Mr. Fernsby wiped a hand down his face. “A-And how do you know about this place?”
“It is our business to know.” Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved a card and handed it to him. The information for BIKER—save its address, which was seldom given out—had been stamped upon it, along with her name.
“Has the house spoken to you?” she asked.
He gaped. “Spoken to me?”
She pulled off her gloves. “You need not be so aghast, Mr. Fernsby. Magic is uncommon in today’s age, but hardly unheard of. I took the kinetic tram to get here.” A tram powered by kinesis, one of eleven schools of magic.
“Yes, yes.” He rubbed his eyes. Likely hadn’t slept last night, assuming he’d stayed the night. “I am aware, but it is particularly”—he waved his hand, trying to find a suitable word—“dense here.”
“Indeed. As is the case with domiciles. Enchantments existing outside a flesh body do not receive the normal backlash from the constant casting of spells.”
He shifted. “Pardon?”
“I will need to take a tour if you would like it diagnosed,” she continued. “An enchanted house cannot be well kept without a thorough diagnosis.”
Mr. Fernsby ran a hand back through his hair. No wonder it looked so unkempt.
“You mean diagnosing the type of magic?”
“Among other things. There are several reasons for a house to be enchanted.” She pushed up her glasses. “It could simply be under a spell, or built on a site where an abnormal amount of magic was expelled. It could have specifically been built to be enchanted, which is common. Or there could be half a dozen other explanations. Perhaps the materials used were magicked, or a wizard possesses it, or it is very old and gained sentience on its own, which is unlikely given the colonial style. Sometimes homes are just unhappy with their floorplans and choose to enchant themselves, merely so they can amend—”
Something thudded upstairs. Mr. Fernsby jumped.
Tilting her head, Hulda listened, but heard nothing more. “Is anyone else in residence?”
He shook his head.
Clearing her throat, Hulda finished, “It would be best for me to see the house and determine the source of the magic, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Fernsby looked through the house, almost as though frightened by it. Hulda couldn’t blame him; the walls of the reception hall were beginning to melt. Chaocracy, most likely. The eleventh school of magic.
“Anything to get me out,” he muttered.
“It is my goal to see you well situated. Enchanted houses can be tamed.” When he gave her an incredulous, bloodshot expression, she gestured to the right. “Perhaps we’ll start in the dining room?”
Mr. Fernsby shifted. “T-The dining room table ate my wallet. That must sound utterly absurd to you—”
“Not at all.”
“It nearly ate me.”
Fishing through her bag, she pulled out a string necklace with a red embroidered sack hanging from it and handed it to him. “This is a ward.” She pulled out a second for herself. “Wear it, and it should offer some protection as we move through the house—”
“Some protection?”
“Nothing is foolproof.” She slipped her own ward over her head before meeting his eyes. “They’re dangerous to keep on the person for too long; portable spells like these can have strange effects on the body, but it’s safe to keep in-house, otherwise.”
Mr. Fernsby picked up the sack in his hand and turned it over. “How does it work?”
“This is first-rate magic. Very expensive.” She gave him a look that hopefully said, Please don’t break it. “This ward in particular is a chaocracy ward. Order and restoration, specifically. Very few people are at risk of having too much order in their lives, so I doubt the house will wield it against us.” They were packed with obsidian dust, but each sack also contained some blood and a fingernail from the wizard who had created them. Mr. Fernsby seemed an excitable sort, however, and she determined it would be better not to mention that.
“May I?” She gestured toward the dining room.
Mr. Fernsby nodded and followed her. The shadows darkened significantly as she entered, trying to choke out the light coming from the large window on the east wall. They did a decent job of it.
“It wasn’t like this when I first arrived,” Mr. Fernsby said as she approached the table.
“What was it like?”
“Like a normal house.”