“And his books and notes are down here,” I called back.
It was the detail I needed to wrest my mind back into working order, despite the panic shrieking in my ears. If I thought of thisnotas the downfall of my school and a moment of shame that would haunt me forever, but simply as a challenging puzzle to be solved...
Think, Harwood. It was Wrexham’s voice that I imagined, steadying me as always.
What did I actually know? Luton’s clothes and books were here—so he hadn’t simply marched away from Thornfell in a huff, seething over my inadequate attention to his ‘requirements.’ That would have been bad enough, given our ongoing Boudiccate inspection. But any other possibility...
Rustling sounded outside the window, and my spine tightened, ribs squeezing reflexively inward as if I were trapped in my dreams once more, being inexorably compressed. How much time did we have before those vines stretched themselves across the door? With neither Westgate nor I capable of casting spells at the moment, I didn’t savor the idea of wrestling sharp thorns bare-handed.
That being said...
I gave a second, sharper look around the parlor where I stood. There were no footprints on the scattered papers, and none of the tea cups had been spilled—which was a genuine accomplishment, considering how many were scattered so close about the floor.
The clear window in this room faced up toward Thornfell, a perfectly comforting sight; I set my jaw and hurried back into the kitchen that faced the far more forbidding woods. Its murky light made me feel slightly ill as the rustling vines wrapped around and around the glass, like smothering serpents pressing against it...
But not one of them had managed yet to reach inside. The window was still safely shut and latched.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase behind me. Still frowning at those vine-covered windows, I asked, “Did you see any signs of a struggle upstairs?”
“None.” Westgate stepped into the kitchen with me. “And the windows are all fully closed.”
I turned around, my gaze sweeping the floor one more time. “So he hasn’t been kidnapped from this house.” I might roll my eyes at Luton’s oft-repeated estimation of his own abilities, but even the weakest graduate of the Great Library must still have left visible signs of self-defense in the wake of any such attack.
Moreover, those vines, ominous though they appeared, certainly weren’t doing anything to attack us at the moment. I didn’t see how they could, without any gaps to wriggle through...
...Except, of course, for the splintered front door that Westgate and I had left hanging wide open.
Damnation!I snatched up a sharp knife from the sideboard and strode for the door without a second thought. “We need to get out.Quickly.”
“Hmm,” said Westgate, and followed me.
Vines rustled at both sides of the doorway now, weaving back and forth at the edges like hunting dogs nosing for a scent. The unnatural sense ofawarenessin those movements sent dread shooting down my spine. Against my will, I rocked to a halt a full foot away as dark memories came screaming back, my breath choking in my throat.
Every night, over and over again...
It was broad daylight, and I stood on Harwood land, responsible for everyone I’d brought here. Firming my grip on the wooden handle of the knife, I forced breath through my chest and stepped directly between those questing thorns.
“Miss Harwood!” Westgate barked a warning just as vines shot toward me from both directions.
I threw myself forward, cold sweat drenching my skin...
...And landed hard on the gravel path beyond the house, my slippers skidding across the tiny stones. Clutching my knife, I spun around—and let out a half-laugh of disbelief. The attacking vines had collided behind me. Thorns spiked into each other’s green flesh as they tangled and struggled to rip themselves free.
Mr. Westgate ducked swiftly underneath the writhing green knot, one hand shielding his grizzled head, and emerged unscathed with a silver pocketknife revealed between his dark fingers. He slipped it back into his waistcoat as he joined me, turning to study the writhing mass from a safe distance.
“So,” he said. “They’re instinctive, but not intelligent.”
I frowned, following his gaze. The vines flailed violently against each other, tangling more and more with every movement.
“Oh,” I breathed, “I do see. They can’t communicate with each other.” If they could, they would have freed themselves already, working together. Instead, they continued to attack each other every bit as aggressively—and automatically—as they’d aimed themselves at me when I’d stepped between them.
“And yet, they all came here at once—quite purposefully.” Westgate’s gaze shifted to the trees that loomed beyond the cottage, the woods from which that original cord of vines had come. “Unless this sort of visitation is a regular occurrence on your family’s estate?”
I let out an impatient huff of air. “Do you think I’d have settled a staff member here if that was the case?”
“Hmm.” His tone made my back teeth grind together.
Perhaps, in his eyes, I did seem capable of even that degree of irresponsibility in service to my own selfish whims. But—for better or for worse—he was the only trained magician within reach, and I had a missing staff member to recover. I hadn’t the privilege of stalking off in offense.
