Miss Jane Bigg-Wither reached her twenty-first year and, as a single woman must do upon attaining such an advanced age, resigned herself to spinsterhood.

That is to say, she embraced it with all her heart.

Jane was not ugly; she was not without family connections; she was in possession of a comfortable inheritance. Really, she had hardly any reason to remain unmarried.

Yet instead of marrying, Jane lived as quietly as possible under the circumstances in the country with her uncle, who was fascinated with all things to do with the magical element, though he had no practical ability himself.

“My dear Jane,” said Sir Percival over toast and tea one afternoon, “I’ve just received the most wonderful news.” He held up a letter as proof.

Jane looked up from her book. “What is it, Uncle Percy?”

“Well, it’s the Thameside College of Magic and Technology. It seems they want to name a new building after me! Isn’t that lovely?”

“Oh, indeed.” Jane sighed, closed her book, and prepared to listen.

Sir Percival beamed. “You know I gave them a little money last year. A trifle, really, nothing much.”

“I remember it well, sir,” Jane replied, smiling briefly at the thought of calling fifteen thousand pounds a ‘trifle.’

“And by way of saying thank you, they want to name the new building after me. The Sir Percival Bigg-Wither Laboratories. It sounds rather good, does it not?” He glanced down at the letter. “The Dean of the college wishes me to attend a dedication ceremony in a fortnight. Would you like to come along, Jane?”

“Oh, not again,” Jane muttered.

“I beg your pardon, my dear?”

Jane sighed. How could she say no? But visiting the Thameside College of Magic and Technology meant encountering ...

... Warlocks. Ugh. Jane shuddered.

The previous year Sir Percival had invited several newly qualified warlocks to Wither Castle, and every one of the young men had proposed to Jane. They had followed her around the estate; they had challenged each other to duels over who would escort her in to dinner; they had taken every opportunity to accidentally-on-purpose brush up against her or take her hand. Poor Sir Percival had been devastated when Jane had turned down every proposal, for he would have been delighted to call a warlock his nephew-in-law. But Jane was adamant: absolutely no warlocks.

And so she remained a spinster.

“You will come, won’t you my dear?” her uncle asked.

Jane composed herself. “Yes, of course I will, Uncle Percy.”

Sir Percival gave a satisfied nod. “Very good.” He cocked his head and gave her a sly wink. “I believe the Viscount Sanditon will be in attendance.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jane murmured. Of all her persistent suitors, Sanditon was the worst.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am quite sure he will be, Uncle Percy.”

Sir Percival patted her hand. “Then it’s all settled. Thameside College a fortnight from today. Lovely!”

A s Jane had expected, the dedication ceremony consisted of one tedious speech followed by another, which were in turn followed by a tedious celebratory tea held in the Dean’s gardens overlooking the river. Jane kept an eye on her Uncle Percy; as the center of attention, his round face grew pink with happiness and sherry. Jane, of course, was besieged by admirers, warlocks-in-training and several professors of magic. At the earliest opportunity she pleaded indisposition and escaped with a cup of tea to a quiet, shaded pergola.

She was not alone for long.

A lean figure wearing a fashionable high-collared black cape, an embroidered waistcoat, and a quizzing glass hanging from a ribbon around his neck approached: Sanditon. He was rich, handsome, dashing, titled, everything a spinster might desire.

Jane raised the teacup before her face and shrank into the shadows, but it was too late; she had been spotted. “Oh damn,” she murmured.

As the viscount spied her, he gave an elegant bow. “My dear Miss Bigg-Wither!”

In response to his unctuous smile, Jane lifted the corners of her mouth and showed her teeth.

“Alas,” he said, seating himself with a flourish on the bench beside her and seizing her hand, “that the fairest flower should hide herself away to bloom unseen.”

Jane remained silent; she could hardly agree or disagree with such a statement and she refused to waste a simper on this particular suitor. Instead she sipped her tea.

“I have been speaking with your uncle,” Sanditon said.

Jane looked up, alarmed. “Upon what subject, sir?”

Sanditon stroked her hand. When he spoke, Jane thought she could see tiny blue sparks—the lingering presence of the magical element—winking from his teeth. “We spoke, Miss Bigg-Wither, about Wither Castle. I overheard Sir Percival mention to the Dean that his estate is somewhat ... troubled.”

Troubled wasn’t the half of it, Jane thought. Despite Uncle Percy’s inability to practice magic, the Bigg-Wither estate was strangely fraught with elemental storms and the odd occurrences that accompanied them. The castle’s west tower had been rebuilt repeatedly after being transformed by elemental bolts into ice and, on one memorable occasion, butter. The knot garden was infested with homunculi. The ha-ha had migrated from one field to another, and sheep continually stumbled into it, the stupid creatures, breaking their legs. The maze was dangerous; nobody knew, any longer, what lurked at its center and the gardeners refused outright to enter it.

“In order to explain all the odd phenomena,” Sanditon was saying, “Sir Percy and the Dean of the College have requested that I, as their most capable recent graduate, pay you a visit to investigate.” He gave Jane’s hand a lingering kiss. “As a warlock, I was delighted to agree; as a man I am even more delighted. I shall join you at Wither Castle in five days’ time.”

“Oh,” said Jane. “How nice.” He’d made a mistake. Now that she knew when he was coming, she could make arrangements to go on a shopping trip to London or on a visit to friends. One way or another, she’d not be at Wither castle when Sanditon arrived.

L ater, after Jane had managed to scrape Sanditon off, she entered the Dean’s house in search of her uncle. She’d had enough tea and had fended off several more unwanted advances by young warlocks. It was time to return home.

As she padded down one long, carpeted hallway, she heard raised voices coming from a room at the end. Jane continued, more quietly, and peered through the crack in the door into the Dean’s study. The Dean himself was seated behind a wide, polished desk. Standing on the patterned carpet, his back to Jane, was another man. The first thing Jane noticed about him was his height, which was exceptional; the second thing was his anger, for it was evident in the set of his shoulders and the clenched fists at his sides.

“Absolutely not,” the man was saying.

The Dean leaned back in his chair and laced fat fingers over the waistcoat stretched across his belly. “You haven’t any choice, Day. To begin with, someone must go along to keep an eye on Sanditon and his ... er ... you know. His condition. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that you still owe the tuition from your last semester, and you shan’t be granted a diploma until it is paid.”

“I realize that,” Day replied. He sounded as if he were speaking through gritted teeth. “So now I’ve got to drop everything to trot out to some nobleman’s estate to find out why his damned sheep are behaving strangely?”

The Dean nodded. “Better that, Day, than reading the Political Register and fraternizing with Cobbett and his lot.”

“On the contrary,” the man replied. “The efforts of the Luddites are far more important than the Bigg-Wither shrubbery. Elemental magic must never be used to run machines that take work away from honest craftsmen. We will stop it any way we can.”

“Machine breaking, you mean,” the Dean said, shaking his head. “Diploma or not, Day, you’re the finest warlock the college has ever produced, and you’re wasting your talent on radical activities that will only land you in prison.”

The tall man shrugged. His coat, Jane noticed, was rather shabby, and his dark hair needed cutting. This, she felt sure, was no fine gentleman. His next words confirmed her suspicion. “Then I’ll go to prison,” he said. “But at least—” Suddenly he broke off and straightened, head cocked as if listening to something. Jane was certain she hadn’t made a noise, but somehow he’d sensed her presence. Slowly, he turned to face the door.

As his eyes met hers, Jane caught her breath, feeling as if his angry gaze were penetrating the door and the silken folds of her tea gown and her skin to the very core of her self. To a place where no one had ever been before. What did he see there, she wondered, and why did it make him look so fierce? She broke the gaze, looking down to compose herself. After taking a deep, calming breath, she smoothed her dress and opened the door wider.

As she entered the room, the tall man’s frown grew deeper. “You’ve been eavesdropping!”

“You have a very loud voice,” Jane replied and, retreating into the forms of politeness, held out her hand. “I am Jane Bigg-Wither. I believe you have been invited with Viscount Sanditon to investigate the odd things that have been happening at my uncle’s estate.”

The man named Day continued to stare, stepping closer, as if drawn against his will, to take her hand. “You’re Jane Bigg-Wither.”

“As I said, that is my name.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard about you.”

Jane cursed inwardly and gave him a tight smile. From Sanditon, she had no doubt. What on earth had the viscount told this man? “How very interesting.”

He nodded. Still gripping her hand, he moved closer, peering down at her. His eyes were gray, she noted, and his nose was rather long. “What they say is true,” he said. “How do you do it?”

“Do what, sir?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then gave himself a little shake and released her hand. “My name is Aubrey Day.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Day,” Jane said. “You will be arriving at Wither Castle in five days?”

“I don’t seem to have any choice.”

Jane smiled, and he blinked. “Good.” She nodded at the Dean, who bobbed a hasty bow in return, and left the room.

In the hallway, Jane leaned against a wall, knees weak. Mr. Aubrey Day was a warlock like all the others, but she’d never encountered anyone like him, anyone who made her feel so ... exposed. And he was odd in a way that all the others were not, from his radical politics, to his anger, to his unusual height. Perhaps she would be at Wither Castle after all, in five days’ time.

I f Miss Jane Bigg-Wither took extra care with her dress and coiffure on the fifth day hence, one might argue that she did so at the behest of her uncle, who wanted her to appear at her loveliest for the visiting warlocks.