The house was strange-looking on the outside. When Gravaldor had attacked seven years ago, his foot had smashed the back of the house, so Master Pilzmann had needed to rebuild those walls. Several years later he’d added a second story for Barclay’s bedroom and for storage. Each addition had been built of something different, making the home like a quilt of brick, stone, and wood. And like all houses in Dullshire, Beast-warding charms dangled from each of the windows, ropes and beads and chimes that reeked and rang and warned stay away, stay away.

Barclay and Selby entered around back, where a flyer had been pinned to the door.

ATTENTION RESIDENTS OF DULLSHIRE

As of today, the twentieth of Winter, four new rules have been issued by the mayor’s office:

Rule #1192: sneezing is hereby prohibited in the town square.

Rule #1193: all pets must be examined by sentry officials for any Beast magic, especially ducks.

Rule #1194: Rule #827 has been revoked. Carrot cake is reinstated as a birthday cake option.

Rule #1195: no babies are to be named Kuthbert with a C—only with a K.

The boys took down the flyer and pushed open the door to the pantry. Inside was crowded with baskets and crates, each filled with different types of mushrooms. The whole place smelled like mushrooms, and mushrooms—for the most part—smelled like dirt. This was the only room in the house not up to Dullshire’s typical standards of cleanliness, and it was also Barclay’s favorite. He liked the smell, and he didn’t mind the filth.

The boys crept through the door to the living room. They found Gustav curled up on the rug and asleep in front of the fire.

Master Pilzmann made a noise of greeting from the kitchen, where he was wearing a burlap apron and washing mushrooms in a bucket of water. He was exceptionally tall—the tallest man in town. He constantly needed to hunch below doorframes, and his drooping gray mustache reached down to his chest. For special occasions Master Pilzmann wore a strange round hat that even made him look like a giant mushroom.

“You’re back late,” he told the boys, so absorbed in his washing that he didn’t look up from the sink. “I was getting worried.”

Barclay carefully adjusted the straps of his bag so that it covered his wound, then attempted—and failed—to smooth down his messy hair. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to take so long. It’s just that…” He swallowed. He hated lying. “We couldn’t find the Mourningtide Morel.”

It’s not a lie, he told himself. We’re just not telling him the whole truth. The thought didn’t make him feel good, but it did help him keep his voice steady.

“Is that so? That’s not like you, Barclay,” said Master Pilzmann. He didn’t sound angry, but Barclay still felt a twinge of guilt. He hated letting Master Pilzmann down.