I thudded to a halt just past the cottage, panting.
Those vines wereeverywhere!
A slithering, thorn-studded, leafy chain had stretched from the woods beyond, bypassing all of the tall trees around it to reach purposefully for the cottage, where it split into a mass of writhing green vines. They’d already wrapped themselves around the facing wall and over the glass windows, too, blocking them in entirely.
They were exactly the type of vines that had swarmed around me, smothering me in my dreams every night for the past week and a half...and before my eyes now, they rustled harder, bunching together at the edges and then suddenly shooting forward, stretching themselves even further along the sides of the house and anchoring themselves at each new step with their sharp, predatory green thorns.
A convulsive shudder wracked my body. I remembered exactly how those thorns had felt in my dreams, piercing my skin as I’d struggled in vain to break free.
Then, last night, piercing Wrexham’s throat before my eyes...
I couldn’t let my thoughts rest on that image. Not now. I had a different gentleman to save.
Tearing myself free from my paralysis, I hastened back around the cottage before it could be surrounded completely.
The front door was locked.Curse it!We were in the middle of nowhere, as Luton had pointed out only yesterday. What burglars did he imagine might threaten his precious belongings?
“Luton!” I bellowed as I banged on the door. “Answer me, damn it!Now!”
“Is there a problem, Miss Harwood?” Mr. Westgate called out behind me.
I tipped my head against the wooden door for one brief but intense moment of anguish. Then I straightened and braced my shoulders. “Yes,” I said, “there is.”
I would do nearly anything to protect my fragile new school...but I wouldnotsacrifice anyone else to my dreams.
...Or to my nightmares, at the present moment.
I stepped back, gesturing toward the closest wall of the cottage as Westgate crossed the final pathway from the gardens. He was moving at a brisk walk—but he came to a halt, eyebrows flying upward, as the leafy vines rustled and shot once more across the stones, gaining themselves another half a foot of territory.
“A radical new form of gardening, Miss Harwood?” he asked drily.
“Ha.” I wouldn’t let myself be baited. Not now. “Would you open this door for me, please? Mr. Luton still isn’t answering, and I’d like to know for certain if he’s in there.”
“I did think that earlier story unlikely.” Westgate gave aharrumphof amusement. “The idea of any mage voluntarily inviting Gregory Luton to lord it over themyet again...” Shaking his head, he closed his eyes...and then stepped back. “Unfortunately, I’ll need another day or two before I can summon even the smallest of spells. We’ll need to do this the old-fashioned way.”
“The—?”
He lunged forward, shoulder-first, and slammed into the wooden door. It shuddered in its frame.
“Ah,” I said. “Thatold-fashioned way.”
It took only four hard blows to make the wood splinter—which meant that clearly, the staff cottage needed far more thorough a refurbishing than I’d realized. I would solve that problem later. For now, I reached through the ragged hole, ignoring the sharp shards of wood that scraped at my arm like claws, and I turned the inner lock myself.
“Luton!” I shouted. “We’re coming in!”
No response greeted me. All I heard, when I strained, was the sound of rustling from the ivy several feet away.
Oh, Boudicca.I had killed him! When I’d turned away earlier rather than investigating; when I’d continued to teach my classes instead of tossing everything aside to save him...
“Well, Miss Harwood?” Westgate said. “Arewe entering? Or did I bruise my shoulder purely for your entertainment? I’m not as young as I once was, you know.”
I yanked my arm free and pushed the door wide open. “Of course,” I said through numb lips. “We must find him, no matter what it takes.”
...And then we’d have to inform his aunt, the Boudiccate’s inspectors,andmy students that I had failed to keep anyone on this estate safe after all.
At least there wasn’t too much space to search. I took in the ground floor—parlor, garderobe, and kitchen—in six hasty strides, while Mr. Westgate’s steady footsteps sounded on the stairs. Apart from the sheer number of books, papers, and half-drunk cups of tea that had accumulated atop the carpets during young Luton’s single day of residence, there was nothing remarkable to be seen.
“No sign of him here,” Westgate called down the stairs, “but his clothes and suitcases are still in his room.”
