The cries came in the middle of the night.

Seiren's eyes snapped open, swallowing the scream that would have burst out had she not oriented herself in time. Cold sweat covered her from head to toe. The leering monsters of her nightmare slipped out of her mind, leaving her with the familiar dread and pounding heart. Soon, the images were no longer accessible, but the bitter taste of terror and nausea lingered. She pushed herself up, kicking off the covers that stuck to her body with perspiration. Madeleine stirred in the back of her mind as Seiren slipped the necklace back on. One snap of Seiren's fingers ignited the light rune she always kept by her side. The room hadn't changed; the old books sat in their spaces in the bookcase that reached the ceiling. The thick, moth-eaten curtains swayed occasionally from the draught that escaped through the cracks in the walls.

Permeating the heavy, dead air were steady, child-like sobs.

Hairs rose on the back of Seiren's neck. A shiver racked through her body. This scene was like something from horror books, but she knew ghosts and ghouls didn't exist.

You have your sister's soul tethered to a stone and you don't think ghosts exist? mused Madeleine.

Seiren ignored her, swinging her legs out of bed. Her feet hit the cold floor, making her toes curl. She grabbed a shirt she'd worn earlier that day and swung it over her shoulder as a shawl. It was probably 'improper' for a young woman to wander a house that had two other men living there, in her nightdress, but she didn't care for propriety at that point. If it wasn't for the chill, she would happily wander about naked. Madeleine giggled as Seiren stuffed paper and chalk into the breast pocket.

The cries echoed down the corridor, a thin, whispery noise that made Seiren's heart uncomfortable, rather than sending chills down her back as books described. It was pathetic, sad, not at all creepy. Seiren padded across and tugged at the door—

—only to find it locked.

"You damned..." Seiren muttered, scowling. Anger flared, sending prickles down her back. She snatched the chalk out of a pocket and sketched a violet rune on paper. She could imagine shrivelled old Myrtin turning the key with his trembling fingers. Did Fernard really think he could lock her, a mage, in? She slammed the rune on the wooden surface and snapped her fingers; the sound echoed in the empty room. The door glowed purple and shuddered, becoming transparent, and she passed through with a shiver.

Darkness stretched before her. The source of the cries was in the same direction she'd been earlier that day. Snapping another light rune to life, she made her way towards the wooden staircase, keeping an ear out for footsteps. She was undisturbed. The whole house was fast asleep. If she believed in ghosts and monsters, she could probably convince herself they lurked in the shadows, staring at her every move and waiting to pounce, but she knew the only demons belonged to the dirty hands of Hannans and the monsters stayed in her dreams. Her feet barely made a noise. The stairs creaked beneath each step as she ascended. The cries became clearer, a child's. Two flights later, she could hear it just down the corridor.

Swallowing, she maintained a hold on her glowing rune and made her way forward. The paintings changed on this path. Where downstairs there were nothing but the perfectly-captured dissatisfied glare of people no longer on this earth, what decorated the walls were scribbles and scrawls in crayon, the paper wrinkled and smudged with finger marks. The colours were bright, cheerful, amateurish, and a complete contrast to the decrepit house. Her ears picked up only the soulful weeping through the pounding of blood in her own ears and loud breaths.

The last door in the corridor came into view. The noises emanated from there. Seiren's heart thudded against her ribs. For some reason, what lay beyond the door did scare her – a little. It was no ghost or ghoul; that much was certain. The voice belonged to a child, one Fernard didn't want her to know about. But why? A creak came from behind her. She whipped around, her breath held, magic tingling at her fingertips. There was nobody there. It must be the old house groaning. She'd half expected Fernard to pounce at her again, fury burning in those dead grey eyes.

She closed her hand around the icy bronze doorknob. It wouldn't budge. Locked – as she'd expected. The rattle stopped the crying at once.

She pressed another rune paper onto the door. Snuffing the light rune, she snapped her fingers and phased through the violet glow.

Her eyes adjusted when the light faded. A spacious room spread before her. Candlelight flickered on either side of a four-poster bed, the drapes tied back. Toys sprawled in the corner, half-immersed in darkness. Sitting crouched in the middle of the bed, the sheets swamping him, was a tiny little boy who couldn't be older than five years old. Swollen red eyes peeked at her as he huddled beneath the covers, as if the flimsy sheets could protect him from a predator. He sniffled.

Seiren could only stare from where she was just in front of the wooden door. A child. It was actually a child.

You sound surprised. So much for not believing in ghosts.

He stared at her with eyes too big for his little face. His cheeks sank in. Long straggly brown hair hung in sad bunches, framing his pasty white skin.

"Are you..." Even his voice was tiny and weak. "... death?"

Seiren couldn't help but snort. "Death? Me? You ever seen death looking like some boy-girl?"

"You're wearing white."

Seiren marched towards him. He shrank away. She stopped at the edge of his bed, hands on her hips. He was so frail his collarbones jutted out.

"Yes, it's called a nightdress, sweet cheeks." She shot out a hand and prodded. He flinched, mouth opened in shock.

His eyes widened. "You're real."

"No sh—" She stopped herself in time. "No joke, genius."

To her surprise, he giggled.

"Something funny?"

"My papa... he calls me that. His little genius."

"Who's your papa?"

"He's the professor! He's a very clever man."

Seiren blinked. "Ebanon Fernard... is your father?"

Huh. Nobody said he had a son. I think he had a wife, though.

"Yup. I'm Kori." He sounded extraordinarily chirpy for such a frail boy. "What's your name?"

"Seiren. Your father hired me as his mage."

His eyes went even rounder. He clapped his hands together, a delighted smile spreading across his face.

"You're the new mage? That's amazing! You can do magic, right?"

Seiren fought back a sarcastic reply; this was just a child, after all.

My gosh, Seiren. So you do have a soul.

"Yes. I've been making toys for the past few days."

"Really? My papa have been doing the same! Are you working together?"

Seiren's mouth quirked. "Oh, really? Where are they?"

Cheeks pink, Kori shuffled along the bed until he reached the edge. With great difficulty, he extracted his legs from beneath his cover – big, thick legs with pink skin stretched so tight they shone in the candlelight. That ordeal seemed to have taken all the energy out of him. He panted, lips pursed and blue, hands gripping the bed's edge. He made to propel himself off, and then thought better of it.

"I can't. Papa said I should rest."

"What's wrong with you?"

"I have a bad heart. I always have. But I get tired all the time now. It's not fair."

"Show me where."

He pointed. Seiren activated a yellow rune – prompting another awestruck gasp – and spotted the toy box beneath the window. Sure enough, when she squatted and rustled through the contents, she found the intricate self-propelling horse with the golden sash and plaited tail and the dancing, ball-jointed soldiers in scarlet uniforms. Her own creations.

Damn Fernard. She bit her lip in annoyance. He'd claimed her work as his own. How dare he?

But why? Surely a scholar like him would know the repercussions of plagiarism. And he's a mage himself, why would he need you to do these basic runes for him?

I created these from scratch. They're not basic. Seiren made her irritation clear.

No, but animating toys isn't hard. He could easily have bought the toys then reanimated them, if he couldn't create them himself.

"Kori," Seiren said over her shoulder. "Did your father make the runes himself? In front of you?"

"Yes," came his little voice. "He always prepares them and brings them here to activate. He does the magic in front of me."

"Does he draw them in front of you though?"

"Oh. No."

Figures.

"He's been really good this week, though. I know he's always super busy with work but he knows what I want. He always brings these really cool toys and plays with me. And he knows I love magic so he always does the magic that makes these toys."

My magic, you mean, Seiren thought bitterly. So much for the great Professor Fernard, nothing but a scam. I bet he didn't even write those damned papers.

"He's been so smiley lately." Kori had a goofy grin on his pinched face. Seiren moved back over and plopped the stuffed bear dressed in the King Pollin uniform in his lap. It wiggled its arms and legs on touch, as she'd runed it to. She sat down by him, sinking into the softness of the bed. "He used to be so stressed, and I used to beg him to play but he never does. Ever since Mama went away, he's been so sad."

"Your mama... left?"

"She went back to the Being, he said. It's a peaceful happy place, but she won't be coming back. He said we'll see her again some day though."

What an odd way to phrase it. Back to the Being? Madeleine sounded puzzled.

Like his thesis? All souls return to the Being as one? So she's dead, basically?

"He's never been able to make toys like these before, though. They were always a little wonky or weird. So even though he's not really come to really play for weeks, he's been making these now." Kori bounced the Pollin bear on his lap; its limbs flailed. "They're perfect, now."

So the previous mages haven't been able to make toys like these. That's why he fires them all one by one.

"So what can you do?" Expectant eyes, the same shade of grey as his father but with more warmth and friendliness, gazed at her. "Can you do magic like these, too?"

"I... yeah." She didn't want to burst his bubble: that all these magic were of her doing and his father just a fraud, much as Ebanon Fernard deserved it, the scamming knave. "I can do magic like these. Want to see?"

His eyes lit up once again.

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