He pulled off his sweater—it was the color of rust, bright compared to what the rest of the household wore—and I froze as he put it over my head. I sat speechless for a moment, his sweater swallowing my torso, and then hesitantly put my arms through the holes. The knit was still warm from his body and smelled like cologne and nutmeg. It was an oddly intimate experience.

Magnus didn’t seem to notice my discomfort as he went on. “Peggy was supposed to provide you with proper clothing.” He scratched his head, discovering the red pencil tucked in his hair. He laid it beside the other with a fond grin, as if he were crossing paths with a friend. “Oh well, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Get used to calling me Magnus, or I’ll replace you with someone who will. Saba!” He called, and I winced against his sudden volume. “Saba, come here!”

After a moment the woman with the shaved head appeared in the doorway. Now that I was seeing her again, she looked a little like Magnus. Their cheekbones, maybe, and the shape of her eyes. His sister? But then why was she treated so poorly?

“Saba, see if you can find our guest something warmer to wear.”

The woman shuffled away, and Magnus turned his attention back to me. “So, down to business. Let me tell you a little about my situation. My mother married my father and cursed him with the Evil Eye. My father then had the nerve to get himself killed three years ago and pass it on to me. Because of that, I had to move from my comfortable mansion in England to live in a giant icebox with a handful of tiresome adults in order to keep the general population out of danger. I’ll be twenty-one soon, and Esjay thinks it’s important that Thorne Manor is cleansed before that time, since I’ll have to take over my father’s business upon my birthday. In summary, adults are useless, and you have seven months to do three years’ worth of work. Do you have any questions so far?”

“Is every Waking in your house so … violent?”

“It’s an unfortunate thing. But it’s the reason we have a curfew in place. Anyone out in the halls after ten o’clock knows the risks.”

“How can it still be so bad after three years?”

He sighed heavily, as if he was sick of hearing about it. “Every time we lose a debtera I feel like less and less progress is made. The servants’ quarters are cleansed, some of the bedrooms, the dining room and kitchen. But that’s nothing compared to the number of rooms that are left.”

I folded a tart into a napkin while he wasn’t looking, then slipped it into my pocket for later. “What did you mean you ‘lose’ debtera?”