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“Well, we’re not going to Swanstone for a bath and a confab.”

“Have you even got a functioning bath in your great, decrepit manse?”

“No,” said Mordaunt, with violent sarcasm. “I bathe in the toilet bowl.”

“Fine,” said Aurienne. “Your house.”

They pushed their tacn to the waystone, were reminded tomind the gap, and were pulled into the ley line.

Rosefell Hall was in much the same state as it had been upon Aurienne’s previous visit, save for the presence of Mordaunt’s steward, whom he introduced to Aurienne thus:

“Ah, Mrs.Parson, there you are. Meet my Means to an End, Haelan Fairhrim. Disregard her attire; she doesn’t actually moonlight as a lady of the night. The story is too long and stupid to tell you. Fairhrim—this is my steward, Mrs.Parson.”

Mrs.Parson was a stout woman, white skinned and black haired, save the grey streaks running through her bun. She lowered her head. “Haelan Fairhrim, it’s an honour.”

Aurienne’s impression was of a sturdy kind of competence. Mrs.Parson looked so proper in her neat apron that Aurienne wondered whether the poor woman even knew she was working for a Fyren. Perhaps she was normal?

“How do you do, Mrs.Parson?” said Aurienne, inclining her head in return.

Mrs.Parson turned to Mordaunt and, in a tone edging on reproof, said, “I do wish that I’d known we were expecting company.”

“Spur-of-the-moment sort of decision,” said Mordaunt. “Haelan Fairhrim would like to wash up; she had an unfortunate encounter with a lecherous shitbag.”

“What?” gasped Mrs.Parson.

“I took care of him,” said Mordaunt. “Couldn’t have him harassing our Haelan.”

“I hope you made him suffer, sir,” said Mrs.Parson.

“I did.”

“Is he dead, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Send his mother a toe, sir.”

“Good idea.”

Anyway, reflected Aurienne, it was nice of Mrs.Parson to confirm so early in their acquaintance that she, too, was unhinged.

Mrs.Parson disappeared for a few minutes to sort out the bath and returned with towels wedged under one arm, and two oil lamps. She led Aurienne up the stairs. In the lamplight, Aurienne noticed that Mrs.Parson was missing a few fingers on her left hand. An old injury, based on the maturity of the scars, but a traumatic one. It hadn’t been a clean amputation.

The lamps cast shivering shadows over draped-over paintings and fading tapestries. The upstairs of Rosefell was even more desolate than the downstairs had been, and reeked of dry rot. Aurienne, whose mortal enemy was dust, began a rhythmic series of sneezes in time with her steps.

Mrs.Parson was a mix of embarrassed and defensive about the state of the place. “You’ll have to forgive the house’s condition. It’s just me and my husband—he’s the groundsman. Mr.Mordaunt doesn’t wish to employ anyone else. I can’t keep up with all of the rooms. I make sure his chambers are liveable, of course, and I’ve just given the Magnolia Room a cleaning.”

“Have you been with the family long?”

“Oh yes. A few decades. Of course, there’s not much of a family to speak of now. Mr.Mordaunt is the last of the line.”

They came to the great house’s bedrooms, where every door was adorned with a small brass frame. Some still contained, in long-fadedink, the ghostly names of guests from more prosperous times. A path was worn in the plush carpet. Once-fine pieces of furniture sagged along the corridor, topped with tarnished candleholders.

“There was a time when any one of these rooms would have been ready to receive you at a moment’s notice,” said Mrs.Parson.

“What happened?” asked Aurienne.

“Dissipation.”