver chatelaine chiming softly with her steps. She looked at the whimpering Sentinel, then at the mud on the floor, and finally at my bleeding arms. She merely sighed.
“We were taking young Tessaly here for something sweet, Mrs. Crane,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the mess.
“Take the child to the kitchen, Thorven,” she said. “We have ginger biscuits. And keep her away from the scullery; the mop bucket is feeling temperamental.”
Thorven opened his mouth, looked at Mrs. Crane’s expression, and wisely shut it. He ushered a wide-eyed Tessaly away, casting one last worried glance over his shoulder at me.
Mrs. Crane stepped into my personal space, her blue eyes scanning my face. Before I could explain, she took my wrist in a grip that was surprisingly gentle. She pulled a clean handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the blood welling from the scratches on my forearm.
