The Fact Is

I'm sick.

I have a cold in my head that is grabbing me by the feet, smacking me against one wall, dropping me, forgetting about me as I lie on the floor for an hour, then walking over to kick me in the shins out of spite. Yes, it's that kind of cold.

I don't consider that as an excuse for not writing, though. I'm trying. I'm up to 715 words, and I'm about to sit down and do more, but I don't know how long I'll survive. So, I'm sad to say, you may have to make do with 2,500 words today.

My cold and I humbly apologize.

Lord of the Manor -- Section 4

[Today was a battle again, mostly because I was trying to fit in another character that simply wouldn't fit. He was going to be a love interest for Maddie, which would make for a great love triangle that would span all three books in an AWESOME TENSION THAT WOULD RIVAL TWILIGHT! Team Michael! Team Other Guy!


[But like I said, he didn't fit. So now he's gone. As soon as I realized he was a mistake, today's writing went much faster. Enjoy.]

            "Looks like I was right," said Maddie's mom, hanging up the phone.

            "About what?" asked her father.

            "No staff out at the old manor, or at least not much. That was..." she looked down at the slip of paper in her hand, "Michael Arches, calling to order a large pepperoni and sausage. Also an order of cheesy bread, and lemonade. Guess he doesn't go for carbonation." Mrs. Sparks looked thoughtful. "I hope he's all right. It seemed like he was babbling a bit."

            "That's because you're scary to talk to, Mom," said Maddie, finishing her National Geographic in the corner of the kitchen. "You're so tall."

            "I'm scary over the phone?"

            "Exactly," said Maddie.

            "She's got a point, dear," said Mr. Sparks. "There's something in your voice. You sound tall."

            Maddie's mom threw a towel at her husband. "At least the boy called before the dinner rush. Should I call Sven and have him come in early to deliver it? He's been asking for extra hours."

            Maddie sat up, smiling hopefully.

            Her mother looked at her. "You're not serious."

            "Why not?" asked Maddie. "It's not like I haven't done it before, and I still bike all the time, so my legs are in good shape. See? Look at them."

            "I just don't want the boy looking at your legs," said Mrs. Sparks.

            "From what I hear," said her dad, "the boy and your legs are about the same height."

            "Dad!"

            "He could ask your legs out. Go dancing, or something. Your legs could borrow some of your mother's nice dress slacks." It was Maddie's turn to throw a towel at her dad. He caught it before it could fall to the floor. "Come on, you two. We have to have at least SOME clean towels for the dinner rush, and I'm the one who has to do the laundry."

            "It's your fault, Dad."

            Mrs. Sparks nodded. "She has a point, dear."

            "So," said Maddie, "can I take this delivery?"

            "Why?" asked her mother.

            Maddie shrugged.

            "Not a good enough answer,” said her mom. “The old Mr. Arches was one thing. He'd been there forever, everyone knew him, and everyone TRUSTED him. All we know about this boy is that he's short and named Michael."

            "And he has pretty eyes," chipped in her father.

            "Exactly," said Mrs. Sparks. "So I don't know if I'm comfortable with you heading all the way out there to deliver a pizza to someone we don't know."

            "Who has pretty eyes," added her father.

            "Can I have that towel back?" asked Maddie.

            "What for?"

            "So I can throw it at you again."

            "In that case, I'll think about it."

            Maddie put down her magazine and looked at her mom. "It's not a date, Mom. It's just pizza and cheesy bread, and I won't even be eating any. I drop it off, turn around, and pedal away."

            "While the young man looks at your legs," added her dad.

            "I'll wear long pants."

            "I still want to know why," said her mother.

            Maddie looked over at the rows of toppings on the counter. "I just want to see the place again," she said. "See what its like. Get it into my head that Mr. Arches isn't there anymore. The funeral was during spring break, and I was down at Aunt Tammy's."

            "Oh, that's right," said Mrs. Sparks. "I had entirely forgotten about that. Were you and Mr. Arches friends?"

            "Yeah," said Maddie. "Kinda."

            "I hadn't realized. I just thought you took him pizza."

            "Well," said Maddie, "I did. That was it, but he was really friendly." She realized her dad was looking at her, his face serious.

            "Take the delivery," he said.

            "Really?"

            "Yes. You're right about Mr. Arches. He was a good man. Very friendly." Then her dad smiled. "Also, very OLD. Never had to worry about HIM looking at your legs."

            "Dad!"

            It was longer out to Daimon Home than Maddie remembered--it had been months since she'd been around at the right time to take the old man a delivery--but she hadn't been lying about being in shape, either. She skidded to a halt in front of the gate and looked at her watch: fifteen minutes. Not too shabby, she thought.

            The beginning of summer gave her enough afternoon light to see by, even through the canopy of trees, as she pedaled her way down the manor's long drive. She smiled in anticipation. She was almost to one of her favorite parts of the trip. There it was ahead of her, the arch of trees that signaled the end of the canopy. She put on an extra bit of speed and broke out into the sunlight. After a moment, gravity took over and she started the long coast down to the center of the basin and the manor house.

            Maddie looked around as she coasted. Things were messier than before. Her mom was probably right, that there was no money for staff. Of course, Maddie had never seen staff around the place. Mr. Arches had always met her himself, and he always tipped well, too. She admitted to herself, the money was part of the reason she had liked coming out here, but only part of it. She still wanted to go through the hedge maze someday, or maybe even swim in the lake. The stream looked like it could be fun for tubing, if the water weren't too cold. She supposed she could ask the boy--Michael?--if she could come at the end of summer to swim. On second thought, maybe not. He might take that the wrong way.

            She reached the gardens close around the manor house and started pedaling again, bending around past the funky-looking bushes to the north, and bump-bumping over the paving stones to the servants' entrance at the north-east corner. A little late, Maddie wondered if maybe the boy wanted it delivered to the front entrance, but then decided to try here first. Something about those huge doors made her uneasy.

            Maddie stopped, climbed off, and leaned her bike against the cracked plaster of the wall. A few more seconds and the pizza, cheesy bread, and bottle of lemonade were off the rack on the back of the bike and she was standing at the door. She glanced down at her legs, a little self-consciously. In the end, she'd stuck with shorts--long ones--because it was summer, and she was NOT wearing pants in summer. But still, now she was afraid she'd be spending the whole time she was delivering the pizza worrying about him looking at her legs. Not that it mattered what he thought about her legs.

            Maddie growled at herself and knocked on the door. Even if he were a midget and spent the whole time staring at her kneecaps, she was only here to deliver the pizza and go. And to say goodbye to Mr. Arches. She knocked on the door again and it opened.

            "Oh my goodness," she said under her breath. He WAS a midget, and he was staring at her kneecaps.

            "I believe that is a knock at the door, young Master." Silver was standing at the door of Michael's temporary bedroom. Michael hadn't been able to figure out what the room used to be--and he hadn't gotten up the courage to ask--but whatever it had been hadn't involved wallpaper. Or shelves. Or windows. But there was a bed and a desk, and enough empty space for him to put his suitcase.

            Also, maybe most importantly, there were electrical sockets. He knew that Silver had said the wireless needed to be reset, but he pulled out his laptop anyway, to see if he could pick up any kind of--nothing. No signal at all. Darn it.

            "I hate to interrupt again," said the butler, "but I wish to remind you that someone is knocking at the door."

            "Right," said Michael, pulling out his phone to send a text to his mom and dad. What would he say? Telling them the internet was out would be easy enough, but what about the rest? He needed to think.

            "Would you prefer that I take care of it, sir?" asked Master Silver.

            "Yeah, great," said Michael absently. Tell them he was making friends with the staff? That would sound way too much like he was off at camp. HI MOM, LIFE IS GREAT, WE CANOE IN THE LAKE AND HAVE ARCHERY LESSONS. P.S. PLEASE SEND CREAM FOR POISON IVY. Maybe he could just tell them he was busy getting settled. That, at least, would be honest, even if it weren't complete. Weren't even CLOSE to complete.

            Michael's brain finally processed what Silver had been saying and he looked up from his phone to the door: no butler. He heard, from down the hall, the sound of the outside door opening.

            "Oh," he said. "Crap."

            He stuffed his phone back into his pocket and shot out the door, bouncing off the hall wall as he slid across the tile in his stocking feet. It was only a few seconds before he was at the door, but it was a few seconds too late.

            Master Silver was looking up at one of the taller girls Michael had ever seen. The girl was holding pizza boxes, a pop bottle, and was looking back down. Neither one moved. Neither one said anything.

            "Hey," said Michael.

            The girl looked up at him--well, 'up' in comparison to looking at Silver--and her eyes were wide. And green. Also, her hair looked pretty good in a pony tail. Too bad she was Mt. Everest.

            "He has wings," said the girl.

            "Exactly," said Michael, his brain scampering around in his skull like a hamster in a hamster-wheel. "It's...a tradition at the manor. Costumes. Sort of a Halloween thing to welcome the new guy."

            "Master Arches," said Silver, "I know it is not my place to contradict you--"

            "Perfect," said Michael. "Yeah, right, we'll figure it out, and I'll take care of the pizza now. Sorry for making you come out here."

            Silver turned and bowed to the girl's kneecaps. "Young miss," he said, and walked back to his pantry, rather stiffly to Michael's eye. Maybe he'd offended the butler, but the less of a look the girl got at the butler's 'costume,' the better. Michael stuffed his hand down his shorts pocket and pulled out his wallet.

            "How much?" he asked.

            "Fifteen," she said. "Was that your butler?"

            Michael started counting out fifteen from the money Mr. Canker had given him, then remembered the tip, gave it all up and pulled out a twenty. "What's that? Um, yeah, my butler. Crazy, huh? Having a butler? I don't even know what to do with him. If I had a car, I'd probably have him polish it, but hey, I don't, so...um...I don't. Here's twenty."

            The girl looked down at her full hands, then back at the twenty.

            "Oh!" said Michael. "Of course. Here, let me take the lemonade--I'll just put it down here--and the pizza, and if you can take the money out of my hand--perfect, right? Awesome. Thanks for the pizza. I'll probably call you again."

            Michael knew his mouth was spitting out words faster than his brain could double-check them, but anything to distract from the fact that his butler was a demon. He nodded up at her, smiling, and hooked his foot around the door to close it.

            "We serve salads, too," said the girl.

            Michael froze, his foot caught awkwardly behind the door. Oh. She wanted to talk.

            "Great," he said. "I like salads."

            "Also sub sandwiches."

            "Yeah, I saw those on the menu."

            "Are you going to be here long?"

            Michael opened his mouth and closed it. What was up? She wasn't looking at him, that was for sure. Her eyes were looking down to where Silver had disappeared into his pantry.

            "Probably not," he said. "I mean, for the summer, and maybe longer, but I don't know. Look, do you mind if I get these back into--"

            "Did you know him?" asked the girl, looking down at Michael.

            "Him?"

            "The old Mr. Arches."

            "Oh! Great-grandpa? No, not really. I mean, when they told me I'd inherited this place was about the first time I'd ever really thought about him. He lived a long way away, and was kind of a recluse."

            "From his family?" she asked.

            "Yeah. Never came to reunions or anything. Though I guess it gets hard to travel when you're older."

            "Huh," said the girl. "He always seemed very fit to me."

            "I don't know," shrugged Michael. "Maybe he didn't like us much."

            "Then why did he leave you this place?"

            DON'T I WISH I KNEW, thought Michael. "Maybe he thought we had something in common. I think his name was Michael, too."

            "Oh, sorry," said the girl. "My name's Madeline Sparks. Maddie."

            "Hi. I'm Michael Arches. But you probably knew that."

            "Yeah," she nodded. "It was on the pizza order."

            She looked at him, glanced back toward the butler's pantry, then back down to Michael.

            "Well," she said. "Thanks for the tip."

            "Sure," said Michael, trying for a pleasant smile that came out feeling rather flat. "Thanks for driving it out here."

            Maddie shook her head. "I don't drive." She pointed to the side of the door.      Michael unhooked his foot and leaned outside enough to get a look at her bicycle leaning against the wall.

            "You biked?" he asked. "Isn't that kind of far? Even from the gate is a long way." He knew. He'd had to walk it with a suitcase. Stupid gravel.

            Maddie shrugged. "Not too bad. I get tough legs from my mom's side of the family."

            Michael glanced down at her legs. They WERE nice legs, and he was willing to take her word that they were tough. He looked back up at her face and she was blushing.

            "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean--I mean, they're nice legs--oh, that was worse."

            "Don't worry about it," said Maddie. "I should go."

            "Of course," said Michael. "Thanks again for the pizza."

            The girl nodded as she picked her bike back up from the wall and swung her leg over the seat. Then she stopped and looked Michael in the eyes.

            "Those wings were a costume?" she asked.

            "Absolutely," he lied. "The staff likes to joke. Ha."

            Her lips flattened, then she shrugged. "Nice to meet you, Michael."

            "Nice to meet you, Maddie."

            Michael pushed the door closed with his back and sagged down to the ground.

            "Is there any way that could have gone worse?" he muttered.

            "I expect there is, young Master," said Silver, stepping out of his pantry. "I apologize if I handled the situation inappropriately."

            "Nah," said Michael, shaking his head. "You did exactly what I told you to do. Sorry I sent you out to talk to a, you know, normal person."

            "I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning," said the butler.

            "A human. I had you come out to deal with a human. I just assumed you normally don't like having anything to do with us."

            Silver's bushy eyebrows swept down over his eyes, his face perplexed. "Whatever would give you that idea, sir? Of course we interact with humans. It is what civilizes us. Now, let me find you some plates."

            "No," said Michael. "I don't need plates. Just...napkins or something. And a glass. Two glasses, if you want some. Do you like pizza? I mean, if you don't mind eating with me. I can't eat the whole thing on my own, and you--do you want some pizza?"

            The butler smiled politely. "I will gladly join you, young Master. In fact, some of my favorite memories with the old Master were made over a combo pizza and root beer."

            "Sorry, are those your favorites?" Michael cringed inside. "I didn't even think to ask what you'd want. I just kind of--"

            "Please, sir." The butler silenced the boy with those two words. "This is your home. You don't need to ask permission." Then Silver turned with all the dignity of a butler three times his size, and went in search of napkins and glasses.

            "Then why does it feel like I need to?" Michael asked himself.

            They ate in the butler's pantry. Michael had expected paper napkins and paper cups--wasn't that how you ate pizza? Pizza on anything else seemed almost sacrilegious.

Instead, from somewhere, Silver had produced cloth napkins so thick they were almost towels. Michael's glass was one of the same cut-glass set that his bottled water had come in before. Silver's glass was small and silver, just right for the demon's stature. Somehow, with the finesse of a demon truly gifted in his profession, the butler used his entire body to tip the two-liters of lemonade, pouring into each glass perfectly and without spilling a drop. Michael wanted to offer to help, but something in the butler's manner forbade it, so the boy sat quietly. He ate his pizza carefully, embarrassed when stretchy cheese splattered tomato onto his chin, or when he spilled lemonade onto his shirt.

            When most of the pizza was gone, Michael couldn't escape to his room fast enough. His head felt like it was spinning. Maybe there was something in the lemonade--it was too old, it had fermented--no, it was just that there was plenty in his life right now to leave him confused. As far as he'd seen, it was just the butler and him in the entire mansion, though Silver had talked about other residents. As he walked the short distance down the hall to his room, Michael wondered when he'd meet them.

            He stepped inside, pushed his door closed behind him, then jumped back, colliding with the door he'd just closed. There, sitting on his bed, was another demon.

            At least, he supposed it was a demon. It looked like a little man the way that Silver looked like a man, maybe two-feet tall, but where Silver had bat wings, this demon had something angular around his eyes, maybe something funny about his fingers, but nothing else obvious. He was dressed in baggy pants and a T-shirt that said SU CASA ES MI CASA. He didn't LOOK threatening, but Michael felt behind him for the doorknob anyway.

            The little demon smiled reassuringly and held out his hands to his sides. "I'm not here to hurt you, young Master. I'm here to offer my services."

            Michael got his voice back. "Who are you?"

            The demon looked thoughtful. "You can call me Sticks," he said.

Lord of the Manor -- Section 3

[I did it. In fact, I overdid it by just a little today. 3,948 words for the day. Don't really know how usable they all are, but they're written, and that's the important part for a first draft.

[This book is strange to write. I wanted to do something less serious after finishing City of Dreams, and now I'm putting out stuff like today's section. A society in ruins. An ominous presence. A Scullery.

[I'm going to keep going, though. The advantage of writing at this pace is, if it doesn't work out especially well, I've only invested a month in writing the book and I can move onto the next one. I do think that I'm writing the story that's right for me to write right now, though, so I write it, I enjoy it, I learn from it, and I hope you enjoy it, too.

[3,000 more words tomorrow. How exciting.]

[EDITOR'S NOTE (which, in this case, is also AUTHOR'S NOTE): Talk has now been changed from a boy demon to a girl demon. You have been notified.]

            Rope Feast looked down at the lag next to him, and Tickertape's eyes followed. Drop by drop, the bluish liquid was falling from the little imp's transparent chest down into its equally transparent gut. Around them scurried a procession of bags with their sagging cheeks, grumbles with their broad, hairy feet, tags with their oversized eyes, and snags, trailing threads behind them. A few tiny flickers hung from the chandelier overhead, shedding light down over the entire chaotic swirl. They bustled around the Scullery, which was filled with all the necessary pots, barrels, sinks and basins required for cleanup in kitchens massive enough to feed a manor. It was the seat of power for the kitchens, the place that, day after day, was the site of battle for the three Masters of Feast.

            Not for the first time, Tickertape wondered how it could be worth it, and even what had started it. Why would Shatter, Rope, and Noise ever fight? It wasn't as if any of them had the authority to call forth meals at any time other than their given hours of the day. All the battle did was make certain that the imps of the North Wing were hungry, two out of three meals. In fact, now that Shatter Feast was out of the fight, his people must be hungry all day. Tickertape couldn't understand why he hadn't seen more of them coming to join with Rope Feast. Perhaps they were all off to join Noise Feast, but that Master didn't seem to have any more imps for his battle lines than before. In fact, based on yesterday's attack, it seemed that his numbers were down as much as Rope Feast's troops. Not many gone, but some. Tickertape chewed on his lip and wondered.

            And he looked back to the lag, one of the rare imps of the household that looked (and acted) like a walking hourglass. The drops continued, one at a time. Drip. Drop. Almost there...almost...and done. The afternoon minutes of the Feast of Lynchings had passed and the time for the Feast of Din began.

            The lag--whose name was Micklewhip, not that Rope Feast cared, Tickertape was certain--Micklewhip flipped himself over, standing on his remarkably broad hands, and the liquid began its hourly trip in the opposite direction, from gut to chest.

            "He'll be coming now," muttered Rope Feast, master of the Feast of Lynchings. Tickertape watched as his master cracked his knuckles, his fingers and arms as thick and knotted as the rope of his name. "Help me into my armor, quirk."

            That’s not my name, thought Tickertape. Besides, I’m not just any quirk. I’m Chief Quirk Exemplary Plenipotentiary over Dishes and Sundries. Or at least, he had been, before the old Master had become so sick. Tickertape sighed--but quietly, so as not to be noticed by his large and irritable overlord. He grabbed a gauntlet made from bent forks, the wheel of a baby carriage, and old socks, then climbed up a short foot-ladder to bring himself to Rope Feast's shoulder level, perhaps three-and-a-half feet above the ground. Quirk enjoyed human units of measure. They were so consistent. So accurate.

            "What do you think he'll try this time, quirk?" mused Rope Feast. "Yesterday was clever, I'll admit, but popcorn won't work twice on us. We're ready this time. The bags are all lined up--they ARE lined up, aren't they?"

            "Yes, sir," said Tickertape. He finished fitting the first gauntlet on and climbed down for the other as Rope Feast turned.

            "Excellent. Any popcorn attacks this time and our side will eat up anything they  can throw at us. It was my fault yesterday, I suppose, for trusting the left flank to a tag. All organization and no action, those tags. Wonderful for arranging spices, but useless in a fight. No, much better idea to have that tumble--what was his name?"

            "Ping Pong, sir."

            "Really?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "I thought his name was Ricochet, or some such thing."

            "I'm afraid not, sir."

            "What did happen to Ricochet?"

            Tickertape finished belting on the second gauntlet and kept his mouth shut, hoping the question would go away on its own. Rope Feast did that at times, asking questions then forgetting to wait for an answer, and if Tickertape were very careful and quiet, maybe this time he wouldn't have to--

            "I asked you a question, quirk. What happened to Ricochet?"

            Tickertape stuck out his tongue in frustration--out of sight, of course--as he reached down to pick up the helmet he had crafted from the bell of a trumpet, a toilet seat, and guitar string. "He...left, sir."

            "Left? How do you mean, 'left?'"

            The quirk climbed back onto the footstool and held out the helmet, waiting for Rope Feast to bend down so he could place the armor over his head and shoulders. Rope Feast didn't move closer and didn’t even flinch when a flicker dropped sparks down around his head.

            "How do you mean 'left,' quirk?"

            "This is rather heavy, sir."

            "Answer my question and you won't have to hold it anymore."

            "I'm not certain you'll like the answer, Master Rope Feast."

            "Bah." The larger demon leaned his wrinkled face in closer to Tickertape, glaring with eyes the color of the noon sun. "I didn't ask for a commentary, quirk. I asked for information. I'm a demon that can handle bad news, but I can't handle wishy-washiness. So speak up!"

            "He said he was off to work for Shatter Feast."

            "WHAT?!?" Rope Feast's fist knocked the helmet out of the imp's hands. It clattered across the room and banged into a large, copper cleaning pot. All motion around the room halted and all eyes turned to watch as the Master of the Feast of Lynching stormed around the Scullery. "Went to work for Shatter Feast? How dare he?!" The larger demon stormed back across the room and banged his armored fist into a wooden rinsing tub. The blow seemed to let out enough anger that some tension went out of his shoulders, but Tickertape cringed at the gashes in the wood. Making new things was easy enough, but fixing old things was real work, and any tubs or basins in the Scullery would have to be fixed, not just replaced. No authority to make new ones, not since the old Master had died.

            "Went to work for Shatter Feast," muttered Rope Feast. "WHY would he? That old buzzard can't even feed his followers, not since he broke his leg. Their chances of holding the Scullery are smaller than a flicker. Am I right, quirk?" Tickertape didn't even bother to nod. "Even in the morning," the demon went on. "No one here has eaten at the Feast of Breaks for a week. Why would anyone join Shatter Feast?"

            MAYBE, thought Tickertape, BECAUSE HE'S A NICE DEMON WHO DOESN'T SHOUT AT YOU FOR DOING WHAT HE ASKED. For perhaps the thirtieth time--that DAY--the small quirk considered defecting to the Master of the Feast of Breaks himself. Life could be better. He bet Shatter Feast would value a former Chief Quirk Exemplary Plenipotentiary over Dishes and Sundries.

            In the calm after Rope Feast's storm, motion through the Scullery began to pick up again, and the Master's small army of imps--grumbles, tumbles, firks, quirks, tags, bags, lags, snags, and flickers, perhaps fifty in total--began to mount the impromptu barricades of pots, cutting boards, chairs, one upended table, a mop bucket, and a laundry hamper pilfered from somewhere near the East Wing in Master Silver's territory.

            But before that, in the silence, Tickertape's stomach growled. Rope Feast heard it.

            "What? Hungry again, little quirk?" Rope Feast was looking at him. Tickertape gave a flat smile and shrugged. "Fear not, my friend. Soon I will conquer the Scullery once and for all, and will call forth meals for you, morning, noon, and night. No need for us to go hungry again. Just watch," said the demon, picking up his helmet and fitting it on over his head, slightly askew. "I'll beat back Noise Feast yet."

            Tickertape sighed. He'd heard it before.

            "They're coming!" shouted a tumble, scampering across the kitchens and into the Scullery. "They're coming!" Then the small imp, dressed in jogging shorts and miniature track shoes, lost his footing and slid across the Scullery floor on his back. He finally came to rest against Rope Feast’s foot, looking up at his Master with an apologetic look on his face. “They’re coming,” said the tumble, “and they’re bringing soap suds.”

            Walk, Talk, and Shambles, three young demons, crouched at the south-east corner of the Great Hall, looking out through a hole in the wall that they'd carved, carefully and quietly, over the course of the last week. There it was, covered in dust, massive, silent, and terrifying: the Great Hall. At least, it was terrifying to Walk. Talk wasn't saying much, and Walk could never tell what Shambles was thinking.

            "You sure you two want to do this?" asked Walk.

            Talk shrugged her skinny shoulders and Shambles used his thick hand to scratch behind his ears. Walk sighed.

            "We can stay here, guys. It's not like Ugly Man is that bad."

            "He hits me," said Shambles. Talk pointed silently at a bruise on her arm.

            "Yes, but he doesn't ALWAYS hit," said Walk, sounding stupid even to himself, "and he doesn't hit as hard as Tall Man."

            "I miss Crooks," said Shambles. "He was nice. He let us steal things."

            "Yeah, well, that was before," said Walk. "That was when we could go outside of the manor house. But now we gotta stay inside. You do know that, right Shambles? It's not safe to be outside."

            "'Course," said the thickset demon. "I'm not THAT stupid."

            "You're not stupid at all," said Walk, though it was true that Shambles was kinda slow. He hadn't always been that way, but after the old Master got sick, something in Shambles got sick, too. He got slow. He got slow, the same way that Ugly Man got mad and Tall Man got mean and Crooks got all disappeared. Then the South Wing went bat-crazy, no offense intended to bats, and things went bad all over.

            "We have to go across," Walk muttered to himself. They had to, because things had to be better in the North Wing. That was where the old Master used to live, so Walk was sure things hadn't fallen apart there--not like they had in the other wings. Not like in the Great Hall, where there was something living that, if he wore pants instead of having legs covered in scales, would have scared the pants off of him. Not that Walk had ever seen what was living there, but he'd heard the stories, and after the trio had worked their way through the East Wing, room by room, still and quiet as a lag at the half-hour--after he'd come to the one barrier they absolutely HAD to cross, the dusty expanse of the Great Hall--he had felt it. Something was there, and it was breathing, and it was watching.

            Which was why they hadn't dared to enter the hall through the doors. They knew the presence would be watching those. Instead, softly, quietly, they carved their way through a wall with a special saw that a quirk had made for them in exchange for two sets of chopsticks and a Ho-Ho. Walk still missed the Ho-Ho, but he comforted himself with the thought that on the other side of the Great Hall lay the kitchens. Break Feast, Lynch Feast, Din Feast. Salads, soups, roast anything. Walk's mouth was watering and he swallowed before any could leak out. They could do this. They had to do this. The South Wing wasn't safe anymore.

            "You two ready?" he asked.

            Talk shook her head, smiled, and shrugged. Shambles reached through the hole into the Great Hall and picked up a handful of dust. "Someone should clean this place," he said. "Should we bring some grumbles with us?"

            "We already talked about this," said Walk. "Ugly Man wouldn't let us get away if we brought any imps with us. They're too useful."

            "But aren't we useful?" asked Shambles.

            "Too young," said his friend, as patiently as he could manage. "We don't have our real Rights or Privileges yet. When we get a new Master, we'll be given our Rights, and then someone will want us. Until then, we're just extra mouths and stomachs."

            "Don't imps get Rights?" asked the heavyset demon.

            Walk closed his eyes, and Talk patted her friend on the shoulder. Walk looked over. PATIENCE, said the skinny demon's eyes. HE DOESN'T MEAN TO BE THIS WAY. Walk nodded, took a deep breath, and explained. Again.

            "Imps may get Jobs and Responsibilities, but only minor demons, major demons, and demon masters get Rights and Privileges."

            "I remember," said Shambles, his face lighting up. "Do you know what Rights and Privileges I'll get?"

            "We'll find out when we get our new Lord, buddy. You'll have to be patient until then."

            "Will the new Lord be in the North Wing?"

            "Might be."

            Shambles looked thoughtful, nodded, and slipped through the hole into the dust.             "Let's go then," he said.

            "Wait," Walk started to say, then stopped himself. Wait for what? It had to happen sometime, and better during the day when the Presence in the Great Hall seemed sleepy, and not at night when they hadn't even dared to disturb their slowly growing hole. Shambles was right: it was time to go. Walk gestured to Talk, and the skinny demon shook her head and gestured back: YOU FIRST.

            Walk ducked through the hole and stepped past the carved block of wood that they'd removed and set silently into the dust. Shambles had left an obvious trail behind him, which was unavoidable, Walk supposed. Dust this thick and you were doomed to leave a track for anything to follow that bothered to look. He'd have to hope that nothing was looking.

            The Great Hall stretched to the left toward the West Wing, cavernous and dim. Some outside light filtered in through windows and skylights, but not enough to do more than give the hall a twilight glow, even in the middle of the afternoon. Glancing over his shoulder, Walk jumped at what looked like the figure of a man, but was probably just a suit of armor. Was there still armor in this place? He'd never had much reason to go through the Great Hall before. Sure, it split the East and West Wings into two halves each, so you HAD to go through the hall to get from the South Wing to the North, but back then it was still safe to go outside, and much more fun that way. There was always some way to annoy the gargoyles, and for a young demon, seeing their faces twisted even more than usual in anger was a pleasure superior to everything except a good word from Crooks for stealing something especially nice. Had been a pleasure. Not so much anymore.

            Not for the first time, Walk wondered where Crooks had gone. It seemed almost overnight that Tall Man and Ugly Man had taken over the South Wing. New Masters, new rules, they had said. Bad rules, Walk thought. He kicked his way through the dust, catching up enough to make out Shambles in the gloom. They were in a wilderness of dust, a desert of dust, a desolation of dust. They kicked up puffs with every step, even as careful as they were, and those puffs floated up into the air, settling onto their shoulders. Shambles hair was covered in the stuff, as a matter of fact, making the young demon look five-hundred instead of just fifteen. In fact, thought Walk, it was a wonder that none of it had made its way into his nose, because sneezing in the Great Hall could be really--

            "Uh-oh," he whispered. The itch had started, right in the back, close to his throat. He tried sniffing out through his nose, clearing it the dust in a series of mini-preemptive-sneezes, but it wasn't working. He could feel the sneeze building. He crammed his fingers under his nose, covered it with both hands, tried to breathe through his mouth.

            That was worse. Instead of just sneezing, now he had to sneeze AND cough. He started walking faster, scooting around Shambles and looking for a door into the north portion of the East Wing. The Great Hall, while large, wasn't THAT far across, and soon he could see a vague rectangle in the wall.  Good. Doors. Just a few more steps and he'd make it.

            Walk jumped up to where the doorknob would be, ready to grab, but there was nothing. Just a flower. Painted on a canvas. It wasn't doors; it was a tall painting, resting on the ground and leaning against the wall. Walk landed back in the dust and the cloud that swirled around him was too much. He coughed. He sneezed. His whole body shook with his efforts to keep it quiet, but there was only so much he could do. A small demon making a small noise in a very large room where all sounds were muffled by a thick layer of disuse. It hardly counted as a noise at all.

            But it was enough. Walk looked up to see Shambles and Talk in front of him. Their eyes were as wide as his own, Walk was sure. They could all feel it: high, up in the shadowed heights of the Great Hall, something had heard.

            "Door," whispered Walk. Talk nodded vigorously, and Shambles was already walking with purpose along the wall to the east, looking for any way out of the hall. Walk stifled another sneeze--this time successfully--and followed. There had to be a way out that was close. He knew there were doors, several of them, and they couldn't be too far--there! There was one. Shambles jumped up, grabbed the long handle of the knob, and dragged down. The handle turned and stopped.

            Nothing.

            "Locked," Walk whispered. "Why?" Talk ran past him, came to the next door not too far away, and leapt. The same turn, the same complete lack of budge in the door's wood. Were they all locked? Walk ran ahead to a third door. Again, it wouldn't move.

WE'RE DEAD, he thought. "We have to go back," he said quietly. "Ugly Man won't even know we tried to leave, but if he finds out, I'll tell him it was all me. You guys will be okay."

            Talk shook her head vigorously, made sawing motions with her hands, then pointed up at the latch to the door.

            "Of course!" whispered Walk. "Cut the doors open! How long will it take? Wait, Shambles! Come back." But their friend was already on his way, following their trail back through the dust to where they'd left the saw. "Do we follow him?" asked Walk quietly. Talk shook her head again. He was right, Walk thought. Better not to attract any more attention, and one demon running kicked up less dust than three. Also, Walk might sneeze again.

            But not following Shambles meant waiting by the doors. And waiting meant looking around and feeling what Walk couldn't help feeling: something was out there, and it was listening, and it was looking. Eventually it would find them, and then they'd find out which of the stories the imps told were true. He didn't think that getting his brains sucked out was very likely, since he couldn't imagine brains being tasty to anyone, but that little bag had made such gruesome, squelchy sucking noises that Walk couldn't get the sound out of his head. Of course, being swallowed whole couldn't be that pleasant either, if the tags were right. Must be something unpleasant about being digested that made most animals try to avoid it. Walk kept glancing around, trying to look every direction at once. He figured he must look like one of those bobble-heads he'd found in a trash can in town once, but he didn't care. Better to look like an idiot and come out alive.

Everywhere was dust and shadow. Walk felt a chill chase itself up his spine, then dread chased the chill back down and kicked it around a bit at the base of his back, making his leg muscles twitch. He wished Shambles would hurry.

            There he was, coming back through the dust like he was plowing through snow, waving the quiet saw in the air, a giant grin on his face.

            Then the shadow dropped from above and landed between them with a muffled thud. A muffled thud of doom, Walk thought idly in one part of his brain, while the rest of his brain was busy sending signals to 'panic' and 'freeze' and 'run away' to the rest of his body. Turned out that the 'freeze' signal was the strongest, but 'panic' and 'run away' were ready to take their turns at a moment's notice.

            The shadow was tall--human sized, even--frayed at the edges, as if whatever it was were dressed in layers and layers of rags, tatters piled on scraps, all wrapped around an under-layer of everything threadbare. The shadow held perfectly still, and Walk felt it looking at him. Evaluating. Seeing what the small demon was worth.

            Shambles leaned to the side of the shadow and waved at Walk. Walk tried to wave his friend away with a flick of his hand by his waist, tell the heavy-set demon to run, but Shambles shook his head. He held the quiet saw up where Walk could see it, set it down in the dust, and turned to face the shadow.

            "Hey, dumb head," shouted Shambles. "Did you lose all your snags? Nobody to fix your clothing?"

            It wasn't much of an insult, but the shadow turned and faced the round demon. IT WON'T WORK, Walk thought. HE'S NOT GOING TO FALL FOR IT.

            "I bet you can't even run fast," Shambles went on. "I bet you're slow. A slow shadow. Who ever heard of a slow shadow? In fact, I bet you can't even catch me." Then Shambles turned and ran to the West, back into the heart of the Great Hall.

            The shadow turned back to look at Walk and Talk. Then the ragged figure shrugged, as if to say, 'why not,' turned and leapt into the air after Shambles.

            "It worked," said Walk. "I can't believe it."

            Talk was already running through the dust to where their friend had been. In moments she was back, holding the quiet saw. He pointed to the base of the door, under the handle, and when Walk didn't move, pushed him to stand there. Before Walk could protest, Talk was climbing onto his shoulders with the saw in hand.

            "We've got to help him," said Walk, looking up at his friend. Talk looked down at him sadly, then started cutting at the latch. She was right, Walk realized, feeling numb from his toes to his fingertips. Something that big, that could move that fast--what chance did they have? Better to get out and find help. Find out what was going on. Find out why there wasn't a new Lord to FIX things. Metal shavings rained around his head and some fell onto his face. Walk brushed them away then looked down at his fingers in surprise.

            He realized he was crying.

            "I didn't know demons COULD cry," he said.

Lord of the Manor -- Section 2

[Sorry this took so long to post. I didn't get to my writing until this afternoon.]

            Maddie's mom walked into the kitchen of SPRINGFIELD PIZZA AND SUBS.

            "Looks like someone's moving into that old mansion," she said. "Didn't the old man die?"

            Maddie sat up straighter on her stool and stopped flipping through the pages of a National Geographic magazine. "Who is it?"

            Her mom shrugged. "Some boy. I worry about him, out there all alone. The old man did die, didn't he?"

            "Yes, Mom. Mister Arches died last month."

            "Arches! That was the name. What's up with a name like that?"

            "Mom? Seriously? You're walking around with the name of 'Sparks,' and you're making fun of 'Arches?'"

            "It wasn't my name to start with. I used to be a Robinson."

            "So you CHOSE to be a Sparks," said Maddie. "That makes it even worse."

            "No, honey," said her mom, patting Maddie's shoulder, "I chose to marry your father, and that made it better."

            Maddie gave her mother the best fifteen-year-old glare of disgust she could muster, but it didn't last very long. Actually, she liked that her mom and dad still seemed to be in love with each other. Sure, it was a little bit wrong when people over forty kissed in public, but she supposed it was a small price to pay for a family that wasn't split up across the country.

            "So who's the boy?" she asked.

            "Not sure," said her Mom. She stuffed her permed, brown hair under a hairnet and grabbed a scoop for flour. "Looked about your age, maybe, but short. Quite a bit shorter than you, actually."

            "Thanks, Mom." Maddie was a solid five-nine in flat shoes. "I blame your genetics, you know."

            "It's not wrong to be tall," said her mother, dumping flour into the massive mixing bowl. "It makes you a powerful woman. A valkyrie."

            Maddie rolled her eyes. "Oh, nice. Didn't they swoop down from Valhalla to collect the souls of dead warriors?"

            "Exactly. They got to pick up the best."

            "Right," said Maddie. "And then they took them back to a big mansion where the warriors all ate a lot and got drunk. No thanks."

            "You worry too much about your height," said her mother. "Your father is three inches shorter than I am, and he still married me."

            "Four inches," said her father, backing out of the walk-in refrigerator with a crate of bell peppers. "What are we talking about?"

            "Maddie's worried that she's too tall for the boy moving into the old mansion."

            "Mom!"

            "Good looking, is he?" asked her dad.

            "Dad!"

            "Pretty cute," said Mom. "He has these beautiful blue eyes and looks like a smart kid. He's short, though. Maybe five-one."

            "What size are his feet?" asked Dad.

            "I didn't think to look."

            "If he's got big feet, then it's a sure bet he'll grow into them. Then he'll be perfect for you, Maddie."

            "I'm not interested in the boy," she protested. "I haven't even seen him! I just want to know more about the manor."

            "You mean the mansion?" asked her dad.

            "It's not a mansion," she protested. "It's a manor."

            He dumped the peppers into the sink and started washing. "What's the difference?"

            "I don't know," said Maddie. "A mansion is...generic. Cheap. A place where people with too much money and no taste live. Daimon Home isn't like that. It has class. It's OLD money."

            "Not enough of it, from what I hear," said her mom, measuring more ingredients into the mixer. "Place is falling apart."

            Maddie sighed. It WAS falling apart. She knew, because she was always the one who delivered the pizza out there. It was a little far on her bicycle, but Mr. Arches had never seemed to mind the wait. He asked for her every time, and he always had peppermints for her. She didn't really like peppermints--on principle, mostly, since she didn't particularly like anything else with the word 'pepper' as part of its name--but when Mr. Arches gave her the candy, she took it. It made her feel good to talk with him, like he was HER grandfather. Of course, he was probably old enough to be EVERYONE'S grandfather, but that didn't stop her from feeling special whenever she saw him.

Hadn't stopped her.

            "Maybe the new owner will be able to fix it," said Maddie, more hoping than actually believing.

            "A place that large?" said her dad. "The property taxes alone must be astronomical."

            "And the staff to take care of it all," said Mom, "though as far as I can tell, he has none. How is that boy going to manage out there?"

            "The mysteries of being wealthy," said her dad. "Maybe he's just the advance party, and the rest will show up later."

            "The rest of who?" asked Maddie.

            "The rest of the people who are going to eat our pizza. Speaking of which, Maddie, these peppers aren't going to cut themselves."

            "You're making them sound mentally ill, Dad."

            "Hey now," he said, giving her a level gaze. "Don't joke about that stuff. And get a knife and come kill these peppers. I know it gives you satisfaction."

            Maddie hopped off her stool and went to wash her hands. Her dad was right: the only thing peppers were good for was cutting into very small pieces.

            "He's here," said Bunch, slipping in through the hole under the Noon Clock.

            "I heard," said Crooks, chewing on his fingernail. His last one that hadn't been chewed on, in fact. He forced himself to put his hands on the arms of his small wooden throne and ended up tapping his toes instead. "He went to the Great Hall, didn't he?"

            "Yeah," laughed Bunch, scratching his round, shirtless stomach. "The idiot. Trying to get himself et up, is he?"

            "Who knows?" said Crooks. "Some men fancy themselves brave. Think they can face the dark mysteries of the world and come off victor. Perhaps he's one of that type."

            "Don't think so," said Bunch. "A boy like that? Nope, don't think so."

            Crooks' toes stopped. "A boy?"

            "Right. A boy. Not much of one, either, by human standards. Maybe five lags high, or two and a half bags. There about."

            "A boy," muttered Crooks. "And a young one. What was Master Arches thinking?"

            "What's that?" asked Bunch, crunching on something green that Crooks preferred not to look at too closely.

            "Nothing, Bunch. Thank you for coming to tell me. Do you know where the boy is now?"

            "He wandered round to the North Wing. Last I saw him, he was talking with old Spit-n-Polish."

            "That's Master Silver to you, Bunch. And thank you." Crooks looked at the imp meaningfully.

            "Oh, right," said Bunch. "I'll be off then." He bent down his bat-like ears and squeezed himself back out through the hole where he'd come in. Crooks was left alone in the small, hidden room that was about all that was left of his kingdom. True, he did have a number of loyal retainers still, but considering what problems faced Daimon Home, there wasn't much he could do with the few and the small that followed him. He needed numbers, and to get numbers he needed the support of the Lord of the Manor.

            And now a boy had come. A young boy, if his size were any indication. What had Master Arches been thinking? Crooks stood and began pacing a circuit around his small room, smacking his fist lightly against each wall as he came to it. A boy. Surely Master Arches had understood what they were dealing with here--no, Crooks was CERTAIN Master Arches knew. They'd talked about it often enough in the months of struggle and decline.

            But why leave the manor to a boy? Perhaps at the end his mind had gone. Crooks hadn't seen it, but truly, he didn't understand humans all that well. Such a changeable race. Mercurial. Perhaps Master Arches' body had failed him at the end and he'd made a mistake. Perhaps the boy wasn't the old Master's heir at all.

            If that were the case, then Crooks hoped all the powers of Air and Earth and Darkness would help the boy, because he'd need it. Even Master Arches' considerable strengths hadn't been enough to control what had taken root in the Great Hall.

            Michael looked down. "What--um, hi," he said.

            "Good day to you as well, young Master. You are Master Arches, are you not?"

            "I--yeah--yes, I think so. That's what the attorney, um, Mr. Canker called me, anyway."

            "Excellent," said the small man--man? "Please follow me. I suppose you're hungry. Teenage boys always are, in my limited experience."

            "Right. Yes, I am. Great," said Michael, knowing he was babbling, but babbling on anyway. He forced his mouth shut.

            "Leave your things there," said the small person. "No one will touch them in this part of the North Wing." Then he turned and walked into the clean, tiled hall.

Michael stared. The...person...that had welcomed him was maybe two-feet tall--maybe--and looked like a very small butler. Pressed, clean suit, white hair, prominent nose, all the things Michael had imagined in a butler. Except for the wings. Most butlers probably didn't have bat wings. Of course, Michael didn't have much experience with butlers, but he was pretty certain that a survey of manor houses throughout the world would turn up very few with bat-winged butlers.

            To the small man's credit, they were very well kempt bat wings. Shined and polished, almost like fancy shoes. In fact just about the exact same shade of black as the butler's highly glossed footwear.

            "Are you coming, Master Arches?" The small man had stopped by a door on the left of the hall, just a few feet down the passage.

            "Sure. Of course." Michael pulled his suitcase in through the door and pushed the door closed. He looked down at the suitcase, then at the butler, then back to his suitcase.

"Truly, Master Arches, your suitcase will be fine. Please come with me and I'll find you what food I can. I'm afraid our supplies are somewhat limited since the war over the Scullery began."

            "The war over the Scullery," Michael repeated.

            "Quite," said the butler. "The three Masters of Feast had a falling out after the old Master Arches' passing. I've tried to mediate, but I'm afraid I'm not much liked. Dignity and camaraderie are not always close companions."

Michael nodded his head, recognizing that the small man DID have quite a lot of dignity, and not much space in that tiny body to keep it. He supposed a person could squeeze a bit more dignity into bat wings, if he did it right--and apparently the butler knew how to do it right.

            "I expect," said the butler, "that conquering the Scullery will be among your first orders of business. But for now," he gestured to the door, "shall we?"

            "Of course," said Michael, leaving his suitcase and tucking his thumbs under the straps of his backpack. "But...what do I call you? I mean, are you a..."

            "Butler? Yes. I am the butler of Daimon Home. And, unfortunately for the moment, the only of your manservants. I am Master Silver, but you may call me Silver."

            They settled in what Master Silver informed Michael was his 'pantry.' Michael didn't see food anywhere, or even shelves for food, so he assumed that 'pantry' was an old word for 'room where the butler sits in very small chairs designed for people with bat wings.'

            Not that the butler was sitting at the moment. He was opening a normal-sized cupboard. Then he was looking up at shelves stuffed with packaged snack food.

            "What would you prefer, young Master? Oatmeal cookies? Peanut butter filled crackers? Pretzel sticks and cheese, perhaps. Oh, hang on just a moment."

            He fluttered his wings and lifted up to about Michael's head height. "It seems I have a bag of corn chips as well, though I thought the grumbles had made off with the last of those ages ago. They do enjoy corn chips, and they're such a rare thing these days." Master Silver settled back to the ground and turned to face Michael.

            The boy sat in the one human-sized chair in the room. Hard. "Oatmeal cookies please," he said.

            "Very good, Master," said the butler. He turned, withdrew a package from the lowest shelf--and yes, he 'withdrew' it; it was much too dignified to qualify as a 'pull'--opened one end of the ridiculously large package with his tiny hands, and placed the entire thing on a silver tray that Michael hadn't noticed before. It was on a napkin, on a silver tray, all at least the size of Master Silver's head. It was absurd. It wanted to be funny. Michael didn't dare laugh.

            "Here you are, Master," said Silver. "Would you care for something to drink as well? I'm afraid all I have to offer you is bottled water. I attempted to preserve some cranberry juice, one of the old Master's favorites, but in the chaos of the last month I have had much to do and only one pair of wings to do it with. I hope you'll forgive me."

            "Water's fine," said Michael, taking the tray and settling it in his lap.

            "Very good," said Silver, and he left back into the hallway.

            Michael looked around. The room looked a bit like his grandpa's study--his Grandpa Midwinter, not Grandpa Arches--but in miniature.  Same leather furniture, same kind of hard-wood desk, same wooden paneling on the walls, just all of it sized for the diminutive butler. And with slots for wings. There was no bed, so he assumed that the small door in the back wall led to Master Silver's bedroom. That is, if the butler slept here. Michael was beginning to realize he had no idea how a manor worked. He didn't even know what a scullery was, though apparently it was something quite important.

            "Here we are," said Silver, returning through the hall door. "Pure, mountain spring-water, bottled by the purified imps of the Alps. Or so the packaging says, though I have had my doubts."

            Michael supposed he should have expected it, but he was surprised that, instead of handing him a bottle, the butler placed yet another silver tray on a small table next to Michael's chair. On it was a cut-glass tumbler and an opened bottle of water, half of the bottle already poured into the glass. Michael looked at the label on the bottle: Imp Alp Winter Water.

            "Thank you," he said in a rather small voice.

            "Of course, sir. I'm embarrassed to even ask, young Master, but would you mind if I sat? I normally abhor such informality, but I'm not as young as I used to be and my wings and my feet tire more easily than they should."

            "Yes," said Michael. "Please. Absolutely. Sit. I've never had a butler before, so I didn't even know you weren't supposed to. Are you not supposed to?"

            "Generally one stands while serving," said Master Silver. "The old Master Archer allowed me perhaps more familiarities than were proper, and so I apologize in advance if I cause offense through some unfortunate lapse."

            "Don't even worry about it," said Michael. "Whatever Great-Grandpa had you do is fine with me, I'm sure. I'm not used to being served. If I ask Mom for some water, she asks me if my arms are painted on."

            Silver blinked at him.

            "It's a joke," said Michael. "Because painted arms would be useless. And I couldn't get any water."

            "Aha," said the butler. "And thus she expresses her desire for you to obtain your own water. That is rather clever, though I would never presume to treat you with THAT level of familiarity."

            "No," said Michael. "That's not...um...thanks for the water. And please, sit down."

            "Thank you," said Silver, and he sat, carefully folding his wings through the slots in the back of his leather armchair. He settled down with a small sigh, and Michael could see him flexing his feet in his shoes. They really were highly polished shoes. He could even see the lights reflecting off them.

            "Lights," he said, looking up. There were ceiling lights. Electric bulbs and everything.

            "Is there something the matter with the lights?" asked Silver with some concern.

            "No. They're fine. In fact, the fixtures are pretty fancy. I just didn't know if you'd have lights or not. I expected...I don't know...gas lamps, or something. Candles, maybe."

            "Old Master Archer made certain that the North Wing was fully renovated. We have excellent wiring, plumbing, and even internet, though I'm afraid it's down at the moment. The wireless router needs to be reset, and that is in the old Master's Study."

            "Can't we go to the study?" asked Michael.

            "The Study? Oh no, I'm afraid not. It is on the other side of the kitchens, near to the West Wing. Very dangerous region of the manor at the moment, though I expect you're here to do something about that. Is it presumptuous of me to ask about your plans for retaking Daimon Home?"

            Michael realized his mouth was open. "Retaking?" he said, swallowing. "I just got here--that is, I'm not sure--"

            "Of course," said Master Silver. "I understand. You'll want to rest before beginning anything. A long trip such as that must have tired you. I'm afraid I only have the room next door to offer you. It isn't the master bedroom, but the master bedroom is, unfortunately--"

            "On the other side of the kitchens?" asked Michael.

            "Exactly, sir."

            "Yeah," said Michael, looking down at the cookie that he still hadn't taken a bite of. "Why don't you show me my room. If that's okay with you."

            "Young Master, this is YOUR home. You certainly don't need to ask MY permission."