Thornbound
Volume II of The Harwood Spellbook
Stephanie Burgis
Five Fathoms Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
What Comes Next
Spellswept
Acknowledgments
Dedication
For Rene Sears and Jenn Reese, who have beta-read and cheered me on through so many first drafts and scary new ventures. I appreciate you both so much!
1
It was bad enough to be deprived of my new husband before our wedding night. It was utterly unjust to be tormented by nightmares weeks afterward as I slept, still alone, in our marital bed.
For the ninth morning in a row, I woke up gasping and clawing at my throat, fighting to yank piercing thorns out from my skin...thorns that, of course, existed nowhere but in my dreams.
Groaning, I tipped my head back against my pillow. Darkness filled the un-curtained windows across from me, with no hints of dawn yet to illuminate the thick woodland beyond. Still, I knew better than to make any reckless attempts to fall back to sleep. There was only one dream I ever experienced nowadays, and it would suck me directly back into its maw if I allowed my eyes to fall shut again.
It was exhausting, infuriating, and an irony beyond compare for the headmistress of Angland’s first women’s college of magic to be the only magician in the nation who couldn’t cast a simple spell to protect her sleep. I had lost my own magic over nine months ago, though, and Wrexham’s pillow—which had been placed so hopefully beside mine on the morning of our wedding five weeks earlier—was still depressingly empty and unused. He had been called away by an urgent messenger in the middle of our wedding breakfast, and he still hadn’t returned from the latest wild goose chase that he’d been sent on by the Boudiccate.
Of course, their messages always claimed that no other officer of magic could be trusted with any of those vital missions that had disrupted every day he’d reserved to spend with me after our wedding...but the message behind that endless stream of summonses was unmistakable. Those powerful, elegant women who collectively ruled our nation were anything but subtle in their indications of displeasure—and although my late mother had once led their number, I myself was now officially their least favorite constituent.
Groaning, I pushed my bedcovers aside and forced myself upright, fighting through the sticky cobweb of exhaustion and leftover dread that that hateful dream always left in its wake. In the unrelenting darkness, it was too easy to remember the inescapable, choking helplessness I’d felt, again, as thorn-covered vines wound around my throat and mouth and—
No. My teeth clenched as I slammed my bare feet onto the cold wooden floorboards, drawing strength from the shock of contact. I had been fighting against the Boudiccate’s stifling disapproval and the age-old rules of our society ever since I’d first discovered my own gift for magic decades ago. I would hardly let a few bad dreams—or lovesickness—slow me down at this most crucial moment of my life.
Today my groundbreaking school of magic for women—the brilliant, nation-shaking project that I desperately hoped to make my great life’s work—was finally due to open its doors, after months of vicious newspaper attacks and political obstruction. My students—nine bright, shining young women full of potential—would start arriving before noon, along with their nervous parents and—I devoutly hoped—the final member of my own newly-hired staff, just in time for the first classes to begin tomorrow.
Everything had to be perfect for their arrival.
But I was caught hopelessly off-guard after all, by the news that my politician sister-in-law brought me six hours later, when she found me kneeling in my warm, cozy library of magic, re-ordering two different sections of books—again—with a trail of empty teacups and saucers spread across the rich green and silver carpet beside me.
“What do you mean, the Boudiccate have changed their minds?” I demanded.
I stared up at Amy, still holding a stack of books in my hands and caught between horror and disbelief. I’d consumed at least half a dozen cups of tea since I’d arisen, using my extra waking hours to double- and triple-check every final inspection, but exhaustion still clung to my bones. “They finally gave us their blessing—”
“The Boudiccate gave you their permission,” Amy corrected me grimly, “and only with extreme reluctance. Now, however...” She held up the letter she’d carried into the library. “They’ve been provided,” she said, “with new and ‘compelling’ arguments regarding the dangers of this enterprise, all of which must be fully considered—and can, apparently, only be decided upon after an in-person inspection.”
“An—?” Shaking my head, I pushed myself up from the carpeted floor to look at my sister-in-law more carefully.
A mere two months after giving birth to my first niece, Amy’s beautiful, beloved dark brown face was lined with all of the exhaustion that might be expected in a new mother, especially one so unconventional—not to mention stubborn—as to insist upon feeding her child herself. Considering that she had, in addition, persisted in aiding me in my own work even with a nursing infant frequently clasped in her arms, it was no wonder that there were deep shadows lurking beneath her eyes now.
But I glimpsed more than simple exhaustion in her face. There was an unhappy turn to her lips, and her warm brown eyes looked strained with more than tiredness.
For the past five weeks, ever since my painfully abbreviated wedding day, I’d clamped a firm lid on my emotions, throwing every bit of my energy into the final stages of creating my school—and into its vigorous defense against each fresh onslaught of offensive public and private opinion and last-minute administrative hurdles.
Now, though, I looked hard at Amy and frowned. “Something’s amiss,” I said. “Shouldn’t you have had notice of this change in the wind far earlier? Your friends in the Boudiccate—”
“Oh, this letter made it quite clear that they’re no longer sharing sensitive information with me.” Amy waved one hand dismissively, as if we were discussing trivialities rather than her life’s work. “You needn’t concern yourself, Cassandra. I knew from the outset that they wouldn’t be pleased about your school. I made the choice to support you anyway.”
And I had been surprised that she’d found so much free time to help me with it. Now I narrowed my eyes at her. “I specifically recall you telling me you were only taking a temporary leave of absence from your political duties for little Miranda’s first months.”
“I was.” Amy gave a careless shrug. “But it appears—based on this letter—that my absence from politics may last longer than I’d anticipated. Never mind. Perhaps it’s time for me to find a new vocation, as you did.”
Her expression was perfectly, purposefully serene, but Amy had been my older sister in all but blood for over fifteen years now, and she’d been strategizing toward a place in the Boudiccate all her life. I’d been certain that this was the year she would finally win that place.
A new seat had opened in the Boudiccate five months ago, for the first time in years. There could be no question that she was the best-qualified politician available to fill it.
“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me they were threatening to sanct
ion you!” Tossing my stack of books aside, I strode across the carpeted floor of the library. Amy herself had helped me decorate the room two weeks ago, whilst laughing and chatting and distracting me from all of my own minor anxieties.
“You know I would never ask you to choose my career over yours!” I said. “I would have done all of this without you if I’d known—you could have pretended to disapprove! I would have found a different home for the school, far away from our family, so that you could officially disavow me, and—”
“Cassandra.” The iron in Amy’s voice cut me off. “It is done,” she said quietly. “I know you would never ask me to make that choice, but they did. And if you think I would ever choose anything above my family...”
Silence fell as my shoulders sagged in acceptance. Of course Amy would never make that choice. She was the acknowledged and adored matriarch of our clan, the rock that kept us safe through every storm.
“Is it too late?” I asked finally. “If I move the school now...” Involuntarily, I glanced toward the window; all those hopeful girls traveling across the nation to join us as we spoke, after so many months of tooth-grinding negotiations and so many painstaking arrangements....
Still. I would send them all back without a twinge if it would save my sister-in-law’s future.
“Far too late,” Amy said firmly. “Trust me. The ultimatum that the Boudiccate gave me in their last letter was entirely explicit. I’d hoped that I might persuade them to see reason, but apparently, all of my arguments have failed. So...” Her lips twisted. “Let’s make certain this school is a success, shall we?”
“Indeed.” My chest tightened even as I gave her a firm nod.
This school had to succeed, now more than ever. It wasn’t only a matter of my satisfaction, or even of hers; it was a point that had to be proven for the sake of every magic-loving woman who came after us.
For over seventeen hundred and fifty years, ever since the great Boudicca herself had sent the Romans fleeing Angland with the help of her second husband’s magery, a clearly defined line had been drawn in the public arena, never to be broken. The hard-headed ladies of Angland saw to the practicalities of rule whilst the more mystical and emotional gentlemen dealt with magic. Together, they had worked for centuries to hold our nation strong against invasions and threats without ever crossing that agreed-upon line...
Until me.
I had been the first woman student ever admitted to the Great Library of Trinivantium to study magic. Afterward, I had been Angland’s only known woman magician for years—until I had lost all my ability to cast magic in an experiment of overwhelming folly.
As a solitary, never-to-be-repeated exception to the rule, I had been grudgingly accepted, if never approved. But I was hardly the only woman in Angland to be born with a gift and potential for magic. Those other girls, along with their descendants, deserved every chance that I had recklessly thrown away when I’d risked too much in my own experimentation.
At the time, I’d imagined my goal worth any danger: to prove my power beyond debate to everyone who flatly refused to work with a woman magician. Now, I finally understood the truth: the only way to change those attitudes for good was to use all of my hard-won skills and knowledge to train a whole new generation of magical girls as my successors. But with the entirety of the political and magical establishments of our nation irate and poised against my challenge...
Nothing could be allowed to go wrong.
“When exactly is the Boudiccate’s inspection due to begin?” I asked Amy. “If we can take a few weeks to settle everyone in first—”
Amy held out the letter, grimacing. “They’ll be with us within the next few hours, I expect.”
“They’re trying to ensure that we fail.” I closed my eyes for one brief moment, gathering my scattered thoughts before they could break loose and send me raging.
So much for all of my extra preparations!
Really, there was only one consolation to be found: if the Boudiccate’s inspectors arrived at the same time as my new students and all the bustle of their assorted baggage and anxious parents, I would hardly have any energy spare to yearn for my missing husband anymore, or to fret over those poisonous dreams that persisted in plaguing me.
I can do this, no matter what they think, I told myself firmly. This time, I will not let myself fail.
For the sake of my loyal, loving sister-in-law, who had risked so much to support me in this venture...
For the sake of all those brilliant, talented girls whom the Great Library stubbornly refused to train...
And yes, for my own sake, too, because—despite everything I had feared after the loss of my magic, and despite the haunting whispers of those dreams—I was neither helpless nor broken after all.
...And if anyone from the Boudiccate insulted Amy on this visit, I would simply have to murder them. That was all.
At the other end of the house, the great bell sounded, vibrating through the walls.
I lifted my chin, suppressing the panic that wanted to choke me, and I gave my sister-in-law my most confident smile. “Well, then,” I said, “let us go and welcome our first arrivals to Thornfell College of Magic.”
2
Six months ago, Thornfell had been nothing more than my family’s ancestral dower house: rambling, ivy-choked, absurdly over-large for its intended purpose, and almost entirely unused. It had been designed to be a safe haven for the men of my family to retire to once their wives passed away and their daughters (or more dangerously, daughters-in-law) assumed full control of Harwood House.
Between tragic accidents and loving family relations, though, it had been over a century since it had been used as anything but dusty storage space for the most unbearable wedding gifts, the most outmoded furniture, and the most baffling but indisposable family heirlooms—such as twelve closely handwritten volumes of observations on the plant life of the Harwood estate, composed by my most eccentric ancestor, the infamous recluse Romulus Harwood, before his tragically early death. The family had apparently discovered those volumes in his room, collectively shrugged, and shelved them in Thornfell’s abandoned library to molder in dignity well out of sight, along with all the books of magic too antiquated to be kept any longer at Harwood House.
In fact, over the twenty-eight years of my own life, as the wild woodlands beyond had gradually invaded Thornfell’s overgrown gardens—exploratory roots and branches stretching closer to its red brick walls every year—the house had been very nearly forgotten even by our own family. When I’d first moved here from the bright elegance and comfort of Harwood House in preparation for my wedding—only to find myself left alone when Wrexham was abruptly summoned away—I’d felt quite horribly cut off from the vibrancy of my own family home.
Now, though, as Amy and I walked through the maze of interlocking rooms that led from the refurbished library of magic to the front entryway, I looked with deep satisfaction at the warm, modern fey-lights that lined the freshly wallpapered walls. Amy and I had decorated it all together, with Jonathan’s help in researching historical details that would add richness and personality to the ambience. Now, the whole house was patterned in shades of bronze, gold, copper, and green with the leaping stags, ravens, and boars that had each symbolized different aspects of my family’s magical heritage at various points over the centuries. The effect was remarkably handsome, comfortable, and welcoming, and I could hardly have imagined it a few months ago.
Of course, my magician-ancestors would have had a collective fit of the vapors at my radical transformation of this masculine retreat. My own late father had done everything he could to quash my unladylike fascination with magic, whilst he’d struggled in vain to instill it in Jonathan. Still, there was no opening for the Boudiccate’s representatives to find any fault in the house’s transformation. Thornfell had been as radically reborn as I had in the past several months, both of us reimagining ourselves toward a common purpose, and I gave the wall of the final reception r
oom a reassuring stroke as I passed.
No matter which great challenge we were about to meet, Thornfell and I would welcome it together. Whether it was an irate politician hoping to shut us down, an anxious parent in need of calm reassurance, or...
“No food set out to await me?” An unexpected—and horrifying—male voice rose in outrage in the foyer ahead. “D’you mean to say I’ve rattled halfway across the country to this ramshackle little hidey-hole only to be starved when I finally arrive? Do you know who you’re talking to, woman?”
Oh, no. My jaw dropped open. I turned to stare at Amy in disbelief.
“Is that...?” she began, her own eyes wide.
“It is,” I said in utter disgust, “Gregory Luton.”
Young Luton was the most widely-loathed weather wizard in Angland...for good reason. Amy and I had met him at a Winter Solstice house party months ago, but I had hoped never to renew our acquaintance.
“What can he be doing here?” I muttered. “It’s not as if he needs any more education.” After all, he had always claimed—loudly—to be the best weather wizard to have ever graduated from the Great Library of Trinivantium. It was the only reason he’d been allowed back into their hallowed halls long enough to attain his degree, after getting himself expelled in his first year for insulting all of his professors. “Of all the worst days for him to come and stick his nose in...”
Amy frowned, cocking her head. “Who is it that he’s speaking to? I can’t quite hear—”
“Oh, no!” I scooped up my skirts and ran the last several feet of the corridor, abandoning all the dignity to be expected of a headmistress. Some catastrophes were too horrifying to face with composure—and when I burst into the foyer a moment later, I realized that I had arrived just in time.
Thornbound: Volume II of The Harwood Spellbook Page 1