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As the first week from that fateful night drew slowly to a close, Locke started insisting upon penning their totems in the stables, locked gate and all. Though the magnitude of their land certainly made it no issue for them to claim a pen, it was incredibly odd to leave two innocuous (and rather thievable)-looking figures standing in the middle of tossed wheat. Thornley emphasised this absurdity in protest, but other than the potential of the stable boys being convinced they'd lost their minds, a niggling sense of anxiety (so many variants had dogged him in the past month) plagued him and intensified the further away they were from their Wardwood tokens. He'd implored him to change the plan, but Locke sharply noted: "They may be harmless stone right now, but before you know it, they’ll be flesh and blood. And while it may seem a charming notion to you to wake up with a deer in your bed, good luck trying to sneak it out of the house under Father's nose at breakfast. No, trust me - this way is much better. There is hay, there is water, they will be safe till we find them, whenever it happens." And what choice had he but to trust his brother? Locke was right, of course, as he frequently was, and he'd learnt as much from the peasant named Garrett and his magnificent stag. It was better this way.

But still, it felt strange, and the feeling remained palpable. Much to his dismay, Thornley actually found it difficult to rest without his mind being irrevocably drawn to the thought of the totems standing alone in the stables. And yet, though he was eternally on edge - the morning it happened caught him by surprise anyway.

Thornley had shot up at the lurch in his chest, snatching a pair of trousers and fumbling into them on the way to the stairs, his nightshirt roughly shoved upwards and out of his way. He was not quite so organised (in fact, he was rather indecent at the moment), long hair loose and collar wide open as he encountered his brother on the way. "Did you feel that?" He queried over the background shrieks, as if he honestly hadn't noticed that the two might've been related.

On first look, his eyes were drawn to the corner occupied by the kitchen's coalition of maids, huddled together in squealing terror - he traced their frightened gaze and found, in the chaos of floured and sugared floor and counters, a fawn busy knocking over more barrels and baskets around it. With a jolt, Thornley realised it looked just like his totem...or at least, what he could see of it punctuated by patches of white and possibly bits of egg dripping off a limb. The young deer strolled about, strangely sure-footed, but most insistently bashing into inconvenient obstacles that fell and rolled across the floor.

His troublesome journey finally seemed to conclude at the cold stove, its door half-open (clearly some cooking was about to be done before this fiasco) - the fawn stuck his muzzle in, and a grimace crossed Thornley's face as he took a big bite of a piece of ashen coal.

Predictably he bolted out, smacking his face into the grate of the door, and spat out the offending substance before straightening up, as if pretending nothing had happened, and moving on to a nearby candle to repeat the whole process again.

He exasperatedly rolled his eyes at Locke's petty little snipe - if it mattered that much to his little brother now, he would let him take the victory (and get him back for pudding later). The mood soon turned, however, and Thornley had obvious horror written on his face. To slaughter? As much as it would solve some problems - magical deer! He couldn't possibly - "Locke, no -!" he started as he matched his strides.

He relaxed in his hold and offered a private smile, (foolishly) believing that it would make his brother feel better. "Well - why didn't you say so?" he whispered back, "though surely it would be evident - sometime, at least - that we're not?"

The other fawn, however, had gotten his head stuck in a jar and had been turning it every which way as the drama played out, before stumbling into another servant. It was this tragic view and the strange, supernatural pull that led Thornley to hesitate behind Locke, hand raising slightly and pausing in uncertainty. The plan sounded fairytale perfect, but he had his doubts about its execution. How could a collection of servants, as well-meaning as they were, be trusted to handle such important creatures - of which a single mistake could doom them all to their father’s wrath? He had only dreaded this day (and right he was to dread it), but now that it had come, and his deer was right there (in mortal danger?), he could barely bring himself to leave.

"Even if we did not," he said, letting himself be pulled along by sheer distraction in his protest, "surely the stable boys will doom them: they're dim-witted and worse, so loyal to Father. The secret - and their lives - will be lost as soon as the deer change hands: they will most certainly tell him all about this -"

"Your 'other matters' are the most worrisome of matters," Thornley solemnly noted, pulling his collar together in a sudden show of modesty (it was getting drafty and he'd just realised how little he had on). "Pray tell what are those matters to attend to? If we're going to witness the death of our deer and be slaughtered by Father I'd like to know where you'd be, Locke, and the trouble you'll be getting into."