Father urged them all to get ready for a sudden call from the King’s men. He had them washed, combed, and stiff in their best during the whole day. But morning wore on into evening, and then the house sank into night—still no one came.
The academy term was to start on the first of August, and the boys hadn’t heard a peep from the King’s men yet. Lucian kept that secret wish close, tucked away where nobody could see it—that the Clerk of the Signet would forget the Daiwiks, that they would reject them, that all of it would simply… go away. But Father grew more impatient with every day that passed, as though waiting itself was an offence.
On one very hot day in July, Lukey and Lewis came home from Grammar school—Lukey bright as a rabbit, Lewis with his brows drawn and his mouth set hard.
Mother frowned at them when they stepped into the parlour. ‘What’s happened?’
Lukey beamed and thrust a piece of paper forward, near waving it in his eagerness.
‘Headmaster’s just got this letter. From Oxford, it is.’
Father beckoned him closer, and took it before Mother could properly see. He read in silence, eyes moving quick down the page, the only sound the tick of the clock and the faint stir of flies at the window.
At last, Father spoke, but there was no warmth in his voice.
‘The college is impressed by Luke’s young age, and his Latin and Greek. They want further word of our means—and of his progress at Leeds Grammar.’
Lukey bobbed his head, still grinning, though it had gone a touch uncertain.
‘Headmaster’s already done it, he did.’
‘Aye—well done, son,’ Father said, with a faint smile. ‘I’ll see to it straight away. I’ll be in the study.’
He left the parlour without another word, yet he didn’t look pleased at all. Lucian knew that if Oxford truly meant to have Lukey, there’d be fees and books and coach fare—more expense than any of them spoke of plainly—and it seemed the chance the King Surveyor’s Academy might pass him and Leon by, or come at last and find fault with them, troubled Father enough to sour any good news.
Lukey’s face fell a little, as if he’d marked the same.
Leon edged closer, speaking low so Mother wouldn’t catch it.
‘I heard Ma and Auntie talking. I reckon we’re short on coin.’
‘But why?’ he whispered back. ‘Our mill’s the best in Leeds. How come we’ve not got coin?’
Leon shrugged. ‘Not the faintest.’
Lucian hated that—hated the not knowing, the waiting, and the way Father’s impatience pressed down on his guilty conscience.
A fortnight before the first of August, they sat down to a meal after a lengthy Sunday sermon. The heavy shadows beneath Father’s eyes troubled Lucian. Father’s daily visits to the Cloth Hall in Leeds grew longer each day—so much so that Leon and Lucian scarcely saw him save at morning meals and at Sunday sermons.
Lucian had never known Father to look so concerned, and the guilt that his tricks might have something to do with the King’s men delaying their call gnawed at him until he could hardly taste the food. Lawrie must have marked it too, for he grew quieter at the table, and so did Lyddie. The usual exchange of town gossip and mill talk had thinned to nothing, and the silence felt wrong, like a room with chairs missing.
That tension broke at last when Ned Pritchard, the estate’s errand boy, burst in out of breath.
‘This, Master Daiwik,’ the lad panted, thrusting forward a sealed letter, ‘it’s from the King’s men. Straight from Temple Newsam. The royal coach’s been lodged there for days…’
Father’s chair scraped hard across the floor as he rose. ‘How do you know this, Ned?’
‘Mr Fletcher’s carter came with a courier he did, and just set off for York and Hull—’ Ned said, words tumbling over each other. ‘—and he took that big scoured batch of wool from the shed.’
Father broke the seal and opened the letter at once. Lucian tensed.
That was it—the letter that would decide what became of him and Leon. Beneath the table, Leon’s leg shook faster still, making the bench give the faintest tremble.
‘What does it say?’ Lawrie asked, craning to see.
‘It’s a confirmation,’ Father said, and his smile grew larger with each word. ‘By order of His Majesty’s Government. It is granted that Leon and Lucian Daiwik, born upon the first day of May in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred fifty-six in Leeds, be taken under royal patronage, to be instructed at His Majesty’s Northern Mathematical Academy at Temple Newsam, for a full seven-year scholarship.’
His eyes brightened when he glanced up at them—proper brightened, as if a shutter had been pulled away.
‘Your appointed Master—Master Hewitt and the Clerk of the Signet will arrive in the morning for an examination and to seal the warrant. Then you lads—and a guardian of our choosing—will depart for a visit to the academy. We’re to view the lodgings and schoolrooms, hear the rules, and receive your passes for term-time lodging. It’s set for tomorrow morning, at six of the clock.’
Then Father’s gaze snapped back to Ned, and the smile thinned.
‘How long did this letter take to reach us?’
‘The courier didn’t say, sir.’
Father stared back at the seal, as if he could wring the truth out of wax. Then he looked back at Leon and Lucian.
‘Well done, sons—very well done,’ Father said and the beam he gave them came so sudden it felt strange, near foreign, as if it belonged to some other house. Yet it was the first true smile on his face in weeks, and Lucian couldn’t help but smile too. ‘From tomorrow on, you are His Majesty’s scholars. Best get ready straight away. Go on, then.’
Lucian and Leon stood in front of the parlour wearing their cleanest Sunday clothes. The royal coach had arrived at 6 of the clock sharp and Aunt Browne had dragged them out of bed before the cock crowed, pushing cleaner shirts and better doublets from the chest, tugging at collars and sleeves until they sat straight.
Aunt Browne rapped neatly at the door.
‘Enter,’ said Father from within.
She dipped her head inside. ‘Mr Daiwik, sir. The young twins are here.’
‘Ah. Good. Send them in.’
They entered. The long room seemed smaller than usual—now crowded with so many people—and it smelt like wool and smoke. Father, Mother and Lawrie stood near the great family portrait above the fireplace—The seven Daiwik children arranged around Mother and Father seated in their best.
Facing them, by the tall windows, stood three men, half lit by the thin light that slipped through the drawn drapes. They wore heavy, well-cut coats and dark, expensive cloth that made his and Leon’s Sunday best feel plain.
The men watched him and Leon as though the twins already sat in some schoolroom at their academy and had just been called to stand. Yet, for once, Lucian’s strange mix of cold and warmth—often churning inside him—went very still. He drew his shoulders back and set his face in what he hoped was a look of mild interest.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
‘Mr Barlow, Master Hewitt, Mr Allerton—these are my youngest sons, Leonard and Lucian.’
Lucian bowed, forcing his gaze to stay level. ‘Welcome to our home, sirs. I am Lucian Daiwik.’
Leon did the same beside him. ‘I’m— I am Leonard,’ he blurted, the words tumbling out. ‘But everyone calls me Leon, sir. Sirs. I mean. You’re very welcome.’
Lucian nudged him lightly.
The tall, long-haired man gave a low chuckle, his neat black beard parting in a brief smile. ‘Master Leonard. Master Lucian. I am Bartholomew Barlow, Clerk of the Signet, in His Majesty’s service.’
In a gloved hand, he held a pale-green pocketbook. Lucian’s gaze snagged on it and a prickle ran over his skin. Its cover looked like leather but was green and faintly scaly. At times a queer gleam ran over the surface, faint as marsh light. The very pale man at Mr Barlow’s elbow gave a step forward, staring without blinking, a pinched hunger about his eyes and cheeks. Mr Barlow gestured towards him.
‘This is Mr Allerton, my junior clerk. He is here to attend me and set down our negotiations.’
‘Good morrow to you, young masters,’ said the second man in a low, dragging voice. His eyes didn’t leave Lucian’s face, and his voice had a thin strain to it that matched the hollowness of his clean-shaven face. The image of an unwell clerk Lucian had once seen in town—grey and wasted with the plague—came to his mind and he shuddered. Mr Barlow turned his hand towards the third man—a fellow with fair hair so bright it near seemed white.
‘And this is Master Hewitt, His Majesty’s surveyor appointed to the new Northern Mathematical Academy.’
‘Good morrow, Good morrow. Fine, tall young fellows, the pair of you,’ said Hewitt, a light smile framed by his trimmed beard.
Lucian didn’t know what to do with that, save stand straighter—ignoring his collar pinching from Auntie’s tugging.
‘Pray, take a seat,’ Mother said. ‘A warm meal will be served shortly. Whilst we wait, I will ask for a good cup of spiced wine.’ She pulled the bell-cord by the hearth, and a moment later Auntie came in with a large jug and poured for them all.
Master Hewitt took a sip and turned to them.
‘Lads, His Majesty has great need of men who can see further than common sight and set land and sea in their right place upon the page. D’you think you’ll stand equal to such work, lads?’
Lucian nodded, but Leon didn’t move. He kept his gaze lowered to the carpet and seemed more unsettled than Lucian did.
‘They are steady enough.’ Lawrie put in, a little stiff. ‘Father and Mother prize readiness and early rising. Leon is a fair hand with figures and Latin. Lucian draws maps of the fields and mills for his amusement and sketches beasts and insects besides. Both lads are curious by nature, and very respectful.’
Lucian was glad Lawrie had spoken, though he wished his brother had left the drawings unmentioned. He liked to keep those between himself and Leon.
‘Maps and figures, you say?’ He glanced sideways at Mr Allerton. The pale man shook his head by the smallest fraction. Barlow went on. ‘You hear, Master Hewitt. Reverend Ainsworth has not misled us.’
‘That’s true enough. Young scholars, these two. Real twins as well—remarkably alike.’
‘They are truly a reflection of one another… in a fashion strange to me,’ said Allerton. ‘So alike I can scarce see where one ends and the other begins.’
Mr Barlow exchanged a quick glance with Master Hewitt and gave a hoarse chuckle.
‘Well. Nevertheless, I am glad to put names to faces. You said seven children, yes? and all seven spared, Mr Daiwik?’
‘We have been better favoured than most.’ Father’s smile broadened. ‘Our neighbours and the folk beyond suffered heavy losses during the plague.’
As Father spoke, Mr Barlow did something very strange. He placed the pale-green pocketbook over the table, opened it and turned through its pages with his thumb, all the while talking easily with Father. Opposite Lucian, Mother’s brow tightened, and Leon inclined his head slightly as they watched the Clerk.
No one else seemed to pay it any mind.
‘Very fortunate. Few men in England can say as much.’ Barlow turned sharply to Father. ‘I must trust that your household will keep what is said here in strict confidence. New matters of state thrive ill on loose talk after all.’
Father cleared his throat softly and inclined his head. ‘You have my word, sir.’
Mr Barlow talked on about the keeping of secrets and how much His Majesty’s business depended on it. At the thought of yet more secrecy, the cold inside Lucian gave a small, sour stir. With it came a new feeling—a presence—like standing with his back to a door and knowing someone had slipped into the room without his hearing or seeing them.
The presence pressed in from all sides, all at once, close and smothering. Growing closer and tighter. Lucian tucked his hands behind his back and let his nails bite into his palms, trying to pay no heed to it. His heart thudded in his ears as he let his gaze move slowly round the parlour, but as suddenly as it had come, the feeling was gone—leaving a cold hollowness in the pit of his stomach.
Leon gave him a light tap with his shoulder and tipped his chin toward Mr Allerton. The pale man was turning on the spot, head slightly lifted, sniffing at the air. The scene put Lucian in mind of the black hound, how it too had tested the wind before fixing its burning eyes on the twins.
‘...That’s precisely why…’ Mr Barlow kept on speaking, as if Mr Allerton hadn’t just bristled like a dog set loose. Father’s and Lawrie’s faces held steady as if they’d marked nothing amiss. But Mother kept glancing at the man, her brow drawn tight—frowning harder each time.
‘His Majesty’s Northern Mathematical Academy is the first of several such foundations we intend to raise. We know you have other sons, Mr Daiwik, but for this particular charge we seek certain qualities that are seldom found in older lads.’
Mr Barlow finished, watching Father with narrowed eyes, one hand lying flat upon his pocketbook. The book’s cover caught the light again—that unnatural gleam—and Lucian closed his eyes. It felt as if the book was alive, somehow—watching him.
‘I see,’ Father said and Mr Barlow’s eyes turned to them.
‘We are bound to enquire into a lad’s morals, diligence, and obedience. Can you keep to our rules, young masters?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Leon.
Lucian drew himself up.
‘We mind Father and our masters well enough, sir,’ he said, his voice steadier than he felt. ‘Reverend Ainsworth says we’re no more trouble than other lads… or no worse, at least.’
Father’s hand came to rest on Lucian’s shoulder in a brief, approving squeeze.
‘That he does,’ he said quietly.
Lucian was certain his father wanted—even more than the trade with the Crown and the twenty pounds from the scholarship—to stand in the Cloth Hall and tell the gentry and other merchants that his sons served as the King’s own surveyors.
Mr Barlow paused, turned another page in his pocketbook, laid his hands flat over it, and turned to Father.
‘Mr Daiwik, I must tell you, your lads share a rather peculiar trait, do they not? A birthmark, I suppose. On their cheeks. A very distinctive feature.’
‘Ah, yes. A common question,’ Father spoke well enough, though the colour drained a little from his face. ‘It has been a trait in my family for generations. Six of my eight brothers and sisters have had the same mark on their right cheek, all star-shaped. Mine is hidden under the beard.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘The reddish hair too comes from the Daiwik side as well.’
‘How curious. Such marks are often taken for signs of one sort or another. Some would say they carry a more profound meaning.’
‘It is merely a family trait. Nothing more,’ Father said, and he exchanged a brief, worried look with Mother.
‘Of course. Merely a trait.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Daiwik,’ Hewitt put in. ‘Did you say eight brothers and sisters?’
‘That is right. Most of them died as children or in the civil war. I, myself, am a twin. He lives in Scotland now and farms.’
‘You come from a large family, then?’ Mr Barlow said, and for the first time his face showed surprise.
‘Aye. I am the seventh of nine children.’
‘The seventh? The seventh of nine,’ Barlow repeated slowly. His eyes narrowed a fraction and flicked to Leon and Lucian. ‘So your youngest child—one of the twins—would be the seventh child of a seventh child, would he not?’
Mother’s cheeks flushed. Lucian had never heard anyone speak of such reckonings with so much weight. Leon pulled a face at him, as if he found Barlow’s talk as strange as the opened pocketbook the man held flat upon the table.
‘Aye. Last of the lot,’ Father said, his voice a shade tighter than before. ‘Leonard came first, then Lucian. He is the seventh.’
Mr Barlow’s dark gaze sharpened.
‘If you will permit me, Mr Daiwik—I do wonder what the parishioners of Leeds make of such a thing,’ he said plainly. ‘Your kin carry a star upon their faces, from one generation to another, and your youngest son is a seventh child of a seventh child. A very uncommon household, indeed.’
The memory of old women in town muttering—that seventh children or twins were marked folk—as Lucian passed by rose up in him, yet he had never thought much on it. To him, it had never meant anything more than a count of births—just the sort of superstition Father called daft tales for the weak of mind.
‘They have come to accept…’ Father squared his shoulders. ‘…those things are simple chances, nothing more.’
‘Folk do say, however,’ Barlow went on, as if speaking idly, ‘that those with such reckonings upon them are rarely plain men. They talk of healing hands, of a turn for second sight, of one that stands with a foot in this world and the next, do they not? Some will call it a gift from Heaven, some a stroke from the Adversary.’
Lucian felt a prickle run over his skin at Barlow’s words. Lucian didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the Clerk at all. Master Hewitt leaned in. There wasn’t so much as a hint of a smile about him now.
‘D’you feel any such… afflictions upon you, Master Lucian?’
Lucian shook his head hard, unable to force out a single word in his own defence. The cold and warmth inside him twisted together until he could scarce tell one from the other.
Father cut in with a short, strained laugh.
‘I did not take you lot for believers in old tales, gentlemen. Folk say a great many things. In the end they came to respect me and my household well enough. I set no store by old wives’ talk. My sons will make their way by work and learning, not by daft tales spun in alehouses. I hope that settles the matter.’
‘It does. It does,’ said Barlow. ‘We took it too far, I beg your pardon, Mr Daiwik.’ He turned to the Master. ‘I judge it is time, then?’
Master Hewitt gave a curt nod.
Mr Allerton followed suit, his eyes fixed on Lucian—without blinking. Mr Barlow lifted his hand from the pale-green pocketbook; pinching his fingers together, he opened them in the air as though letting something fall and his palm came down upon the book with a muffled thud.
The little hairs on Lucian’s neck rose as a thin wave of green light slipped from under Mr Barlow’s hand and ran outward, like water poured over glass. It washed across the parlour, over chairs, over kin and guests alike.
The sounds around Lucian dulled, and the world fell into a strange, muffled stillness. Mother, Father, and Lawrie sat like figures carved in wax—their faces fixed, gone near empty.
Mr Barlow turned to him and Leon.
‘Well, well. Now, young masters. We have much to discuss.’
Questions for Beta Readers on Chapter 3:
1. How believable is Leon's panic vs. Lucian's quicker acceptance—does it deepen their twin dynamic or feel uneven?
2. What emotions does Lucian evoke in you—feelings of sympathy, annoyance, or disgust?
3. Pacing-wise, does Ch3's interview build suspense effectively into Ch4?
4. Voice check: Do Barlow/Hewitt's speech patterns feel distinct from the family dialect, enhancing the "otherworld" feel?
5. Where does momentum dip/surge?
Fun game: how many stars would you give to the Characters so far?
5 ☆☆☆☆☆: I really liked the character - I feel a strong connection - Unique and has own voice.
4 ☆☆☆☆: I liked the character - I feel a solid connection - Distinct voice with some depth.
3 ☆☆☆: I'm neutral on the character - Basic connection - Familiar voice, nothing standout.
2 ☆☆: I didn't connect much - Weak or inconsistent voice - Feels a bit generic or underdeveloped.
1 ☆: I didn't like the character - No real connection - Flat or stereotypical voice.
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1. Lucian (Luce) Daiwik
2. Leonard (Leon) Daiwik
3. Lettice (Tess) Daiwik
4. Lewis (Lewie) Daiwik
5. Eleanor Daiwik
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6. Aunt Edith Browne
4. Lydia (Lyddie) Daiwik
8. Luke (Lukey) Daiwik
9. Lawrance (Lawrie) Daiwik
10. Thomas Daiwik
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11. Mr Bartholomew Barlow
12. Mr Allerton
13. Sage James Hewitt
