“You say that every single time, Tom.” The woman with bright orange hair and bizarrely blue eyes frowned at me. “She can’t be older than sixteen.”

“Yes, but she’s seen war,” he said, pointing to my scar. I fought the urge to cover it with my hand.

I’d thought Peggy just preferred her clothing to match her grim demeanor, but the three others wore that same dark grey to match the bleak walls. To be fair, it was probably less a fashion choice and more a matter of dyeing all the wool in one barrel. Even so, it was strange how well they matched the house. Like ghosts dressed in shadows.

“This is Tom,” Peggy said. “He takes care of maintenance around the house. Emma here, the two of us share the task of cooking and mending. And Edward”—the old man nodded at me with a small smile, his eyes glistening kindness—“he keeps the horses. We all clean around here.” She gave me a pointed look. “That includes you.”

I was getting paid to cleanse the house of the Evil Eye, not of dirt, but I would argue that point with Mr. Rochester. “Four people taking care of such an enormous house?”

“We’re all that’s left,” Emma said.

A somber silence fell over the group. Of course, it was obvious without even asking—the rest of the staff had left. Emma leaned against Tom, and he cradled her head comfortingly. When Edward cleared his throat it sounded harsh against the silence.

“Why doesn’t anyone here wear an amulet?” I asked.

“Superstitious nonsense,” Peggy said, waving away my words as if they stank. “Our God protects us.”

I looked at the others, but they seemed to be deliberately avoiding eye contact with me. I took a deep breath, trying not to sound annoyed. “We worship the same God. He created the doctors to prescribe medicine, just as he created the debtera to craft amulets.”

“Just folksy hogwash,” she said gruffly, and I bit my tongue to keep from lashing back. She pointed to an entryway, glowing brighter than the rest. “Dinner is in the dining room.”

“Good luck,” Tom said, offering an encouraging smile.

“There is no good luck,” Emma said to him as the four of them headed down a hall, “that’s the entire point.”

Entering the dining room was like walking into a séance—there were candles on every surface but the floor. The hardwood table was long with extravagantly ornate chairs. It was a room built for a dinner party, and yet a single man, dressed in a dark Nehru-collared shirt and a long coat, sat at the head of the table. He must’ve heard me come in, because he turned around in his chair, his white smile brighter than any candle in the room.