After three days at the Hartley mansion, Seiren was tempted to punch snobby Professor Fernard in the face and then set his house on fire.

She lay on the carpeted floor, ignoring the dust bunnies that danced to the sky, and groaned aloud. She rolled over, arms stretched out, and sneezed when the bunnies crept up her nose.

"Ugh!"

The fire crackled in the corner, throwing sparks out from time to time and bathing the room in a soft yellow glow. She sat up, glaring at the small roll of paper with her instructions for the day. Runes to make toy trains. After the fiasco with the stumpy horse in Bicknor, Seiren had thought of several new runes she could try to make animations without the embarrassing aesthetics. She'd never guess all the moody professor wanted was for her to carry on making it. Runes to make model soldiers. Runes to make metal humanoid machines. Runes to make varying types of castles and moats. Runes to make stuffed animals. Runes to make said stuffed animals dance. It was almost like he wanted to demean her on purpose. Even if she had just graduated, she didn't slave away at King's for six years just to make whimsical childish ornaments for a man with all the charm of a rotten fish.

And to make matters worse, although the requests were relatively simple, the demands were so detailed. The soldier must have a red uniform with three sets of stars on each lapel. He must have a sword on his left side and wear gloves. The train must have five carriages and in the design of the ones from Benover. The animation rune was easy to design; ensuring the products reflected the intricacies was no mean feat. And he always just wanted the runes, not the products. Always just the piece of paper with her magic infused. The designs took forever, but the products weren't inherently difficult to make. And Myrtin was always there at the strike of midday, lunch in his hand, in exchange for her designs.

Think of it as a down time. You can do more on your healing runes when you've satisfied today's quota, said Madeleine. She seemed equally baffled by the irrational requests, but she'd taken less of an insult. Seiren stuck her feet on top of the sofa's backrest and wrinkled her nose. Being stuck in this depressing, dead house sapped her motivation and appetite. The floorboards and furniture creaked and groaned every night. Wind crept through the cracks in the walls, whistling and crying into the night, sometimes sounding eerily human-like. She was sure she reeked of the rotten wood, old house smell by now. If Seiren didn't have recurring nightmares as it was, there was enough fodder to ensure that she would never have a peaceful night's sleep.

She peered at her adjoining bedroom. The bedsheets tumbled to the ground along with a pillow or two. Yesterday's dress lay on the floor in a dismal crumple. She'd refused Myrtin in a horrified voice when he offered to do her laundry. Every day, the old butler seemed to wither a little more, like a pile of ashes eroded by passing breeze.

Seiren hummed, off-tune, before it spiralled to a crescendo and she ran frustrated hands through her raggedy blonde hair, and rolled across the floor.

Here lieth Seiren Harred, who screeched herself to death.

Seiren paused, gritting her teeth, nose buried in the old carpet. Thanks, Madeleine. You know what? Screw the professor. I'm a graduate of King's. I'm a bloody state mage.

Probationary.

I can do magic beyond expectations for my age. She squared her shoulders. I'm not going to sit like some damsel and dither away my days.

You make it sound like you're not being paid for it.

My dignity is impoverished right now.

Seiren jumped to her feet. She patted her pockets – the reassuring rustle of paper and clink of chalks sounded. Flinging the door open, she stomped out, and glanced from side to side.

There was minimal lighting, but enough to show the dust that became dislodged with Seiren's exaggerated action, showering down from the wooden ceiling. Unlit, pristine candles sat on holders nailed to the walls down the corridor. Paintings, drowning in dust and dirt, hung in-between, their occupants staring balefully at Seiren for disturbing their peace. The air was musty, like the smell of ancient books. The creak of old wood came from either end of the hallway; a slight draught breezed by, raising goosebumps on her skin. There was no sound that suggests there were humans anywhere nearby. Or anywhere in the mansion.

You're not really going to set this house on fire, are you?

Seiren snorted. You take me for an idiot?

...Am I supposed to answer that question?

Seiren marched down the corridor, away from the spiralling staircase that led down to the front of the house, arms swinging with vigour. Door after door passed, all of them shut and most likely locked, cobwebs decorating their corners. It held a suffocating feel. No sign of human life, no sign of any life at all. The place was withering away, forgotten by people and by time.

It was kind of sad, the professor resigning himself to a life like this. He used to lecture, perhaps once or twice, to first years at King's, but by the time Seiren enrolled he'd already disappeared off the radar. Any news about him would either come from his publications or hushed whispers from conspiracy spinners.

Seiren wandered the corridors, soon losing the way whence she came. She snapped her fingers; the light rune in her hands flared to life and bathed the corridor in pale ochre. Shadows flickered in the corners, whispers danced in the darkness. Wallpaper wilted downwards, damp soaked into mould in the corners. Nothing but silence waited behind every heavy door. What Seiren would give for a giggle or a spoken word. The isolation was driving her up the mouldy walls.

Another stairway came into view – not the main one. Seiren was pretty sure it was in the other direction. This one was narrower and straight, the walls grey like the floor, uncarpeted. Seiren's hand paused on the handrail. It wasn't dusty. Neither was the ground – someone had taken the time to sweep the bare ground, unlike the inches of neglect that sat on the carpeted floor outside her study. Her eyes darted to the window – also clean. Hazy autumn sunlight streamed through. Through the glass were the yellowed trees and overgrown hedges of the east garden. She was in the east wing. Someone used this area – frequently.

The creak of wood reached her ears. She sucked in a breath, taking fluid steps back, and huddled behind a large bookcase. She snuffed out the rune, plunging her surroundings into the murky darkness again. From below, slow, steady creaks of weight stepping onto wood sounded. The fluffy white hair of Myrtin, the butler, came into view between the wooden rails below. In his hands was a tray of food – if one could call it that. Red beans in sauce and one single slice of bread. Myrtin limped past, his ancient joints groaning with every shuffle. Seiren almost felt bad for the old man as he lumbered up another flight. Surely it was inhuman to expect him to go up and down so many stairs on a daily basis.

Also a slightly inhuman portion.

If that's all the professor eats then I'm not surprised he looks that way, thought Seiren.

I don't think it's for the professor.

You think there's a third person in this place? Can you sense them?

I'm not a bloody dog. I see what you see.

That's a 'no', then.

Seiren waited a few more moments. Sure enough, five minutes later, Myrtin hobbled past, the tray gone from his hands. He clung onto the wooden rails, taking one step down at a time. That was probably why it was so clean. He must go up and down these several times a day. Someone must be upstairs: someone the professor didn't want anyone to know about. Myrtin's footsteps disappeared.

A chill came down her back. She whipped around. A dark figure stood about five metres away, eyes gleaming. Fury washed off him in waves. She squeaked. On instinct, her mind emptied. Magic swirled in her mind, impinged somewhat by Madeleine. She raised her arm, sparks glowing at her fingertips. He covered the distance between them in a split second. His hand shot out, clamping around her wrist in an iron grip before she could summon burst magic. He bent her hand backwards, the glow of magic draining from her fingers. She stifled a cry, pain shooting up to her shoulder, her knees buckling.

"You're not supposed to be here." Rage burned in every syllable.

"Professor," she breathed, her heart thumping hard against her ribs. To her astonishment, there was a familiar spark where his flesh touched hers. Seiren's eyes jumped to her wrist. Although it burned, there was nothing visible on her skin, but she recognised the spark of magic. That was no mistake. But Ebanon Fernard was not on the mage registry – of that she was also sure. He let go, as if scorched. "You're a... mage?"

The professor straightened, anger burning in every hardened edge on his face.

"I told you the first time: the rest of the house is out of bounds." His words were barely above a whisper, but Seiren flinched from the animosity. He looked as if he wanted to strike her. "Consider this your last warning, Mage Nithercott. There are secrets in this house that nobody is privy to. Should I find you snooping again..."

He left the threat incomplete. He swept around, his long cloak billowing, and marched off.

What was that about? Madeleine said as he disappeared into the darkness.

He's got something to hide.

Don't we all? But we don't threaten each other with magic every time.

Seiren rubbed her wrist. It felt raw despite the lack of open wounds; the tingle of magic remained. There was no doubt about it. Ebanon Fernard was a mage, albeit a non-practising one, from the sounds of things. The question was why? Mages rarely retired early. Their magic was always too powerful to remain bottled up for long, but Fernard was known for being a philosopher; there was not a line in any book about him about his magical talents. Nothing in the house pertained to even a hint of magic. The kind of magic Seiren was asked to do – any mage could easily do. And yet he spent copious amounts to hire one.

You'd think he would have fired you on the spot for snooping. And yet he gave you just a warning.

Ebanon Fernard definitely had something to hide, and Seiren's intrigue was piqued.

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