Thomas awoke to a dark room. The sun had gone down several hours ago, and the showman Mr. Leonard Whitcomb had gone just before sunset. As few as these hours had been, Thomas was glad to catch any sleep. With a yawn and a catlike stretch, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. As he came back to wakefulness, Whitcomb’s offer still rang through his head.

You seem to be a clever man…exceeded my expectations…hell of a lot more where that came from…

“No,” he said aloud, swatting away the idea as though it were a particularly tenacious fly. “I’m not his man. I won’t do it.”

He reached for the embroidered shawl draped over the chair in his room and wrapped it around his shoulders. The shawl had been his mother’s, and in all honesty, he was somewhat surprised it had been left behind. In nearly every memory he had of her, she was wearing this shawl. He pulled it tighter around him, not for warmth, but for comfort. He supposed it would give him the strength to stick to his decision.

Thomas thought back to a time when his mother was still with him. He was ten years old, all scraped knees and twigs in his hair. He had found a dead fledgling blackbird, fallen from its nest, and brought it inside, tears making streaks through the dust on his cheeks.

“Mama, is it dead?” he had asked, inconsolable.

His mother had examined the little bird gently, and confirmed that yes, the poor thing was dead. Thomas recalled stomping his foot with the injustice of it. “But it’s just a baby! Why is it dead? I want to bring it back!”

“Thomas,” she had explained, her voice calm as still water, as he always remembered it, “we may have great power, but there are some things which we must allow Nature to enforce. We cannot be stronger than Nature, no matter how badly we may wish to be.”

She had proposed that the two of them go to the little park just down the street, and there they went to bury the little bird. Thomas had even said a few words, though at ten, he could only come up with “he was a good little bird.” Hand in hand, they had walked back to their house, and Thomas shed a tear or two, and that was the end of it. That was the one rule Martha had ever laid down for him in regards to his abilities. Well, that and “try not to destroy the house”. Other than that, she had encouraged her son to explore what he could do, experiment, and learn how to control the power coursing through his veins.

And then one day she was gone.

Thomas still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. He had come home from the market one afternoon four years ago to find that she had just vanished. No note, no sign of a struggle, really. She just wasn’t home. The only sign that anything was amiss was that her shawl, which was forever wrapped around her thin shoulders, was draped over the back of the armchair. Thomas had tried enlisting the authorities to help him find her, but after a week’s search and Thomas’s inability to pay for any further inquiry into the matter, the hunt was given up. Thomas hadn’t known what to do, or where to start looking, and eventually just began to assume that she would return when she was ready. Perhaps she thought he needed some time to study his powers on his own, away from his mother’s influence. Perhaps it was all just some kind of test. Whatever it was, Thomas had started reading cards as a way to pay his upkeep a year after her disappearance, and had fallen into a bottle of brandy and something of a depression not long after.

A painful tightening in Thomas’s stomach brought him back to the present, and he realized with a frown that he hadn’t really eaten anything for most of the day. It was nine-thirty, by the clock on the bedroom wall. Surely there would be some pub open that would serve him. Of course, it would depend on what he had in the way of savings. He had been able to make rent just a week ago, which was a miracle in itself, but he had not had much in the way of customers of late. Mrs. Fryholm, his most regular visitor, had been bedridden with some kind of illness for the past two weeks, and so that had been two visits’ worth of pay that he had not had. She had, however, been thoughtful enough to send him word that she was ill, and he supposed he could not fault her for trying. Though some sort of apology pay would have been greatly appreciated.

Thomas went out into the front room, not even bothering to check the kitchen. He hadn’t had proper groceries in ages. Truth be told, Thomas Ashe was not particularly good at taking care of himself. He headed for the fireplace, taking a small wooden box off the mantel. He opened its hinged lid and thanked his lucky stars; three five-pound notes sat nestled inside. He took one out, stuffed it into his pocket, and shouldered on his jacket. As he headed for the door, he realized he hadn’t put shoes on; a moment later, his feet were covered, and his keys were in his jacket pocket. He locked up his flat and headed off into the night for the first time – and his first actual meal – in ages.

*

In the lead carriage of the show caravan, Leonard Whitcomb was feeling dreadfully foolish.

As the carriage ambled along, he couldn’t help but curse his arrogance and stupidity. If only he had been gentler, or more careful about the words he chose, perhaps Thomas Ashe would have agreed to his proposal. As it was, he was headed to his next show destination without a surefire moneymaker. He strongly hoped that the revenue generated from this engagement would be enough to cover expenses, or he would be in very hot water. His company knew that things were in rough shape, but Leonard couldn’t bear to tell them that the damage was worsening. There were far better traveling shows and far bigger names than Leonard A. Whitcomb’s, and much as he wished he could change that, he knew that it was a fruitless endeavor. Regardless, he prayed night and day that the winds of fortune would, at some point in the near future, blow in his direction, but in truth, he was more concerned with the well-being and morale of his company than his own.

[Skipping a little bit]

He reached into his shirt and tugged on a silver chain, and a small, round locket slipped over the collar of his shirt. He chewed his lip; rare was the occasion that he actually opened that locket anymore. And yet…one brief glance couldn’t hurt too badly, could it? After all, the grouchy young fortune teller had been the one to give him that itch. Leonard just had to scratch it, to relieve the pain. With a sigh of resolve, Leonard pressed the latch, opening the locket. The image of the tarot card with the man and woman tangled in each other’s arms darted through his memory. Unbidden, his imagination transformed the figures on the card’s illustration to a younger version of himself – rust-haired, bright-eyed, and impossibly happy – and a young woman with curls the warm, rich color of honey; the young woman whose faded portrait resided in his locket. Leonard shook his head, swallowing the lump that had appeared in his throat, and closed the locket with a snap.

Before the tears could well in his eyes, Leonard decided to distract himself. Despite the jolting and rumbling of the carriage, he took out a fountain pen and paper. Chewing on the knuckle of his left forefinger, he chose his words and wrote.

Dear Mr. Ashe,

I offer you my sincerest apologies for my insensitivity today. I did not intend to offend you in any way, nor was I hoping to make an enemy of you. You seem a decent young man, and I am heartily sorry for any injury I may have done you. I do hope you will reconsider my—

“I forgot to pay him,” Leonard interrupted his own train of thought, looking up from the paper. “I forgot to pay him!” He shot up from his seat, but nearly fell over as the carriage wheels dipped into a rut in the road. Leonard threw open the door in the back and stuck his head out.

“Stop! Hal, stop the wagon!”

The vehicle lurched to a stop, nearly throwing Leonard into the dusty road. Hal’s balding pate appeared around the side of the wagon and he stood, fists resting on his crooked hips as he regarded Leonard.

“Now what inna name a’ Jeezus Fuckin’ Christ is you near throwin’ yaself in frunna da horses for?”

Leonard, of course, was unfazed by his apparent near-death experience. He hopped off the step of the wagon, billfold and papers in hand. He secured his hat atop his curls. “I have to go back. Carry on to London – I shouldn’t be too long. I’ll catch up with you there.”

Hal regarded him with a bewildered look. “Wot you runnin’ off back ‘ere for?”

Leonard had already started off down the road in determined strides. “For my star attraction!”

*

The feeling of a full belly was one that Thomas had sorely missed. After a short while of wandering through the streets of downtown Leicester in the failing light, dodging the drunks who had gotten started early and the street vendors who were trying to make their last desperate sales of the day, he had come across a little hole-in-the-wall pub. The clientele seemed reasonably degenerate – nothing Thomas couldn’t ignore – and the place didn’t stink too horribly. Ordering a drink and a hot meal, he had settled into a corner. With a whispered word, he concealed himself from the crowd, but not from the pub’s staff; it was a trick he had figured out to prevent unwanted company but still get anything he needed. It was a trick that had taken some time to perfect, but once he had, it worked like a charm every time. He ate his meal in silence and in peace, and once he had taken his fill and rested off the ale, he shrugged on his coat and headed for home. By the time he left, the lamps had been lit and the sky was almost all navy blue, the streets quiet. The walk back to his flat was not a long one, and Thomas could feel his eyelids beginning to droop as he approached the street-level door. As he fished his key from his pocket, he heard the soft rustle of feathers. Sobering, he straightened up and looked around, his eyes eventually discovering a large white barn owl seated atop the lamppost across the street.

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” Thomas asked the owl.

The owl squawked at him, its wings stirring and settling against its back.

“Stupid owl,” Thomas muttered, turning and unlocking his door. He had barely gotten his foot over the threshold when running footsteps interrupted him again.

“Mr. Ashe!”

Thomas gritted his teeth to keep from growling in impatience, and turned to discover the showman, Leonard Whitcomb, racing towards him. There were no carriages or horses in sight, and Thomas furrowed his brow. “Before you ask,” Leonard began, holding up a hand as he gasped for breath, “I am alone. I… walked back – ran the last bit of road, here. I wanted to…to apologize. I was…terribly rude earlier, and on top of that…I forgot to pay you for your services.”

Thomas sighed, trying to temper his frustration. “Mr. Whitcomb, I assure you that isn’t necess—”

“Please,” Leonard interjected. “I want to. I understand what it’s like, living on shallow pockets. I have the means right now to assist you, so do me a favor and allow me to pay you.”

After chewing on his lip for a moment, Thomas groaned and gestured for Leonard to follow. “Come on, let’s go up. But don’t expect tea and biscuits when we get inside.”

Together, they trudged up the dark staircase, lit by a single dingy gas lamp. The closer they got to the flat, the more unsettled Thomas felt. He could sense a change in the energy up here, a disturbance of the usually calm and familiar atmosphere. Something was wrong; he just wasn’t sure what yet.

The moment Thomas’s hand touched the doorknob to slide the key into the lock, he felt a sharp sting against his fingers, like the slight shock of static electricity. This was very strange indeed, and nothing he had experienced before. Swallowing his nerves, he turned the key and opened the door, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

The place had been torn apart from top to bottom. While it had been something of a mess when Thomas left, it now looked as though a herd of wildebeest had stampeded through the rooms. Papers and books lay strewn across the floor, some pages torn. Several jars of herbs had been smashed, their contents scattered about as though someone had rifled through them. The things that were normally on the mantelpiece – the one place in the flat that was more or less always clean – were now in disrupted piles, his box upturned on the floor, but the few pound notes that he kept inside it were there as well. Whoever had come through here wasn’t looking for money, but he was looking for something.

White-faced and sick to his stomach, Thomas could hardly bring himself to move. This was the worst kind of violation. Someone had been inside his home, his sanctuary. The place where his mother had raised him, and where he had stayed in the hopes that she would reappear someday. That thought reminded him of something, and with a sudden burst of frantic energy, Thomas hurried for his bedroom. Leonard called after him, but his cries fell on deaf ears. Thomas had a horrible feeling he knew what the thief might have been searching for, if it hadn’t been money. He reached his bedroom and, not giving two shits whether or not anyone saw, blazed up his hand in green flame to light the room. Sure enough, his fears were confirmed.

His mother’s shawl was gone.

Thomas could have sworn his heart stopped in that moment. Had she been here? No, it couldn’t be; she’d never leave the house in such a state. Whoever had taken it was trying to send a message. Thomas was sure of it.

Before he could clear his head and think rationally, Leonard called out again.

“Thomas? I think you need to see this.”

With a flick of his wrist, the flames went out, and in several determined strides, Thomas was back out in the main room, where Leonard stood, staring down at the table Thomas used for card readings. “What do you think this means? I can’t even make out real letters…”

But Thomas could. The words were clear as day, as though they had been carved into the wood by an expert. Could they have been concealed by magic, as Thomas occasionally concealed himself? Whatever it was, he could not ignore the message.

COME TO THE WARREN. SWEAR TO THE GYNULLIAD.

PLEDGE TO US AND YOUR MOTHER MAY RETURN TO YOU.

“I…I don’t know what this means,” Thomas whispered, digesting the demand.

“If someone is after you, Mr. Ashe, I can’t say I recommend staying here,” Leonard suggested. “It would weigh terribly on my conscience if anything were to happen to you.”

Thomas chewed his knuckle, staring at the words on the table. “I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Whitcomb, but it isn’t really your concern.” What on earth was the Gynulliad? And the only thing he could think of when reading “the Warren” was rabbits, and he was certain rabbits hadn’t broken into his flat and destroyed the place.

“Be that as it may,” Leonard’s voice cut through his thoughts, crisp as a knife, “I would like to offer my services in protecting you. If you do not wish to have a part in my company, I will not require you to, as long as you find your own meals and lend the occasional hand with the horses. Either way, I am now party to your misfortune, and it would be heartless of me to abandon you.”

Thomas thought. He needed to find out who had left this message, first and foremost. He had to find his mother now. The message suggested that she was alive, and if that was the case, he could not leave her in danger. He had to learn more about the Gynulliad and the Warren, and hopefully find his way to them before it was too late – though in truth, he hadn’t the slightest idea when “too late” would be.

“I’ll come with you,” Thomas decided. “But I come on the condition that my stay is voluntary, and should I decide at any time to leave, I may do so freely.”

Leonard nodded. “Of course, Mr. Ashe. You’re my friend, not my captive.”

Thomas gave him a guarded look. “Yes, well, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. Let me gather my things – or rather, the things that haven’t been smashed – and we’ll go.”

Outside, a barn owl launched itself from the lamp post, winging off into the night.

1889, Leicester, United Kingdom

“Get a move on, boys! We’ve got to be on our way to London before nightfall, or we’ll be late for our engagement!” barked the esteemed showman Leonard A. Whitcomb as his crew packed up their signage and properties, loading them into the back of the show’s cargo coach. His tall hat crowned his brown curls, untouched by age though he was pushing forty. As he oversaw the strike of his company’s show pieces, he stroked his moustache pensively. The Leicester engagement had been but a preview of what wonders they would work in London. However, Whitcomb still had that gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach that suggested that there was something missing. His show was not complete.

He recalled, then, that upon their entry into Leicester two days earlier, he had seen a most curious sign hanging outside a door that was sandwiched between two proper shops. The sign read “Card Readings and Futures Revealed” in crude lettering, as though it had been painted hastily and by someone who was not a professional sign maker. Whitcomb was certain he could find it again. He strode over to the wagon, his long legs taking him there in just five fluid strides.

“Hal, keep an eye on things. I’ve a call to pay. I won’t be long,” Whitcomb instructed the head of his show crew, an aging man with a gold tooth and a sharp glint in his one good eye. Hal nodded as Whitcomb turned, heading off down the street. “And make sure this lot gets packed up quickly!”

It took a bit of navigating, but Leonard Whitcomb finally found that sign again. It had taken him no more than twenty minutes, and he was glad that they had taken the most central road through the town on their way in. He approached the door, and just as he opened it to go inside, he realized that it seemed much more like the entrance to a private residence than to an actual shop. But the sign was there, and neither vendor on either side seemed the type to reveal any kind of future, save for a future featuring an empty wallet.

With a breath of determination, Leonard mounted the steps up to the flat, hoping he was not mistaken in choosing this door. As he reached the top of the staircase, he saw that he was, in fact, correct; a small placard beside the door to the residence read “T. Ashe, Reader of Fortunes”. Leonard raised his hand and knocked with three sharp raps on the door. No answer came, and he knocked again. Leonard Whitcomb was not so proud as to wait upon an answer. He would demand one if he had to.

“I’m closed,” a voice called from inside the flat. The voice was youthful, but unquestionably male.

Well that seemed a bit surprising. A male spiritualist? Certainly, the movement had its fair share of male followers, but most, if not all, of the fortune-tellers Whitcomb knew of were women. The thought of a man seated behind a crystal ball was just…comical.

“Yes, sorry,” Leonard called back. “Please forgive the intrusion. My name is Leonard Whitcomb, and my traveling show is leaving the city tonight. I would be greatly obliged to you if I might squeeze in a private reading before we have to leave.”

There was silence, and Leonard half-expected no reply to come at all, but after a few moments, and the sound of objects falling to the floor, the door opened. A young man, barely older than twenty, stood in the threshold, wedging himself between the door and the frame. His black hair fell in his face, and his shirt collar was open to reveal a swathe of tan skin. He looked up at Leonard with dark, tired eyes.

“I take it you’re willing to pay?” the boy asked.

Leonard nodded, fishing his billfold, which was stuffed with the charity of the people of Leicester, out of his pocket. “Whatever you want. And there is the potential to make a hell of a lot more.”

The boy eyed him with suspicion, but after chewing his lip, he opened the door, stepping aside to usher Leonard in. The flat was a proper mess; books and papers were stacked on just about every piece of furniture. Shelves were so heavily-laden with bottles of various substances, both solid and liquid, that Leonard almost feared that they would drop off the walls. The only areas that were actually clear of detritus were a round table in the back corner and the seat of the armchair beside the fireplace.

“Excuse the mess,” the boy huffed, clearing some space to walk through to the round table. Leonard removed his hat, looking around. The place looked like the kind of flat a witch might live in: dried herbs and plants were hung and scattered about. Unlit candles were perched throughout the room. Crystals of various colors hung on strings and caught the light from the one dingy window. Leonard could have sworn he even saw a jar with some kind of preserved animal inside. “Please, come have a seat,” the boy encouraged him, pulling out one of the chairs at the round table. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

Leonard sat, placing his hat in his lap. He smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand, making sure not a strand was out of place. He could hear the boy rummaging in the next room, probably his bedroom. It had to be small. The whole flat was small, and not just on account of the clutter. Less than a minute later, the boy reappeared, an object wrapped in an embroidered scarf in his hand. He sat down opposite from Leonard and began to unwind the scarf, but paused for a second.

“Oh, sorry. I’m Thomas,” he finally introduced himself, reaching across the table to shake Leonard’s hand. “Thomas Ashe. It has been quite a long time since I’ve had visitors.”

He placed the scarf over the back of his chair. In his hands was a deck of tarot cards that appeared to be hand-painted and rather old. The cards themselves were about the size of Thomas’s palm, and he shuffled them with the dexterity of someone who was intimately familiar with their size and shape. He cut the deck, placing the two uneven portions of it face down on the table. “Choose one,” he instructed Leonard.

Leonard reached out, taking calm, measured breaths. He knew how this worked: he’d been in palmistry and tarot parlors before. He chose the taller of the two stacks, and Thomas slid the shorter to the side before picking up the remaining stack. He spread the cards out in an arc. “Choose four cards,” Thomas explained, his eyes on the cards rather than Leonard, “but take your time. Do not choose randomly. Listen to your impulses.”

Leonard’s hand glided over the arc slowly, and one by one, he chose his four cards. The first, Thomas placed closest to Leonard. The other three, he arranged in a straight line in the order Leonard chose them. Once Leonard was finished, Thomas closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He opened his eyes, and as he revealed the first card, Thomas couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled forth from his chest.

“Is something funny?” Leonard asked, smiling.

“This,” Thomas replied, trying to compose himself as he touched the first card, “represents you. It’s called the Wheel of Fortune. It means you live in a state of constant change. Your luck and your circumstances are never exactly certain. The next card you chose indicates your past.” Thomas paused, taking a breath as he revealed the second card. The image depicted on it was of a man and a woman, entwined in each other’s arms, surrounded by flowers, but the image was upside-down. “The Lovers. But it’s inverted, which means there is some…unpleasantness in your love life. Perhaps a partner left you, or was unfaithful. Or both, even.” Leonard’s lips formed a tight line, and Thomas cleared his throat. “But let’s not dwell on the past, right? This is your present situation,” he continued, turning over the center card, which depicted a man holding two long branches. “The two of wands generally means that you have some options to consider. You’re making a plan, or considering some new direction for yourself.”

Leonard nodded in understanding. So far, this boy was good. His reading of the cards was right on target, but what he could not figure out was if Thomas was reading him, or if his understanding of the cards was transcending their face value. Truly, the boy knew these cards and their connotations well. The question was, was he also a master of decoding people?

As Thomas turned over the final card, the one to represent Leonard’s future, he sat back in his chair with a sigh. He cast his eyes toward the Heavens and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “What is it?” Leonard asked.

The card illustrated a young man with a satchel on his back and a walking stick in his hand, setting off on a road. Leonard recognized it as “The Fool”. Thomas stroked his fingertips over his cheek before resting his chin in his hand, deep in thought. “Mr. Whitcomb, it is my understanding that you have come here with a proposition.”

Leonard cocked his head slightly. Perhaps that was a fact the young man could have guessed easily enough, and yet somehow, Leonard had the feeling that this was no guess. “I suppose there’s no use in delaying the point,” he began, sitting forward in his chair. “I have come to see if you were the genuine article. You seem to be a clever man, and your way with the cards is…intriguing. You have exceeded my expectations in more ways than one, and I would like to offer you a position with my traveling show.”

Silence hung between them like a spider’s thread, tenuous and shivering. Thomas regarded Leonard with a strange look, like curiosity and disgust at war with one another. Finally, he gathered up the cards, placing the Fool on top, and wrapped the scarf around them once more. “While I appreciate your praise, Mr. Whitcomb, I am afraid I must decline your offer,” he said, his tone brisk and dismissive. “I understand you are in the market for a peddler of cheap illusions and tricks of the mind, and I can assure you in all sincerity that what I do is no trick.”

Leonard opened his mouth to argue, or to object, but Thomas stood and offered him his hand. “Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Whitcomb, but I must be getting to my other affairs, and you should attend to your circus. I understand they have finished packing and await your return.”

And with that, Leonard Whitcomb found himself standing in the hall of the flat, a door closed in his face, and the bitter tang of failure in his mouth.

*

Once the showman was gone from his flat and off into the dusk, Thomas took his deck of cards and flopped down onto his bed. He placed the deck on his chest, just breathing and staring up at the chipping ceiling. The cards hadn’t lied to him. Somewhere in his heart, he knew that somehow, their predilection would prove true. However, their version of truth was often muddy and uncertain, never to be taken at face value. For all he knew, he could end up crossing paths with Leonard Whitcomb again twenty years from now. Still, the thought of his card turning up stuck in his brain like a splinter. The Fool only turned up in readings Thomas performed for himself. It represented him, and he found a strong kinship with that young man, setting out into the world with little at his back but his few belongings. Of course, Thomas rarely left this flat, but the promise of new beginnings warmed his heart. In either case, his decision was made. He could not abide working for a con man who wanted to use him to dupe spiritualist enthusiasts. As it was, he hated indulging the few that found their way into his flat. They were all so soppy-eyed and willing to listen to whatever he felt like telling them. He was capable of so much more than tarot readings and fortune telling. Unfortunately, that was what paid the bills.

He raised his hand, watching as a green flame, like the light of a candle, flickered into life just above his index finger. He watched it dance and swell, the ghost of a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Holding the card up with his other hand, he ran the flame around its edges. As he intended, the card did not catch flame, and after a moment, Thomas blew out the emerald-green flame, placed the deck on the nightstand, rolled over, and promptly dozed off.

Nynia Penwyck hated waiting.

Imogen had tried everything in her power to help her mistress ease her frustration and relax while they awaited Alric’s return, but Nynia’s irritability knew no bounds.

“You were gone long enough,” Nynia snorted in derision as a white barn owl glided into her chamber in the Warren, where she and Imogen had spent the last several hours waiting. By the time Nynia looked up, the owl had become Alric, who dusted off his arms and picked a stray feather out of his hair.

“Forgive me for erring on the side of caution,” Alric grunted, flopping into the vacant armchair. “I wanted to make sure the boy received our message.”

Nynia sat forward in her chair, the sudden strain of concern tensing the muscles in her face. “Was he there after all? You didn’t engage him, did you?”

Alric held up a hand to steady her. “Easy, Nynia. Your Portent was correct; the boy was gone. I went through the house, left our note, and waited outside for him to return. Imogen? Be a love and fix me something with lots of alcohol in it.”

“And what did the whelp think of our little declaration?” Nynia asked, her eyes burning into Alric’s face.

“Questions, Nynia,” the man groaned, leaning back in the chair and rubbing at his temples. “Always so many questions. Can I not sit down for five minutes before being interrogated?”

Nynia’s eyes darkened, but she sat back. “It is my right, Alric. You know that.”

He sighed as Imogen handed him a glass, having mixed him something to drink. “Oh, I know. Don’t think for a moment that the knowledge has escaped me.”

“You’re becoming weak in your old age, Alric,” Nynia growled, though there was no real threat in her tone. “Perhaps, if it’s so taxing on your poor old body to use your Manifestation form, I should just find someone younger and allow you to retire.”

“Using my Manifestation isn’t what’s taxing,” Alric sighed, sipping his drink. “If you had to fly to Leicestershire and back, you’d be exhausted, too.”

“Speaking of which,” Imogen interjected, her smoky voice breaking the argument between the two of them as she reclined on the damask chaise, “leaving threats is all well and good, but the fact remains that Thomas Ashe is fast approaching his own Manifestation. If he does not respond to our demands as we hope he will, the time may be ripe to use more persuasive means.”

Nynia nodded, rising out of her chair and standing by the fireplace. “How did he respond, Alric? What did you see?”

Alric ran a hand over the pepper-grey stubble on his chin. “He came back to the flat not long after I’d gone through it. There was a man with him, a man I did not recognize. Poncy type, he seemed, or at least trying to be. The man suggested Thomas go with him – something about it not being safe around here if someone was after him. The boy seemed reluctant, but he agreed, and they left.”

Nynia cast narrowed eyes on him. “And was there any word of where they were headed, or what this man’s name was?”

“Not that I could tell,” Alric replied. “The conversation was short and to the point, I’m afraid.”

Nynia scowled in irritation and squeezed her hand into a fist. “We must find him somehow. We cannot let him escape.”

“Yes, but his Manifestation isn’t for another six months,” the man pointed out. “We have time to plan, time to strategize.”

“We do not have time! Every day, the power coursing through his veins grows stronger, harder to contain. If he could Mend a glass bottle at the age of four, I shudder to think what he might be capable of once he Manifests!”

The chamber fell silent for several long moments. The temperature of the room had flared with Nynia’s anger, and Alric found himself drawing a hand across his brow to wipe away a thin sheen of sweat. When he found his voice, he sighed. “Then what would you have us do?”

Nynia drew a deep breath, cooling her anger, and stepped away from the mantel to regard her two compatriots. “I think it is time we finally paid Martha Ashe a visit.”

*

The Warren was something of a damp, murky place as it was, but the holding cells were located in what had to be the dampest, murkiest section. The limestone walls were slick, and little stalactites pointed down like cream-colored teeth from the ceiling. This was not a place Nynia particularly enjoyed for its aesthetics, though she took a great deal of pleasure in meting out her justice on those that dwelled, for however long or short a time, in these cells.

For the past several months, however, one inmate had been left entirely alone. Nynia had not wanted to ignore Martha Ashe; she had simply been unable to decide what to do with her. Killing her would mean sacrificing a powerful bargaining chip. Torturing her would be a waste of time. Letting her go was out of the question. So Martha had sat in her cell while Nynia distracted herself with other matters instead of coming to a decision, until now.

“Martha Ashe,” Nynia grinned as she and her lieutenants approached the obsidian bars of Martha’s cell. “I must admit, it is quite a treat to see you on the other side of a cell door. You led us on quite the goose chase.”

Martha looked up, her grey eyes defiant despite the dark circles sagging beneath them. Her dark hair was a tangle, and her skin had lost some of its natural rich chestnut color and become dull and clammy instead. “Why do you come to me now, Nynia? I’ve sat here for almost three months. Surely your hounds aren’t so careless as to forget to inform you of my capture.”

“Of course not,” Nynia replied. “I’ve known that you have been my guest since you arrived. I’ve only been trying to decide what to do with you.”

“Do not mock me,” Martha growled. “You know what you want to do. You just enjoy tormenting me. And not only me – I have heard the things, the atrocities that have occurred in these very dungeons at your hands. Against your own kind.”

“It is my duty to uphold the Law of the Gynulliad!” Nynia snapped, lunging forward and grabbing the bars of Martha’s cell. A split second later, she staggered back, hissing in pain as she clutched her hands, cut by the sharp edges of the obsidian. Martha let out a mirthless chuckle.

“Upholding the Law by lording over your own people, by torturing them,” she sighed. “You should consider a move to {place}, you’ll fit right in.”

Nynia’s upper lip curled back in disgust. The muscle in her jaw twitched with her anger. “You had best curb your tongue, Martha Ashe,” she snarled, narrowing her eyes at her captive. “Your son’s flat was broken into tonight. I should hate to see any trouble befall him before his Manifestation… and with you helpless to protect him.”

“Don’t you lay a finger on Thomas,” Martha warned. “If there is even a single hair out of place—”

Nynia gave a flippant wave of her hand. “Oh, fear not, my dear Martha. I have no intention of injuring your poor, darling whelp – provided, of course, that he is a good boy and cooperates with the Gynulliad. Of course, given your history with us, I cannot imagine he learned obedience over the last sixteen years.”

“Cooperates? He knows nothing about you. I left that little story out of his education,” Martha replied with a sneer.

The blonde shrugged. “Then I cannot guarantee his safety. He has been given instructions. If he follows them, he will not be detained. If he is less than willing, however, that is a different story.”

Martha sat back against the cell wall, folding her hands and placing them in her lap. “Then I suppose we shall just have to wait and see, then, won’t we?”

(Skipping? Kind of? Maybe this will actually be a scene break?)

*

Leonard could have both kissed and throttled Hal.

As he and Thomas came around a bend in the road from Leicester, the sun just peeking over the horizon, the first thing they saw was a large open field on either side of the road. The second thing they saw was the four show wagons, parked in a huddle in said field. The horses grazed beside the wagons, their tails swishing to ward off insects. Leonard could see a small fire in the center of the little camp, where Hal was starting breakfast for the little company.

“Henry Moore, what the hell are you playing at?” Leonard confronted his company manager as Thomas trailed behind. “You were supposed to continue on to London. At this rate, we’ll miss the start of our engagement!”

Hal turned to cast one steely eye on his employer. “An’ wot would you’ve done then, eh? Walked to London? ‘Sides, en’t no way one day’d make much difference anyhow. Who’s this, then?” he asked, his eye turning to Thomas, who stood behind Leonard looking very awkward indeed.

Leonard could have chuckled at his manager’s shrewdness, but instead, he stepped out of the way and ushered Thomas forward. “May I introduce our new friend, Mr. Thomas Ashe,” Leonard explained. “Mr. Ashe will be traveling with us for the time being.”

“That so,” Hal muttered, narrowing his good eye at Thomas. He took a step closer to the young man, and Thomas got a strong scent of horse manure and cheap whisky. “An’ wot is it you do, Mr. Ashe?”

Thomas swallowed, feeling small under the short man’s scrutiny. “Well, I—”

“Thomas is simply our guest at the moment,” Leonard interjected. “He’s run on a spot of bad luck at the moment and needs a place to stay.”

“En’t no poor house,” Hal grunted. “S’work or nothin’.”

Before Leonard could argue on his behalf, Thomas found his voice. “I am a sorcerer,” he provided. “Of sorts, at least. I perform magic.”

Hal gave Leonard a look that almost passed for impressed. “Well now! A proper magician, eh, Len? Wouldja lookit that?”

“The boy’s work for us is voluntary, Hal,” Leonard replied, his voice low and insistent. “We’ll not force him to be in our company.”

(skipping a few lines)

“Now you’ve met Hal, I suppose you’d best get started on the rest of our company,” Leonard sighed, ushering Thomas towards his wagon. “It might take some time – they don’t all keep the same hours, particularly when we’re on the road. Everyone sort of has their own schedule until we’re performing or rehearsing.”

Thomas’s eyes could not find one place to rest. He studied the four gaily-painted wagons, their green and blue and red colors and designs reminding him of a gypsy caravan that passed through his town when he was very young. Though he had heard other mothers warning their children against getting too close, for fear that the travelers would steal from them or enchant them, Thomas’s mother had simply taken his hand and smiled and waved at the wagons as they passed by, encouraging Thomas to do the same. Martha always seemed a good judge of character, Thomas thought, and he wondered what she would think of his new situation. He had a feeling she would like Leonard, with his top hat and his long strides. She would probably cuff his ear for not offering Thomas something to eat yet, or for that moment back on the road where Leonard’s long legs had carried him off far ahead of Thomas, leaving the boy to run in order to catch up.

Thomas smiled and decided, then, that this adventure was one he was certainly meant to have.

*

Martha Ashe sat bolt upright. She gasped for air, as though she had been drowning, and her head fell back, eyes unseeing. In her mind’s eye, however, images flashed by so quickly she almost could not keep track of them. Thomas Concealing himself in front of an audience. A man she did not recognize taking the shape of a bear and charging after someone she could not see. A black mark in the shape of a bird in flight on the same man’s wrist. Nynia handing her a glass of water to ease her parched and aching throat. Thomas in iron chains. A bright, brilliant burst of green flame.

After these visions faded, the story they were trying to tell muddled and uncertain, Martha took another breath, blinking a few times and looking around her cell. Nynia and the others were nowhere to be seen, and she remembered that they had left several hours ago, after which she had fallen asleep. She could feel her heart pounding double time in her chest. Thomas. Martha scrambled to her feet, thinking quickly. She could not tell him what she had seen; betraying the trust of her Augury was a very dangerous thing. However, she could instruct him.

She could warn him.