Uncle Jonatan’s desk had been replaced by a table, chairs, and two settees shrouded by heavy covers and the dusty flavor of neglect.

I stepped into the first-floor corridor and listened through the threads that bound the house. Aunt Tilly had spun Kena’ani magic to guard home and property, and its embrace lingered in the walls like a memory of her warm smile. I wiped away a tear, for although I knew she and Uncle had betrayed me to save their own daughter, I still missed the way Aunt Tilly would kiss my forehead at night before we slept. I longed for the plates of sweet biscuits she and Cook had baked when they had extra coin for a treat of honey.

The house lay utterly silent except for the patter of rain. I went down to the ground floor and into the half basement. In the kitchen I opened the shutters and looked around. A new stove with all manner of modern conveniences had been installed in place of the old one where Cook had eked out each last morsel of tough stew meat and mealy turnips to make enough to feed us all. Dust smeared the tabletop, broken by the footprints of mice. Yet the coal bin was full, and the pantry was stocked with sealed pots of oats, barley, and beans.

I found a key hanging beside the back door. By the time the rain really began to pour, we were all safe inside.

I shivered. “No one knows we’re in Adurnam, and no one has lived here for weeks. I say we stay here the night, take a bath, and wash our clothes.”

Bee nodded. “We can haul water while we’re still wet. Now it’s coming on dark, no one will notice our chimney smoking. Do you want to haul water or start the fire?”

“I’m cold and wet,” said Rory in a tone of offended surprise. “I can’t work at hard labor in this condition!”

“You’d be surprised what you could do rather than have me bite you,” said Bee.

A grumbling Rory and I filled two copper tubs and the big scullery pot with water while Bee lit lamps, stoked and lit a fire in both the scullery and the fancy kitchen stove, and set oats and beans to soak. She found towels and an entire cake of lavender-scented soap of a kind we had only been able to afford as shavings at the holidays. In the scullery I gave Rory a towel to wrap around his waist and told him to take off his wet clothes.

“If you sit and watch the big pot, the water will boil,” I added.

“Really?” He settled on a stool with such a pleased expression that I could not tell whether he simply did not know the old saying, or had a profoundly complex sense of humor.