A soft glow blossomed in the six fixed globes when Al pulled a book from an unlocked cabinet to check on something, barely illuminating the slate table before the smaller hearth. There were two chairs at it, one at either end—the first with padded cushions and arms, the second a simple stool. It had shocked the hell out of me the first time I’d tried to sit on the stool and found myself smacked halfway across the room. I was supposed to use Ceri’s comfortable chair, apparently.

My thoughts drifted back to my own kitchen and I sighed, not for missing the gleaming counters and bright lights, but for the people I’d left behind. “You know I can’t start a fire to save my life,” I complained as I gingerly picked out some thin sticks from the basket of kindling. It wasn’t that cold, but if I was trying to light a fire, he’d stop throwing spelling equipment at me. “Don’t you have some Logs-o-Fire or something?”

Al didn’t even look up from his collection of knives in a locked case. “Then we’ll be cold until you learn. Try not to use all the kindling. It’s expensive.” Seeing me stirring the ash at the center of the pit for signs of life, he crossed the room to set that ugly ceremonial knife with the writhing woman on it beside the bag.

“Can’t you just turn up the heat?” I complained. His receiving room looked like a mansion, the mundane kitchen where Pierce slept was modern, and I’d never seen Al’s bedroom, thank God, but here, he went rustic.

“No pipes here,” he said, voice faint as he thoughtfully fingered his stash of candles.

My head bobbed. Duh. Even a hastily set circle would be secure. I glanced at the mantel where Krathion still sat next to Mr. Fish, and I shivered. How often was I going to need protection from a banshee, anyway?

Al shut a drawer hard, then set a small, thin plank of what was probably redwood out with the salt and candles. “Feeling more yourself? ” he asked slyly.

Again my head nodded, and I dropped a chunk of wood in the pit to serve as a heat trap, snuggling it into the ash. “Yes,” I said shortly, thinking the ash on my hands smelled better than the burnt amber that permeated the place. I was going to have to shower when I got home.

“Pity.” Al turned away, scanning a shelf of metal objects and plucking one at seeming random. “I liked you drunk. You’re more fun. Can I make you a cake, love?”