A body lay in the doorway to the hall, a man dressed too fine to be local, in a waistcoat and a silk shirt and cravat, not homespun, like Lee’s. He looked middle-aged, but was probably much older. A man who carried no obvious weapons, and needed none. A wizard, it must be.

Lee’s brother Martin lay facedown just beyond the doorway, his body nearly torn in two. Most of the blood must have been his. He was ten years older, big and broad shouldered, known as a hard worker. Practical. Not a dreamer like Lee. Anaweir: no magic in him, no match for wizards.

“Martin.” Lee’s lips formed the word, but he had no breath to make a sound.

Lee crept into the room, feeling the tacky blood under his toes. There were the bodies of two more wizards, and then he saw his father sprawled across the hearth, his legs in the fireplace as if he’d been thrown there.

His father, who told him stories of castles and manor houses across the ocean. Who could steal fire out of the air with his fingers and spin shields out of sunlight. Who called him wizard heir and had begun to teach him the charms that would shape magic to his use. Who had been powerful enough and smart enough to protect them from anything. Until now.

Lee fell to his knees retching, and lost what little remained of his breakfast. Then he heard the noise again, the banging sound.

His mother was huddled in her rocking chair next to the fireplace, her knitting on her lap. The sound he’d heard was the slam of the rocker against the wall. Now that he was closer, he could hear her knitting needles, clicking together in a businesslike fashion. But she had picked up no stitches. Although she had yarn in her basket, and on her lap, she was knitting nothing.

“Mama?” he whispered, drawing close to her, looking warily over his shoulder. “Was it the Roses?” She stared into the hearth where Papa lay cold and broken. Rocked, and knitted nothing, and said nothing. She didn’t have to. He knew it was the Roses; of course it was the Roses, who else would it be?

“Are you hurt, Mama?” he said again, a little louder. He wormed his hand into hers, but her fingers didn’t close around his, and in her eyes there was a dreadful nothing.

He fought back a sob. No crying. He was the man of the family now. “Where’s Carrie?” he asked. His sister was not among the bodies on the floor, which made sense because the Roses would want Carrie alive.