Seiren stared up at the lavish mansion. The runed motor – one of the first of its kind, powered by layers of red runes and released for commercial use merely one month ago after a major breakthrough by a group of state mages in Vigo – chugged away, leaving her alone facing this monster of a house. Behind her, acres of land spread with yellowing, uncut grass and a round pond covered in moss, upon which fat cherubs, their features worn by rain, danced atop a pedestal in the centre. What must once have been carefully-cut topiary now sat as non-specific clumps of dark green plant life around the peripheries. Dirty windows gazed down at her with haughty judgement. It must have looked grand once upon a time with its proud decorations and arches, but only its size and worn-down exterior remained, hinting at its long-gone glamorous heritage.

Gripping the front of her cloak, Seiren took hesitant steps forward and grabbed the knocker with her other hand, only to find it rusted against the door. Wiping the flaked bits of orange and black metal off the palm of her hand onto her cloak, she then hammered, three times, on the main door.

The air was stagnant, as if forgotten by time, just like the building.

Are we in the right place? Madeleine said, taking in the surroundings through Seiren's eyes.

Well, this is the only mansion in Hartley, so my guess is 'yes'. Seems like everyone's dead, though.

Seiren!

Seiren rolled her eyes at the scolding from Madeleine. Just when she raised her fist to hammer again, heavy locks thumped several times behind the thick door before it creaked open. A face so wizened he had more wrinkles than Seiren's most crumpled undergarment peered out at her.

"Can I help you?" Even his voice sounded several centuries old.

"Mage Seiren Nithercott here to see Professor Fernard," said Seiren, frowning. He seemed far too old to be the famous Prof. Fernard. And far too normal. The professor's eccentricities and unpleasantness were infamous.

"Ah. We have been expecting you, Mage. Please, come in."

He struggled with the door. After several seconds' wrestling, he finally got it to open a few more centimetres, enough for Seiren to squeeze through. She took in his crisp black tailcoat and high white collar with a little bowtie. He must be the butler, and took his role with pride. Even his wispy white hair was carefully combed and set close to his balding head. He walked with a stooped posture in odd jerking motions, as if his joints were glued together. He offered to take her cloak. Seiren withdrew the runes from the inner pockets and slid them into those of her tunic before shrugging the cloak off and passing it to him. She wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

The old man was so skinny his butler's uniform drowned him. Coupled with Seiren's black cloak and the dim light in the hallway, all she could see was his tiny head, his wispy hair glowing like a small halo.

"My name is Myrtin. I am butler to the Fernard household."

Seiren wasn't sure if she was supposed to acknowledge that or respond in a particular way. She nodded instead, although Myrtin had already turned around.

The air was heavy here, as if holding secrets centuries old. Dusty pictures lined the wooden walls, their occupants' eyes glazed. Cobwebs strewn in the corners. The old man battled the front door until it yielded and slammed shut. A wide staircase stretched upwards; hazy light struggled through the dusty windows at the top. A small puff of dust accompanied Seiren's every step.

"Excuse the place, good Mage. Ever since the rest of the household's servants left, it has just been me looking after the mansion and it's fallen into a state of disrepair."

Disrepair is putting it lightly, thought Seiren. This place is a dump.

Don't blame the poor butler. He must be at least seventy years old.

He took her down one of the hallways and showed her into what must be the lounge. The place was icy cold. Dreary sunlight struggled to creep through the dirty windows. A fireplace that hadn't seen a fire in many years sat in the far wall. Books, covered in inches of dust, perched on the shelves. Seiren stood by the table, placing her fingers lightly on it and they came away with a coat of grey.

"May I offer you a pot of tea, mage?"

"I... no. That's fine. I'm okay." She wasn't sure if he could survive making a pot of tea if opening a door was like snapping a leg or two for him. "I can wait for the professor."

"Then allow me to make the fire. It has been a while since we've had guests."

Seiren's eyes jumped to the old fireplace. A few logs of wood sat there, untouched and probably a little soggy from the rain that fell through the chimney. The ash had long been tidied away. She rubbed her fingers; they were getting numb from the drop in temperature.

Myrtin knelt down, groaning. Seiren could almost hear his worn joints crunching. He stuffed some paper between the logs. His hands shook when they took out the book of matches. Four strikes – no spark.

"Uh, let me?"

"No, no!" He seemed horrified. "You are the guest! It's my job to – ah..."

His back cricked. Seiren winced.

"No, please. Don't break anything on my behalf, seriously." She helped him up. He accepted her hand gratefully, mopping his brow.

"My ancestors will be most furious with me. We have served the Fernards for generations..."

"Well, you're no spring chicken any more, Myrtin." Seiren knelt down at the fireplace and took out a piece of chalk. Tugging out a piece of lighter paper, she sketched a rune and tucked it back into the logs. She snapped her finger. There was an orange glow and the flames trickled out of the sides, bathing the room in a warm light. Myrtin sighed, holding his hands out in front of him.

"It is always the cold that makes my joints worse. Thank you, good Mage."

"Seiren."

"It is improper to address a mage by their first name," Myrtin said with a frown. Seiren fought to roll her eyes, but his crinkled in a smile again. "You are still so young, and already so accomplished. Your parents must be proud."

"Mm." Seiren made a non-committal sound.

"I shall get the professor. Please wait here, Mage Nithercott."

Is this another example of the king withdrawing funds? So that people like Myrtin are still serving when they're so old?

Well, I hear the professor's quite a horrible man. Seiren flexed her fingers, sighing when the feelings came back. Maybe he just drove them all away. He's rich enough.

Quite mean to expect an old man to maintain the upkeep of a big mansion like this though.

Seiren looked up, studying the paintings. Most of them were of group pictures, perhaps family portraits from long ago. They all sported severe features, their eyes cold and unforgiving, their jaws tight in expressions that could only be described as constipated.

'Proper', I think is the word, Seiren. Madeleine giggled.

The centrepiece above the fireplace was the professor – at least, it was the one she'd seen in textbooks before. He stood with one leg upon a step, a gilded plush chair behind him. Piles of books sat on one side of the chair, and on the other was writing equipment, quills and parchment depicting his scholarly background. His chiselled features were prominent in the clash of light and shadows, grey eyes piercing through Seiren's soul. Combined with his slicked-back dark brown hair, he would have been quite a dashing man in his prime, except Seiren had never heard a positive remark about him aside from his genius propositions in his theses.

A light cough came from behind.

"Professor Fernard, Mage Nithercott."

Seiren turned around, blinking, and wondered if Myrtin had tricked her. Standing before her was a man that barely resembled the polished person in the painting. He had a slightly stooped posture. Like Myrtin, his suit swamped him as if he had lost a tremendous amount of weight in a short time. His trouser legs were so baggy the forms of his legs were lost to the eye. Dark shadows perched below his eyes; his mouth arched in a permanent frown. His dark brown hair was straggly and greasy, hanging on either side of his face instead of slicked back. Only those grey eyes remained the same, piercing and devoid of warmth.

"Seiren Nithercott, yes?" His voice was barely above a whisper, lacking in emotion. His skin was so pasty the light from the fire almost avoided colouring it.

"That's me."

"Follow me," he grunted, turning around. Myrtin scooted out of the way. The professor marched out with speed surprising for someone who looked so run down. Seiren hurried after, questions churning in her mind. He took her up the sprawling main stairs and then wove in and out of corridors.

I think I might die before I make my way out of here.

He's not going to kill you; don't be silly.

No, it's not that. This place is massive. I'll be a mummified corpse before I can find the exit.

Halfway down one of the dusty, dark corridors, he slammed a door open with strength Seiren would not have expected from such a cachectic man. She hurried after him. It opened to a large study with a fireplace. Books lined up to the ceiling. Moth-eaten curtains sat on either side of a dusty window that overlooked the front of the house – at least that oriented her to where she was. The table seemed untouched for years; yellowing parchment sat in a neat pile on one side, quills and inkpots sat on the other side. The air was still the same glacial temperature.

"Sit." He pointed to several hard wooden stools. Seiren perched on one, drawing her knees up and locking her fingers on top. He stood not too far from her, grey eyes scrutinising every aspect of her and pursing his thin lips, his hands shoved in his pockets. When he spoke, he barely moved his mouth, his voice just above a whisper. "You've come to answer my request, yes?"

"Yes. You wanted someone—"

"I trust you are proficient in common magics?"

"I can do most—"

"I have high expectations. Be aware I have fired every single mage who have answered that call for the past two years. I pay well. I can pay very well, but if you prove to be a disappointment, I have no time for whining and excuses."

Seiren opened her mouth but no words came out.

What a rude man.

He's living up to the hearsay, said Madeleine, not sounding impressed.

"I will provide board and food. In return, you will fulfil my requests for your magic. Should you fail, you will be informed and vacate the residency. If your efforts are worthy of your title as state mage—" Seiren didn't want to remind him she was only probationary. "—then you will be paid handsomely. Do I make myself understood?"

"I didn't come here for—"

His eyes glinted with a dangerous light, snuffing Seiren's protest. She deflated.

"Yes, Professor."

"Good. Your bedroom is in the adjoining room." He gestured to a door on her right. "You will be informed of the day's request at noon, to be completed by the next noon. Myrtin will tell you the rest."

"Wait!" Seiren burst out as Professor Fernard made to exit. He paused, casting a glacial eye at her. Seiren hesitated – she hadn't thought he would actually stay. The painting mustn't have been more than a few years old, but it seemed he'd aged thirty years since. He appeared exhausted, broken.

"You will not leave this room unless escorted. The rest of the house is out of bounds." He took his eyes off her and disappeared, slamming the door behind him, leaving Seiren in silence and alone.

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