EVEN BEFORE THE RUMORS STARTED, Autumn knew something was off with Moonwell Manor.

Bright green vines covered every building in the village of Silver Edge. They crept out of the woods like naughty children, curling between bricks and prying cobblestones loose, littering the streets with stumbling carriages and accident-prone pedestrians. Even the bright flowers spilling from window boxes were powerless against the endless green.

The vines were everywhere. Except for Moonwell Manor.

Moonwell himself had moved in several months ago, and Autumn had watched with increasing wonder as the vines slowly retreated from his imposing brick walls.

She had a good reason for her particular interest, for it just so happened to be the exact sort of peculiar behavior the plants had demonstrated in her very own bedroom, several blocks away.

In the exact same way the vines were curling back from the walls of the manor, they had untangled from their cluttered heaps on Autumn’s bedroom floor, slowly trailing backward through the window she had left open for them since she was a little girl, day or night, rain or snow.

When Autumn had first realized the plants were slowly vacating her room—shortly after her eighteenth birthday and around the reappearance of her . . . symptoms—she had dashed down to the street below, looking for signs of poison, breakage, rot, foul play, anything to explain their sudden retreat. She had fed the vines fertilizer purchased from the local plant emporium and spent hours at the village library, searching through everything from A Helpful Handbook for Modern Herbalists to The Lost Book of Remedies: 299 Easy Treatments to Revive Plant Species Found in the Kingdom of Wyn (with an Introduction by Queen Agatha IV!).

When none of that worked, she took to keeping her bedroom door shut, hoping her parents wouldn’t notice the plants’ strange behavior, panicked they may start asking questions.

But then, while walking home one day, she had noticed the manor’s increasingly vine-free walls and felt a familiar hum emanating from it—the same one that had woken in her own body after nearly fourteen years of lying dormant. After that, an idea had started to take shape in her mind, slowly solidifying until Autumn had, as was her way, a clear-cut, written-out, step-by-step plan.

The first step of this plan was simple: Autumn needed to learn the ins and outs of proper business dealings.

Autumn had never made a business dealing before, but she assumed it was fairly straightforward. And it turned out that, while the library was relatively useless when it came to treating her recoiling vines, it had plenty to offer in the way of business arrangements, contracts, negotiations, and, to her horror, even bribery. While she researched, she would sometimes burrow away in a corner of the small library, her cheeks flaming and her stomach in knots as she pored over Bribes, Bets, and Backdoor Business: Tricking Them into a Yes or other similar titles carefully concealed in her lap.

The second step of Autumn’s plan centered around gathering as much information about the mysterious Mr. Moonwell as possible. Unfortunately, this proved easier said than done.

Very little was known about the village newcomer, though there were plenty of rumors to be heard. People claimed Moonwell was a recluse, a grouch, and a secret brother to the queen, among other things. But worst of all, they claimed he was a criminal. The sort of violent, kidnapping criminal who, according to a recent wildfire rumor that had resulted in an actual visit to the Manor from the Village Watch, housed mysterious women against their will.

Autumn could confirm none of that—nor, it turned out, could the Watch. But she did know two things:

Moonwell never allowed visitors. If any did attempt to knock on his door, they were promptly shooed away by his hired guards. Not watchers, which the queen-endorsed village elder put in charge of order and law-keeping—but private guards.

The second thing Autumn knew was that Moonwell happened to be one of her adoptive father’s very best clients, selling their family some of their shop’s most expensive and mysterious wares.

The strange thing was, Autumn had never actually seen any of Moonwell’s items appear in their family’s shop—a secondhand store with everything from priceless art, to crumbling relics, to a jar full of feather quills. Her father, who was always happy to oblige any of Autumn’s requests, gave only a short, curt reply when Autumn had asked about Moonwell, his eyes darting to the locked cabinet on the back wall of his office.

But Autumn was clever herself, and she had quickly deduced why her father, who was more prone to cheerful boasting and good-natured gossip than anyone she knew—was so oddly tight-lipped when it came to Mr. Moonwell.

It was the same reason for the vines, and the strange pull she felt toward the familiar hum in his manor.

Magic.

There was magic in Moonwell’s walls, and there was magic in the wares he was selling to her father. Autumn had felt it trapped behind the locked cabinet in the darkest corner of their shop. She had feared it as she placed her hands against the peeling wood, her fingertips tingling, her breaths too shallow.

The suspicion that her parents might be getting involved with such wickedness was enough to propel Autumn into the third step of her plan: Save as much money as possible.

So in addition to working in her father’s shop, Autumn had started to run errands for her neighbors, tend to plants at the emporium, catalog ingredients at the apothecary, and even, over one muddy and memorable weekend, wash Mrs. Kavinsky’s goats.

And now, after all of her careful planning and saving, the day had finally come. Her coin pouch was full, Moonwell’s guards were about to change shifts, and Autumn had only to knock on the door.

She closed her eyes, running through her speech one final time.

Hello, sir. May I come in? No? I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say. Because though the rest of our magic-less kingdom doesn’t suspect a thing, I’ve felt the same soft murmur in the bricks of your manor as the one echoing in my own bones. That’s right. I know you have magic. Just like me. And from what I can tell, we’re the only two people in the world who do.

But before you say a word, please let me finish—

I don’t want mine. I want you to take it away.

Would that be possible? Could such a thing be done?

This was the part of the speech where her throat would seize up in fear. Because what if the answer was no? What if Moonwell simply called on his guard, and her chance withered up, trailing out of reach, just like her vines?

She quickly stopped that line of thinking and refocused.

The end of her speech would be the cue for her to hand over her bulging coin purse, letting its impressive weight settle in the palm of his hand for full effect, and smile. She was still working on that part. Somehow whenever she thought her face was arranged in an affable grin, she’d turn to the mirror on her wall and discover that it looked more like she had just stubbed her toe.

Taking a deep breath now, Autumn crossed the street, dodging breakfast carts, villagers on their way to work, and a stray cat before tiptoeing up the stone steps and stopping in front of the gigantic wood door.

The manor was eerily silent this close, causing the sounds of the village behind her to fade. Her heart raced anxiously, but she gritted her teeth, forcing a hard, grim determination through her body by letting loose a string of vivid, razor-sharp images in her mind—

Mouths wide with screams and tear-streaked faces. One parent lost to magic, the other stricken with enough grief, rage, and horror over the accident to abandon four-year-old Autumn in the streets of this very village.

After that, a softness started to color the edges of her memories. Because by some miracle, Autumn had found a new family. Kind parents who loved her. She wouldn’t risk losing them, too, now that, after fourteen years, her magic had inexplicably returned, stronger and more distressing than before, considering the symptoms.

“Raise your knuckles, Autumn,” she whispered to herself, closing her eyes, ignoring the early morning fall sun on her neck and the beads of sweat popping up above the collar of her dark green overcoat. Ignoring the breeze pulling through the short brown curls that fanned Autumn’s face like a mane. Ignoring the fact that any moment now, Moonwell’s afternoon guard would appear, and when he did, the kind-faced man whose name Autumn hadn’t been able to catch, despite weeks of research, would politely ask her to leave. If she refused to go (though of course she wouldn’t—on the whole, Autumn tended toward obedience), she knew from observation that the guard would lead her away by gentle force.

And so she pulled her hand back, readying to knock, fingernails digging into her palm, resolution pumping through her veins—when something twitched in her overcoat.

“Not now,” Autumn muttered urgently, jamming her free fist into the pocket. A hot wave of fear drenched her, and her eyes flew open, peering right and left, though of course the movement had been far too small for anyone to have noticed.

“Who are you talking to?”

In a flash, Autumn whipped around, peering up into the face of a boy. He was handsome, blonde, and tall; a year or so older than her, perhaps nineteen. Autumn recognized him. He had been studying the manor for more than a week now, sitting on the same bench across the street every day, reading the same book on poisonous slugs without ever turning a single page. She had been careful to avoid him as she carried out her own unseen observations.

Her sudden movement sent the object in Autumn’s pocket into high alert, and its top opened just wide enough to slam down on the thumb she still had wrapped around it.

“Ouch!” she yelled, pulling her hand free of the pocket and sucking on the sore spot.

The boy drew his head back in surprise. He took a cautious step back. “Is everything okay?”

“Terrific, stranger. Thanks for asking,” Autumn grumbled as she inspected her thumb, surprising herself. She wasn’t normally rude, but time was quickly running out. As was her courage.

She cast a glance back at the door behind her before resting her impatient eyes on the boy once more. She had planned so carefully. She had bided her time. She needed to knock now.

Could she just ask the boy to leave? Was that too impolite? She wasn’t sure her conscience could cope with two rude infractions in a row.

The stranger ran a nervous hand through his dark blonde hair, making it stick up at odd angles. His nose was straight, his jaw sharp, his shoulders broad, but there were strange colorful stains on his shirt and fingers, and a small lisp in his speech, making his words catch subtly on their s’s. The impediment would have made him seem more boyish and charming, if she’d had time to notice such things at the moment.

Autumn allowed another awkward beat to pass before adjusting her large wire-framed glasses, moving them higher up her nose as she said (as politely as she could, now that she had gathered herself), “Well, it was nice to meet you . . .”

She started to turn, but the boy reached out, quick as a cat, and placed a hand on her arm. Autumn looked down at it with a frown, her frustration swelling once again. She could have sworn she felt a brush of the boy’s other hand near her waist. She attempted to check but grew distracted by a rush of shivers along the back of her neck, and a hum reverberating in her bones. The sensations were ancient and bright. Almost familiar. “What—”

“I don’t think you want to go in there.”

The second the words left his mouth, everything around Autumn slowed. 

An odd buzz started in her ears, her thoughts becoming blurry, frizzing into a tangled knot of . . . nothing? It suddenly felt as though she was sinking into a bath of warm honey, slow and smooth. It inched over her, steadily drowning out everything else until the world seemed as if it had gone silent and sluggish, and her head had thoroughly emptied.

Autumn swayed, then stumbled, trying to catch herself on the manor’s front door. Before she could, the boy reached out to steady her, drawing close enough for her to smell the scent of spices and herbs on his skin.

“Whoa, you okay?” he asked.

Autumn narrowed her eyes until his face came into sharper focus.

He smiled and pointed down the steps. “You were heading that way. You started to fall.”

Autumn blinked up at him. The village was so quiet, the morning more pleasant than any in her recent memory. In fact, she couldn’t quite remember the last time she had felt so . . . free. So unburdened! There was nothing in the world to do but stand and listen to this beautiful stranger—no, not stranger. Friend. She felt light as a feather as that truth settled over her, shimmying down her spine and into her toes.

Wearing a happy grin, she opened her mouth, certain the boy had asked a question, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what it was. And so she said, “Huh?”

His smile widened. It was sincere, crooked, maybe even a bit impish. “I was just apologizing,” he said. “I accidentally blocked your path. I think you were just heading home.”

A pulse of confusion edged her thoughts. She shook her head, trying to refocus on the lightness, the freedom and wide-open bliss. “Home?” If the boy said so, it must be true, she realized, even if something about it felt slightly off.

The boy’s blue eyes flashed with sympathy. He felt sorry for her obvious confusion, and Autumn flushed with embarrassment. She needed to stop making a fool of herself and just agree.

“Yes, home. Back that way, I think,” he repeated patiently.

Bless him for his patience, Autumn thought.

Then he said, “Your folks are wondering where you are.”

She blinked again. Something about the conversation didn’t fit quite right. But that was an ugly niggle in her brain, and his words were so beautiful. Why focus on anything but his eyes, the hum in her bones, the feeling of swimming in warm honey?

“They are? My parents?” She cursed herself silently for questioning him again. Just agree, Autumn. “I mean, of course. My parents. Yes, thank you.”

He leaned down, catching her gaze. Her focus locked onto him, his attention becoming her breath, her life vessel in a vast, unending ocean. Without it, she would surely drown. She wanted to reach out and touch him, feel his solidness.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You can trust me.”

With those words, something clicked, and the niggle finally disappeared from her mind. He was right. It was important that he was right. She needed to tell him. She needed to trust him. She did trust him! Autumn held his gaze for a breath, opened her mouth, eager to assure the boy that she understood. “You’re right. I . . . I do need to go—”

“Autumn?”

Both Autumn and the boy jumped at the sudden voice. It was familiar, even amid her sticky, stringy thoughts. A panicked look crossed his face as he squinted at a figure now approaching.

Whoever she was, she was about halfway down the block. She wore a long dress, her shiny black hair pulled back into a neat, low bun. She was so familiar. Autumn wondered if she knew her somehow.

It didn’t matter. She had the boy, and not a single other care in the world. Except now he was looking over her shoulder, watching the approaching figure, frowning. But Autumn wanted his attention returned to her—his sunshine smile. She needed it. He opened his mouth, closed it, his eyes still on the figure, even as Autumn rose onto her tiptoes and into his line of vision, trying to recapture his focus. 

After a quick deliberation, he leaned in closer, and Autumn let out a breath of relief. She inhaled the herbal scent clinging to his clothes, stepping even closer.

His words blocked out the noise of the carriages on the street below, even as he spoke softly. “You want to stay away from Moonwell,” he said, jerking his head toward the thick door behind Autumn. Following his gesture, she frowned at the building, wondering where it had come from.

It didn’t matter. The boy was right. He was absolutely, unequivocally right. Except— “Moonwell? Who’s that?”

“You’ll figure it out. And when you do, you’ll want to stay away,” he said more urgently. “You don’t want to come near him. You don’t want to see him or speak with him. You don’t even want to walk down this block. He’s dangerous. And you’re afraid of what he might do.”

For some reason, Autumn found she was shaking her head in disagreement and abruptly stopped. For the boy was right. He was always right. Why did she continue to disagree? Slowly, her head moved into a nod of confirmation.

“Yes?” the boy affirmed. His hands came to Autumn’s shoulders, holding her in place, his nose inches away. “You understand?”

“I—”

But the boy cast one more glance over her shoulder, and before she could respond to his thick, honeyed words, he ducked his head and hurried down the steps, raising a hood over his head and disappearing into the morning crowd.