The soft blue haze of the early summer evening had already begun to swell with banks of gold and orange cloud outside Eryr castle’s windows when Helga seated herself beside the kitchen fire, leaning her satchel in the corner against the stone wall. She had thought that while they waited for Rhonwen to pack her own satchel for their visit to Salazar Slidrian, she would use the time to speak with her father and let him know the progress they had made. Goderic had gone out to the stables to ensure Heremod had been given his flutterby mash before they made their way north; now he came into the kitchen to join her, shouldering his large frame awkwardly between the bustling servants as he made his way over to the hearth. He put his own pack down beside hers and sat on the end of a nearby bench.

“Giving your father an account of the latest developments?” he asked, looking about to see if he was observed before snatching a remnant of cheese from a table behind him. Helga nodded, taking a small amber bottle from the pouch on her belt.

“Yes, he will have arrived at your estate today with the children; I thought I’d let him know where we’re travelling tonight, and what we hope the next steps will be, while we wait for our hostess to pack.” Helga unstoppered the little amber vial and tilted it over the kitchen fire, letting a single drop fall into the flames before closing it again. The flames surged upward a few inches and turned a hot, merry green; Helga waited until the color had spread to every part of the fire before leaning her face into the tips of the flames. “Grifondour House,” she spoke loudly and clearly. The flames danced for a moment, crackling and singing against the hearth, and then the wrinkled face of Eadgifu pushed its way out at them, green and flickering along with the fire.

“Ah, Lady Helga!” the old woman grinned. “We wondered how you and my lord Goderic had got on. All’s well in Cymru?”

Helga nodded to her. “So far,” she smiled. “Did my father arrive at your estate today?”

“Aye, that he did,” Eadgifu confirmed. “With those boys and that sweet little girl. It is so nice to plait a little girl-child’s hair again!”

“I’m happy you’re enjoying their company,” Helga grinned. “Is my father nearby? I wanted to let him know what we’ve arranged with Lady Rhonwen.” The face in the fire bobbed up and down.

“Aye, he’s just outside with the children. Time for them to come inside anyway, getting dark and all. I’ll just fetch him.” Eadgifu’s face sank down into the embers and disappeared, and for a minute or two the flames bobbed and flickered silently in their hearth. Then there was another surge of sparks, and Hunlaf’s broad and bearded face swam up into view.

“Daughter!” he beamed, and Helga lowered her face further into the green flames until their foreheads touched. “You’ve had safe travels and all is well?”

“Better than I’d hoped,” she smiled, sitting up straight again. She gave Hunlaf a brief synopsis of their journey on the Granian horse, their encounter with Cadwgan, and the progress they had made with the help of Rhonwen and her scrying stone. Goderic scooted his bench closer to the hearth and bent over the fire himself to join the conversation, adding his own details. When they finished, Hunlaf chuckled down into the embers.

“Well, I’ll admit, daughter mine – when you first told me your idea, I thought I was sending you on a fool’s errand. But look here! Already with a roll of students and about to go set up a location.”

“We hope,” Helga qualified. “This Salazar Slidrian has to agree to it first.”

“And the lady Rhonwen implied that would be the hardest part,” Goderic agreed. Hunlaf nodded, sending a few sparks skittering up into the hazy kitchen air.

“So you’re going to see him tonight, then?”

“Our host is packing her satchel as we speak,” said Goderic. “How are your wards getting on with mine? Will they be happy as schoolmates?”

“Oh, I think so,” replied the wandmaker. “That— hey, hold fast, there!” There was a shuffling and a scattering of embers as another head shoved itself into view in front of Hunlaf, dislodging pieces of burning wood and spilling some ash out onto the kitchen floor. The striped face of Sœtr the crup wriggled up between the hearth and Hunlaf’s chest, barking madly, fighting against Hunlaf’s efforts to shove it back out of the fire. “Away with you, you little menace!” the wandmaker grumbled, resorting to grabbing the crup by his thick forked tail and dragging him backward until he vanished from Helga’s view. “Go on, go and chase that enchanted ball again. Go on!” He was trying to look severe, but Helga was laughing too hard for him to hold onto anything but the barest glimmer of a scowl. He opened his mouth to say something else, but no sooner had the sound of Sœtr’s barks faded than another head inserted itself into the fire between them.

“Fru Helga!” Hnossa called, squirming as though she were trying very hard to balance on Hunlaf’s lap and failing. “She plaited my hair, Fru Helga!” the little girl wailed. “Are you coming home soon? Is she coming to the school with us??” More complaints appeared to be forthcoming, but before she could speak them, the chubby hand of little Harald came into view and yanked at one of the aforementioned plaits in his sister’s hair. “Ow! Harald, no!” Hnossa shrieked, and she disappeared from the flames with her brother’s little hand still firmly attached. Hunlaf could be heard shooing and scolding for several more minutes before he finally reappeared in the hearth, out of breath but laughing.

“You’d think they’d have used up all that energy chasing each other about the orchard all afternoon,” he chuckled. “I’ve sent them all to the kitchens in hopes the food will distract them.”

“It appears, then, that we’ll have to hurry and prepare the school, so we can take them off your hands.” Helga and Goderic turned around at the sound of Rhonwen’s voice. Their host stood in the kitchen doorway with a linen bag slung over her shoulder and a wry smile on her face. She approached the hearth and inclined her head toward Hunlaf in greeting. “Well met, wandmaker. I see you’re keeping busy while we arrange things.”

“Busy is the word, Lady Hræfnsclawu,” Hunlaf grinned. “I don’t envy you and the other teachers once the whole place is full of them.”

“Well, then let’s hope we can recruit enough teachers to make the load light on each of us,” Rhonwen smiled. “Are the two of you ready? It’s near sunset now.” Goderic stood up in response, and Helga nodded. “Then we’ll say our goodbyes, wandmaker, and hopefully speak with you tomorrow or the next day with good news.”

“Go and eat supper with those children,” Helga grinned at her father. She bent her face down into the flames again and pressed her forehead against his.

“Safely go and safely return, daughter,” Hunlaf pronounced. “And may you have the tongue of Loki to persuade this Slidrian fellow to your cause.”

“Thank you,” Helga replied, picking up her satchel. “I think we’re going to need it.”

 *   *   *

Rhonwen led her two guests up to the roof of her tower, which was flat and even and surrounded by a low stone battlement. The three of them slung their bags across their bodies so they would not be lost in travel. Rhonwen held out her hands to Goderic and Helga, and they each took one.

“Ready?” she asked. Helga took a deep breath.

“I hope he’ll let himself be convinced on the grounds of your old friendship,” she said. “I’d hate to apparate for nothing.”

“We’ve got to get you one of those brooms from Saxony,” Goderic chuckled. “Then you wouldn’t need to apparate anywhere.”

“My fondest desire,” Helga smirked at him. Then she squeezed her eyes shut as the three of them disappeared in a blur of motion and wind.

When Helga felt the world go still around her again, she opened her eyes and brushed back tendrils of hair that had come loose from her braid. The three of them were standing near the top of a low hill that was bare of trees or any real sort of vegetation taller than moss. The evening breeze was lively and slapped playfully at her from multiple directions, but it was a mild early summer wind full of the scent of heather and pine, and the sunset sky above them was a gorgeous riot of orange, pink, and gold clouds against a field of pale flax-blue. In the distance, the wind whipped soft clouds up into swirls against the peaks of mountains, making them look as though they were smoking. Helga gazed around, trying to take everything in. The ground beneath her was spongy with moss and tough, coarse grasses, and the bare rock of the highlands poked through it in a hundred places. Behind them spread a long and narrow loch, the surface of the water rippling gently in the breeze and sparkling with reflected sunset light. On a small island in the middle of the loch, a grove of tall pine trees swayed placidly in the wind. Further up the hill, Helga saw, was the object of their quest. Salazar Slidrian’s hermitage stood at the edge of a sharp drop in the land overlooking the water, a long rectangular building with one or two narrow windows facing the loch and a squat, sturdy tower at the northeast corner, which jutted out on a narrow strip of land that extended out into the lake. The stones were grey and unkempt, with moss and lichen growing on them anywhere plants could take hold, but Helga could see that the construction was still strong, a tribute to the Roman engineers who had put the building together six hundred years before. Beyond the building lay a dark pine forest that looked black and uninviting in the dim evening light. A path of bare dirt where the moss had been worn away led from where they stood around to the inland side of the building, but this was the only sign of habitation as far as Helga could see.

“Welcome to Loch Mallachie,” Rhonwen said softly, and Goderic nodded to himself.

“You weren’t exaggerating, it’s completely remote. No danger of the children being found here.”

“And the lake is beautiful,” Helga smiled. Rhonwen adjusted her satchel and began walking up the path, glancing over her shoulder as she went.

“Don’t let it fool you. I think he keeps some sort of water beast in it, just to be sure any non-magical folk are duly frightened away from the place. And while we’re discussing that, don’t take anything on dry land for granted, either. I’m sure he’s got some sort of unpleasantness guarding the front door as well, so best be wary.”

They had made it far enough up the path that they could now see the entrance to the old fort – a heavy-looking, deep-set door made from some wood that was nearly black.

“Damn,” Goderic whispered, stopping abruptly enough that Helga ran into his arm. He was staring down at his feet.

“What?” asked Helga.

“There was a string across the path, and my boot has just snagged it.” He grimaced up at Rhonwen. “What was it you said about something unpleasant guarding the door?”

“Get your wands out,” Rhonwen said by way of response, already pulling hers from her bag. Helga and Goderic followed suit. The three of them stood silently on the path, the breeze ruffling the small hairs around their foreheads, waiting to be set upon by some creature or wraith from the shadows of the building or the woods beyond. They didn’t have long to wait before they saw movement up ahead, near the base of the stone wall. But the shape that detached itself from the darkness was not the shape of a beast or a spirit, but of a man. He strode purposefully toward them, some object held out in his hand, and in the shifting orange and lavender light of the sunset, Helga could see as he approached that he was tall, thin and wiry, with a thick mop of dull mouse-brown hair. The thing he held in his hand was a book, and he began to shake it at them angrily.

“So HERE you are, wife of mine,” he growled at Rhonwen through gritted teeth, and Helga saw Rhonwen stiffen and avert her eyes.

“Jesu help us, it’s a boggart,” she hissed to the other two, trying to ignore the man in front of her whose eyes were spitting fire.

“Every chance you get, every time I leave the castle, you take my daughter and go gallivanting about the country. What are you teaching her now? More languages I don’t understand, so you can write messages to each other that I can’t read?” He shoved the book against Rhonwen’s shoulder, and she staggered backward on the uneven turf. She lifted her wand, but he batted it away.

“Lady Rhonwen,” Goderic began, but Rhonwen flapped her hand at him behind her back.

“Hush,” she managed to say, but Helga could tell that she was finding it difficult to form words.

“Filling her head with all those books,” the boggart spat in the voice of Æthelweard Hræfnsclawu. “Making her just as useless as you are. Not enough that you make it known how much more learning you have than I do. Make me a laughing stock on the gemót. Then you bear me nothing but a daughter and can’t give me any more than that? And now, you’re going to educate her so thoroughly that no decent wizard will want to marry her, either. It was a mercy to your father that I agreed to marry you!” He lifted the book again and batted away the wand that Rhonwen was pointing at his chest. “You know what I ought to do? I ought to put a stop to it.” The boggart-husband held the book out in his hand, where it burst into sudden flames.

Something like a shriek squeezed its way out of Rhonwen’s throat, and she practically flung her wand arm upward and into the crescent motion of the spell. “RIDDIKULUS!” she screamed. Her boggart-husband opened his mouth to berate her again – but instead of words, his voice came out in three harsh caws. The next moment he had transformed into a raven, its wings bound, and dropped to the path in front of them. The smoldering book landed open on top of him, pinning him to the ground. A couple of hoarse, angry caws emanated from beneath its pages. Rhonwen took a step backward, her hands shaking, and Helga took hold of her by the wrist to steady her.

“It isn’t done,” she murmured. “It’ll try both of you next.”

No sooner had she said this than the boggart swirled back upward to human size, and in a moment, Goderic’s brother Eaderic stood on the path before them. But he did not look as Helga remembered seeing him just the day before at their estate; this Eaderic was thin and pale, his hair unkempt and his clothing dirty, ill-fitted and moth-eaten. He staggered toward Goderic, eyes full of hurt and confusion.

“You lost it,” he said sadly. “How could you? Two hundred years we have held Salisberie, and you have lost it!” The sadness in his voice turned accusatory, and he threw himself at Goderic, taking hold of him by the cloak. “You lost it, brother, not just for yourself but for me! I would have been thegn after you, but now we are nothing! I am a son of the house of Salisberie, and now I will have to beg for my supper along the road!” He shook Goderic violently, even as Goderic attempted to get his wand up between them. “Mother told you to take care of me, Goderic!” the boggart shrieked. “She told you, and you have ruined all her hopes! Nnngh!” The boggart grunted as Goderic finally got enough leverage and threw him backward. He lifted his wand level with his boggart-brother’s eyes.

“RIDDIKULUS,” he barked, his eyes hard as stone. The image of Eaderic shrank rapidly to the ground, and suddenly there was a baby on the spot where he had stood, gurgling bad-temperedly as though cranky and in need of a nap. “Much better, eh, little brother?” Goderic panted. The baby blew a spit bubble at him. Goderic was in the process of sticking his tongue out in reply when the baby suddenly rolled over and began to crawl; as it crawled, it turned toward Helga and began to grow, lurching forward on large adult arms too big for its tiny body. Its cry changed slowly into a groan of pain, and suddenly Helga found herself looking down at the sprawling body of her father on the path. A dark stain covered his broad back and almost hid the punctures in his leather surcoat. His thick copper hair was matted with blood from the gaping wound in his skull, and one of his eyes was completely obliterated. He groaned up at her through shattered teeth, and Helga felt hot tears on her face before she even processed what he was trying to say.

“Daughter,” Hunlaf slurred, blood and saliva dripping onto the moss below him. His remaining eye rolled up to look at her. “They…. Too many,” he coughed, and more blood oozed out. Helga slapped her hand over her mouth. “Could have taken them… if you… together.” The words came out mangled and dripping, and Helga thought she might scream in spite of herself. She backed up several hasty steps, only stopping when her back slammed into Goderic’s waiting arm. He held her firmly and shook her a little.

“Finish it, Helga,” he growled, trying not to look at the thing on the path in front of them. The boggart-Hunlaf was still dragging itself across the mossy rocks toward Helga, trying to speak but getting sloppier and more bloodied with each word.

“Where …? Where were… you?” it slurred, and Helga shook her head violently, scattering her tears onto her hand and Goderic’s cloak as he gripped her even tighter.

“Finish it!” Goderic repeated, and he forced her hand down off her mouth so she could speak the incantation. But now that her mouth was free, she found she couldn’t remember the spell. She knew it well – or, would have sworn she did ten minutes ago. But the sight of Hunlaf’s battered body had robbed her of the word in her native tongue.

“Could have… if you were… Daughter,” the boggart was saying. Helga felt a little cry escape her tight lips, and she nearly screamed her next words as she whirled her arm frantically at the image of her dying father.

“RIDDIKULUS!! RIDDIKULUS, RIDDIKULUS!” She whipped her wand through the air over and over, crying as she shouted the Latin incantation the others had used. The rattling groan of the boggart-Hunlaf began to change into a growl, and then a hoarse snuffing sound, and then a sharp, staccato bark. On the path in front of them, covered in the smeared innards of a whole basket of crushed strawberries, was a playfully rolling crup. Its white fur was stained red with berry juice, and its thick forked tail launched crushed berries in all directions as it wagged against the ground. Helga swung her wand at it again angrily, and the crup and its carnage of berries were flung into the air and off the path. The boggart hit the ground yelping and scurried off into a small opening at the base of the stone building, where a little hinged door swung closed behind it.

The three of them stood for a few moments without speaking or moving, each staring at the path where the boggart had been. Goderic finally let out a shaky breath and tugged his cloak back around to the correct position on his shoulders.

“I liked it better when I was a boy and the worst thing a boggart could show me was a swarm of wasps,” he said softly. Helga pressed her palms against her cheekbones to push back the second wave of tears that was threatening.

“That’s the beauty of childhood,” she murmured. “Your fears always have a face and a name, and you know exactly what weapon will vanquish them. When you begin to fear things that can’t be killed or destroyed, you know you’ve grown up.” She wiped her hands on her dress to dry them and slipped her wand back into her cloak pocket. Both she and Goderic then looked uneasily up the path at Rhonwen, who was still staring out over the loch with her back to them.

“Are you well, Rhonwen?” Helga said hesitantly. But they could both see that she was not, at least, not completely. Her breathing was so stiff and shallow that they could barely see any movement – she could have been a statue carved from the rock of the hillside.

“No need for any of us to repeat what went on here tonight,” Goderic offered. “Right, Lady Rhonwen?”

Rhonwen did turn and look at them then, but Helga thought that her gaze was going through them instead of resting on them. Without answering Goderic, she turned slowly and began walking up the path. Goderic and Helga shared a look, and then they followed her in silence.

The door to Salazar Slidrian’s home, they saw as they grew closer, was indeed made of nearly black wood, and it looked like the newest and best-kept part of the whole building. The surface had been polished, and although there was no handle on the outside, there was a lovely pattern of squares made of some silver metal that shimmered in the light of the setting sun. Rhonwen approached the door and rapped on it aggressively with the handle of her wand.

“Salazar?” she called sharply. “It’s Rhonwen. Don’t pretend that you aren’t home.” She still looked rattled, Helga thought, but she managed to keep it out of her voice. They waited, the wind playing with their cloaks beginning to feel cooler now as the sun dipped behind the hills. There was silence from within. “Salazar Slidrian, don’t you dare make me disintegrate this door. I can, and I will, because I’m better at breaking charms than you are at casting them.”

There was another long silence from the other side of the door. Goderic adjusted his cloak impatiently. “Friendly, isn’t he?” he grumbled. Rhonwen sighed, but didn’t answer him directly. Instead she rapped her wand against the door again.

“Salaz—”

At their feet, one of the squares in the door unexpectedly opened with a sharp creak, and they all stepped back a few paces. Warm candlelight spilled out of the little door-within-a-door, and then was momentarily obscured by the small body that stepped out of it. Helga tried to keep her face neutral, but she found her head tilting to the side and her eyes widening in spite of herself. The little creature that came out of the small door was no more than three feet tall, but its ear-span nearly equaled its height. Its eyes were large, round, and watery, a sort of golden-green color like a not-quite-ripe pear. They bulged ponderously on each side of a large wedge-shaped nose, one side of which was pierced and set with a tiny silver ring. Tufts of black hair sprouted unevenly across the space between the massive pointed ears, and each tuft had been braided into a tiny plait that ended in a small green glass bead. Helga surmised that whatever species the creature might be, she must be a female one, for she wore a little red dress made from what must once have been a plaid blanket, tiny but sewn in precise miniature proportions to Helga’s own.

The little creature blinked placidly at Helga and Goderic before turning her watery green-gold eyes up to Rhonwen.

“Mistress Rhonwen is very bad to say she will break Master Salazar’s door,” she scolded. Her voice was like the creaking of branches in a strong wind, and Helga was fascinated by the accent – the Rs tumbled musically like a stone rolling downhill, and the Ss were almost lisped, but not quite. Rhonwen bent down to put herself at eye level with the little creature and put on a smile.

“Master Salazar is bad for not opening the door to Mistress Rhonwen, especially after making her go through a boggart to get here. The least he could do is come to the door and find out why I’ve come.”

“Master Salazar makes a sport of being bad, my lady,” the creature returned, looking as though she were trying not to grin. “And then he makes Bihotza apologize for him.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with his way,” Rhonwen smirked. Standing up, she half turned to Helga and Goderic and waved an introductory hand between them and the creature. “Helga and Goderic, this is Bihotza – the Slidrian family house-elf. Bihotza, these are my friends: the lady Helga Hunlafsdottir, and the lord Goderic de Grifondour. We have come to talk with Master Salazar, because we have an adventure planned for which we may need his help.”

Bihotza’s round eyes grew even wider, if that were possible, and she shook her head slowly. It made the tips of her ears and her braids quiver. “Master Salazar does not like adventures, Mistress Rhonwen….”

“No, he doesn’t,” came a voice from behind the door. “Although he does occasionally make exceptions.” The opposite half of the huge black door swung softly open then, and a young man stepped out of the candlelit interior onto the spongy moss. His tall, slender frame was wrapped indifferently in a cloak of dark green wool, the silver clasp at his throat left undone as though he had merely tossed it around himself for a brief conversation at the door and had no intention of fully committing to being outside. A halo of soft black curls tumbled down from his head to nestle in his collar, gently framing a face that was angular and delicate like a saint in a Byzantine mosaic. His brows were as straight and sharp as knife slashes, and the eyes beneath them were dark and brooding against the pale skin. It would have been a face that nearly always looked dangerous, were it not for the gentle Cupid’s-bow shape of the upper lip and the beginning of a smirk that looked like it lived permanently in the corner of the mouth. Helga curled her toes into the soles of her shoes. The way Rhonwen had described him, she had expected to see a skulking, brooding, wizened little man, perhaps with a perpetual scowl or an unkempt beard; she had not expected him to be handsome.

“Salazar,” Rhonwen was saying, holding out her hands to the young man in the doorway. He didn’t take her hands so much as he let his hands be taken, and he didn’t return the squeeze she gave his fingers, but he also didn’t pull away.

“The lady of Eryr house has come to visit,” he said wryly, and Helga was struck by the softness and lightness of his voice that seemed so incongruous next to his dark visage. It had the depth of a grown man’s speech, but carried in the weightless tenderness of a teenage boy whispering love poems over a hedge into his lover’s garden. Helga bit into the side of her cheek to stop her mind from wandering. If he was going to keep talking in that voice, then she was going to be completely useless by the end of the evening.

“I haven’t seen you since before Helena could read,” Rhonwen smiled, patting Salazar’s hand. “Not in person, anyway.”

“Ah, yes,” Salazar replied, and this time he actually let the smile reach more than just the corners of his lips. “How is the little eaglet?”

“Eight years old and much too self-assured for her own good,” Rhonwen grinned. “Take us inside, Salazar, it’ll be cold when the sun fully sets.”

“Introductions first,” Slidrian smirked. “I need to know who these people are that you want me to let into my house.”

Before Rhonwen could make the introductions herself, Goderic stepped forward and extended his hand, taking hold of Salazar’s wrist. “Goderic de Grifondour, sir, thegn of Salisberie.”

“I see,” Salazar murmured, pulling his hand out of Goderic’s grip before he could tighten it. “The wizard at the hand of the Saxon king. Aatxe’s horns, Rhonwen, this must be serious if you’re bringing the king’s men to my house.”

“Serious in import,” Rhonwen soothed, “but not in a threatening sense.” Salazar raised an eyebrow at her as if to say We shall see about that, but he didn’t argue. Rhonwen put her hand on Helga’s shoulder then and nudged her forward. When she didn’t say anything, Helga realized it was being left up to her to introduce herself. Salazar was flicking his eyes over her appraisingly, and she had to look down at his shoes so she could focus.

“Helga Hunlafsdottir, sir,” she murmured. Salazar Slidrian’s dark slash eyebrows lifted in obvious confusion.

“I’m sorry, Helga Hun-ffla-what, now?”

“H… Hunlafsdottir,” Helga repeated, a little flustered. She hadn’t been expecting to have to repeat her name, and the surprise was almost enough to make her question what her name actually was.

“Huff-la-floffer?” Slidrian repeated stupidly, and Helga’s knee-jerk reaction was to begin a stammering explanation.

“Hunlafs…dottir,” she enunciated uncertainly. “It’s Norse. I’m the daughter of Hunlaf the wandmaker. So my surname is Hunlafs-dottir. Daughter of Hunlaf. It—” She trailed off as she realized that his lips were twitching with barely-concealed laughter. “You’re mocking me!” she gasped, and the laughter broke out from between his lips then in little bursts of air that he held up a hand to conceal – or, at least, pretend to conceal.

“Forgive me, lady Helga,” he chuckled, “but I so seldom have anyone interesting here to mock.” When he saw that she wasn’t joining in his laughter, he swallowed it with some effort – although his expression was still unrepentant. “Truly, I apologize,” he smiled unconvincingly. “I suppose as a consolation, I should let the three of you inside before you freeze. May I escort you?” He slipped an arm out from under his cloak and offered Helga his bent elbow so respectfully that she laid a tentative hand on it, giving him a little half-smile.

“I suppose you may,” she allowed, feeling herself getting a little flustered again. Salazar grinned.

“Good. Right this way, Helga Fluffle-poffer.”

“Ugh!” Helga gasped, glaring at him incredulously and jerking her hand off his elbow. He was still laughing in the doorway behind her as she stalked irritably into the candlelit room, the house-elf Bihotza scurrying in around her feet.

*   *   *

Rhonwen finished explaining their plans to Salazar just as the sun sent its final rays over the cloud-capped hills in the west. She had done most of the talking; Salazar seemed suspicious of Goderic’s position as an official of the king, and Helga had refused to speak to Slidrian while the unrepentant smirk was still on his face. They were sat at a square table in the center of a small but clean kitchen, with a plate of bread and a bowl of bilberries provided by Bihotza in front of them. Salazar had remained largely silent during Rhonwen’s speech, only interrupting with the occasional request for clarification on one point or another. His face had been inscrutable, giving no indication of how well (or not well) he was receiving their proposal. Now he stood apart from them, gazing out the narrow slit-window at the blue-black evening darkness and pondering, while Bihotza the elf walked the perimeter of the room lighting more candles and torches. Helga watched the little creature in fascination; she lit the flames easily and without the benefit of a wand or spoken incantation, simply snapping her long fingers and watching the wicks ignite. Helga leaned over to Rhonwen and whispered.

“Rhonwen, what is a house-elf exactly? I’ve never seen her kind before.”

“They are not common in your father’s homeland,” Rhonwen explained quietly. “Even here in Prydein, you often don’t see them if you are ordinary working folk. They serve wizarding families with long pedigrees and, usually, high birth. They are long lived creatures – Bihotza there probably served first under one of Salazar’s grandsires back in Vasconia – and they remain always with the same family, unless that family’s line dies out. Or if they are set free.”

“Set free?” Helga murmured. “What do you mean, set free? Is Bihotza a slave?”

“Well, now, that is a peculiar question,” Rhonwen mused, watching the elf stoke the hearth fire at the other side of the room. “She was, I suppose, the last time I was here four years ago. But tonight she is wearing a dress – and yet she is still here, working.”

Helga’s brows knit together. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said softly. Rhonwen shrugged uncomfortably.

“A house-elf is set free when their master presents them with clothing. Someone has given Bihotza a dress, and yet she is still serving Slidrian house as though she were not a free elf. Curious.”

“Curious?” Helga balked, pushing aside the cup of wine Bihotza had brought her earlier. “Stop a moment. If they can only have clothes when they are free, what in Woden’s name do they wear as slaves??”

“Remnants,” Goderic answered through a mouthful of bread. He had taken a handful of bilberries out of the bowl and had been arranging them in a square on the tabletop in front of him; now he tapped one at the corner to adjust its position and looked up at her. “Sacks; old blankets; leftover cloth from clothing making. It has to be discarded, and can’t be sewn, otherwise it counts as clothing.”

Helga blinked at him, completely at a loss. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. The wine and bread in her stomach seemed to curdle and shift uncomfortably, and she looked at Rhonwen as if hoping she would counter Goderic’s words. Rhonwen only gave her another imperceptible shrug. Helga stiffened.

“Does this happen in all noble wizarding households?” she demanded, trying not to pronounce noble with an edge to her voice.

“Not in Cymru,” Rhonwen said, her face diplomatically blank. Helga rounded on Goderic, who was now lining up more bilberry squares to make the outline of a house and outbuildings. He flinched under her gaze, looking bewildered by its severity.

“We haven’t had a house-elf since Blandina died when I was a boy,” he explained. Helga reached over and stopped his berry construction.

“But you did have?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “Blandina’s clan was part of our household since before Rome. Would you rather I had sent her away to starve? She was like family. She’s buried in a mound near my parents on the estate, just like a witch or wizard.”

“But she was a slave,” Helga reiterated, seeing that Goderic’s expression was still blank and innocent. “I thought wizardkind no longer held slaves? That we had all agreed to put a stop to it among ourselves, even if we couldn’t among the non-magic folk?”

“We don’t enslave each other,” Rhonwen murmured, looking into her wine cup instead of at Helga or Goderic. Color was beginning to come up into Helga’s cheeks.

“How can you say that, when clearly we do?”

“House-elves are different,” Goderic answered when it appeared Rhonwen would not. He was now constructing a bilberry pathway leading away from his bilberry house. “They’re born linked to a wizarding family. If we put them all out to fend for themselves, what would they do? They’d be utterly lost. No land that belonged to them, no sense of purpose, no skills with which to create a life for themselves—”

“You mean, except the highly advanced wandless magic they possess and the housekeeping skills which they are forced to use for wizarding families?” Helga snapped. “If they can keep your house, they can run their own.”

“But they don’t want to keep their own,” Goderic protested, his brows knitted in confusion. “Blandina would have been insulted at the thought.”

“Would she have?” said Helga irritably. “You couldn’t at least have given her a wage for her labor?”

“What would she have wanted a wage for?” asked Goderic. “She ate from our table, the same as we did; slept in our home; and she didn’t need to buy clothes.”

Helga hissed air out of her nose in frustration and turned to Rhonwen, who was again avoiding their faces diplomatically. “I don’t think he understands, Rhonwen,” she prodded, and Rhonwen nodded over her cup.

“Nor do you, in many ways,” she murmured. “To your credit, of course. But the house-elves have lived this way since the time the Great Stone Circle was built. And once a culture – wizards or elves – has collectively learned a thing as a truth, it is a very hard task to undo that learning.”

“It’s wrong,” Helga spat. Rhonwen’s face was immobile, but she looked meaningfully at Helga over the rim of her cup.

“So is paying a wergild for a man’s life. But your anger cannot make either of them go away.”

Goderic stopped building his bilberry burial mound and looked as if he wanted to ask what exactly was wrong with a wergild, but Helga had already scooted back her chair and turned away from him.

“Bihotza?” she called, beckoning the elf away from the hearth to join them at the table. Bihotza put down the poker she had been using to stoke the fire and approached Helga, eyeing her with cautious curiosity. Helga smiled at her. “Bihotza, are you a free elf?” she asked gently. Bihotza nodded, setting her hair beads to quivering again.

“Yes, Mistress. Bihotza is a free elf since the first snow last year.”

“Did Master Salazar give you your dress intentionally, Bihotza?” Rhonwen asked, and she received another jingling nod.

“Master Salazar is bad at sewing, Mistress Rhonwen, but he is making it himself. Bihotza had to fix it because the seams was puckered, Mistress.”

“Did Master Salazar set you free because he knew it was wrong to enslave you, and he wanted you to be happy?” Helga asked hopefully. Bihotza’s large ears vibrated, and her face scrunched into what Helga thought might be an expression of derision.

“No, Mistress,” the elf said, shaking her head. “Master Salazar freed Bihotza because he wanted her to go away and leave him alone.” Goderic snorted at that, and Rhonwen sighed.

“That does sound like him,” she muttered into her wine cup as she tipped the last of the drink into her mouth.

“Then why do you still work for him?” Helga pressed, taking one of Bihotza’s spindly hands. “If you are a free elf, you could go where you like – live where you want, worry only about yourself, not have to serve someone for no reward.”

“Bihotza stays because Master Salazar cannot live without her, Mistress,” the elf answered nonchalantly. “Master Salazar doesn’t know how to cook, Mistress, nor how to fix his clothes or clean things. Master Salazar would starve to death without Bihotza. So Bihotza stays no matter what Master says. Bihotza is a free elf now, so she doesn’t have to do what Master Salazar says anymore. Master didn’t think about that when he set Bihotza free.” She leaned close to Helga’s ear and whispered loudly, “Master Salazar is a little stupid, Mistress, but Bihotza doesn’t hold it against him.”

“I heard that, you little pear-with-legs,” came the soft voice of Salazar Slidrian. He had wandered back over to the table from the window, and now he took out his wand and summoned the jug of wine from the other side of the room to fill a cup for himself. “I thought elves couldn’t speak ill of their families,” he murmured. Bihotza stood on her toes (which only lifted her to about three and a half feet in total) and shook her ears at him.

“Bihotza is a free elf,” she pronounced, “and can say what she likes about Master Salazar whenever she likes to say it.”

“Hurrah for Bihotza, then,” Slidrian muttered, and he downed the wine in one gulp before pouring himself some more. “Would you mull some of this?” he said, holding the jug out to her as he sat down across the table from Helga. “Saxon wine is piss-poor without spices.”

“It is not – Grifondour estate produces a damned good quality wine, sir,” Goderic countered. Salazar turned to him with a look that said Oh, are you still here? and smirked.

“I assume you’ve never tasted wine from Vasconia, then.” He wiggled the jug in Bihotza’s direction pleadingly. “Bihotza… mulled wine, please?”

“Bihotza doesn’t have to obey any orders she doesn’t like, Master Salazar. Bihotza is a f—”

“A free elf, yes, I know,” Salazar finished with a melodramatic sigh. “I gathered that earlier this evening when I told you not to open the door to anyone.” He picked his wand up again – Helga saw it had a striking striped wood grain, and a milky, polished green stone set into the handle – and pointed it reluctantly at the wine jug.

Bihotza snatched the jug from him before he could cast any spells. “No, sir!” she squeaked. “Master Salazar must not. Master Salazar will ruin the wine with his bad spells, sir!” And having said this, she spun on her heels and took the wine off to a side table to prepare it herself. Salazar rolled his eyes longsufferingly.

“I’m an expert potion-maker, Bihotza,” he protested, but without much force. The elf answered without looking up from the wine.

“Potions and wines is not the same thing, Master Salazar!”

“Really?” Salazar whispered into his wine cup. “Oh, dear, I had no idea.” He downed the rest of the cup in one swig again. Helga scooted her chair back up to the table and leaned forward, intrigued.

“You are a potions expert?” she asked. Salazar lifted one eyebrow and gave her the barest hint of a grin.

“So you’re speaking to me now, are you?” he quipped, leaning forward to mimic her position. Helga saw that his eyes were a deep and faceted green, like a pine forest after a rain shower. “I suppose I can be called that. Or, at least, potions are what I’m best at doing. As far as magic goes, that is.”

Helga ignored the suggestive tone in his voice and plowed ahead. “So… if you help us form a school for magic… then you’d want to teach the students potion-making, I’d imagine.”

“Ah. That.” Salazar took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, but he didn’t answer immediately; he sat quietly while Bihotza brought the mulled wine to the table and plunked it down grumpily, watching the elf and the wine and, in fact, looking everywhere in the room except at his guests. Rhonwen finally prodded him with the handle of her wand.

“Yes, that,” she said. “That is why we came, if you’ve forgotten. Do you have an answer for us?”

Salazar Slidrian began to pour himself some of the mulled wine, watching the steam float up from the surface of the dark liquid for a moment before responding. “You see, there’s one problem with your plan, Rhonwen, well-organized though it is.”

“What’s that?”

“I hate children.”

“Yes, well, you hate yourself too, but you manage to live well enough in spite of it,” Rhonwen retorted, the pleasant tone never leaving her voice. Across the room at the side table, Bihotza snorted audibly. Salazar pursed his lips.

“Kindly keep your comments to yourself, Bihotza, thank you.”

“Oh, on the contrary!” Helga smiled, helping herself to the mulled wine. “I’d be happy to hear what Bihotza thinks of the plan. Bihotza, come and sit with us and tell us what you think.” There was a stool against the wall by the hearth fire, and Helga summoned it to the corner of the table at her left, patting it to invite Bihotza to sit. The house-elf approached tentatively and sat, spreading her red plaid skirt around her legs.

“Bihotza is grateful Mistress Helga wants to ask what she thinks,” Bihotza hesitated, “but Bihotza knows nothing about schools, Mistress.”

“Maybe not,” Helga allowed, “but this is your home as well as Salazar’s. I’d like to know how you feel about it. If you and Master Salazar agree to help us, we would bring a group of children here to live until they are grown and can do magic well. They would be here for several years, and more would probably follow. We would have to make some changes to this house, and there would be extra work like cooking more food each day, and cleaning clothes for quite a few people. And since you’ve said Master Salazar isn’t quite skilled at these things—”

“Hmph,” Salazar interjected, but Helga ignored him.

“—a lot of it would fall to you. Of course, we could hire some helpers for you. But you would probably need to be in charge of them.” They all sat quietly for a minute or two as Bihotza considered this. The elf blinked her large green-gold eyes slowly and deliberately, obviously giving the matter serious thought.

“Master Salazar should do it,” she said finally, wiggling her ears. “Master Salazar should not be alone all the time.”

“Traitor,” Salazar mumbled. He scooted as if to get up from the table, but before he could leave the chair, Bihotza had snapped her fingers and apparated from her stool to the edge of the table in front of him. Her hands on her hips, she stepped down off the table and stood on his lap, pinning him to the seat.

“Master Salazar has forgotten, then,” she said flatly, and Salazar went still. He put down his wine cup and looked away as the elf continued to speak, her eyes level with his even if he wouldn’t look at her. “Master Salazar has forgotten when Mistress Çinara and Master Santxo died and Master Salazar was all by hisself, and Mistress Rhonwen’s father had to come teach Master Salazar how to apparate so he could go to market and buy hisself food. How he had to bring Master Salazar books so he could finish learning how to be a wizard. How Master Salazar had to learn not to talk the sugeazkuntza when he came across the sea because even wizards here is afraid of it. What if these children can talk it? If Master Salazar doesn’t teach them how to use it right, who will do that? Hmm?”

Salazar still avoided Bihotza’s eyes, but his face was straining to remain expressionless. Helga tried to parse out what the elf had been talking about.

“Sugea… sugeazkuntza? Does that mean…?”

“Parsel-tongue,” Rhonwen filled in. “Ormrmal, your people would call it.”

“You have the Serpent Speech?” Helga asked Salazar softly. He glanced at her but didn’t say anything. Helga’s face brightened abruptly. “Salazar, that’s wonderful!”

“Is it?” he muttered darkly, but Helga was unperturbed.

“The little girl in my care, Hnossa – she has it as well! It was how I discovered she was a witch in the first place. She didn’t know she was speaking it, and I knew that someone would have to teach her how to regulate it, but I was so worried we wouldn’t find anyone who could! But here you are!”

“Here I am,” Salazar whispered, twitching his wand to pour himself more wine. Bihotza snapped her fingers at the jug, and it vanished before it reached his cup.

“No more!” she squeaked. “Master Salazar has drunk enough tonight and will stop before he embarrasses Bihotza in front of guests.” She hopped down from his lap and walked smartly across the room to stoke the fire again, ignoring the irritated glare from her former master. The four at the table sat in silence for a few minutes, broken only by the crackling of the fire and by Goderic’s quiet humming as he used the last of the bilberries to outline a miniature stone circle at the border of his imaginary berry estate.

“If—” Salazar said suddenly into the quiet, and they all jumped. “If I agree to this,” he said slowly, rolling his wand back and forth across the tabletop under one fingertip, “then I want it made clear that I am an equal partner with the three of you. I am not just the owner of the house. I have equal authority, and I teach the children how I like in the subjects that I am given charge of.”

“Of course,” Helga said immediately. “We wouldn’t presume to know more about the Serpent Speech than you, or about potions. Just as none of us presume to know languages better than Rhonwen. None of us will be subordinate.”

“And if we divide the students up, if we are each responsible for looking after a certain number of them, then I want first pick. I won’t be stuck with some wild thing I can’t handle.”

“I think we should all be charged with the students who best fit our personal strengths and weaknesses,” Helga agreed.

“And I am not agreeing to do this all the year round,” Salazar said, pointing his wand handle at Helga. “I will need time away from them. If they have nowhere else to go, then I’ll go away somewhere for a few months out of the year.”

“I’ll second that one,” Goderic concurred. “You can’t expect children to sit inside with dusty books during high summer, not when they should be out of doors sporting. You can take your time away then.”

“And,” Salazar demanded, “I understand that we will need to expand the house, but the rooms below this one are not to be touched. They are mine, and will remain so. My private rooms. No students down there unless I take them there for a lesson, and none of you either. I can’t let you have my whole house.”

“That can be arranged,” Rhonwen assented. “I think each of us should have at least two private rooms – one for a bedchamber, and one in which we can store our books and work on planning our courses of instruction. And the children shall have separate bedchambers – on the opposite end of the house from ours, if you like.”

“The opposite end of the world would be better,” Salazar muttered, looking over his shoulder to see what Bihotza had done with the wine, but his face looked more resigned than combative. “And I hope you don’t plan to start right at this moment,” he added grudgingly. Helga began to grin as she realized that this was his way of saying he agreed without actually saying the words. She scooted out from the table and came around to where he sat, taking his hand before he could get it out of her reach.

“Thank you,” she beamed. “Thank you, thank you!” Salazar found himself trapped as Helga threw her arms around him and squeezed; after a moment’s wriggling, he managed to extricate himself.

“But I will complain aggressively and constantly, because that is my right,” he grunted, smoothing the wrinkles she had put in his tunic. “And I won’t be made to cheer up, no matter what orders I am given by you, Helga Puddle-totter.”

Helga shot him a momentary glare, but she was too pleased to keep it up for long.

“We’ll start making detailed plans tomorrow, and we might even be able to start expanding the building within a week or so!” she grinned. Salazar blanched.

“Did you say tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry, Salazar,” Rhonwen appeased, “I know it’s very fast. But we want the school ready to begin by the end of the warm months, and we only have three of those left. If we start now, that will give us time to recruit some other witches and wizards to help us, to make plans for how we will structure the lessons, and to contact all of the children, and give them ample time to travel here, if they cannot do so by magic.”

“But…,” Salazar began, trailing off when he realized he wasn’t sure what his next point was going to be. Bihotza came across the room and patted his hand reassuringly.

“Cheer up, Master Salazar,” she said. “Bihotza will open a new jar of honey for Master Salazar’s guests for breakfast in the morning, and make new bread. Master Salazar likes the bread best when it’s new and hot.”

“Breakfast?” Salazar breathed. “All three of you are sleeping here tonight?”

“Well, you don’t expect us to apparate back to Cymru just to sleep and then come right back, do you?” Goderic chuckled. “We packed satchels. Besides, the lady Helga hates apparating.” He patted Salazar on the shoulder hard enough to make him rock slightly on his heels. Helga reached out and put her hand on Slidrian’s arm – gently, because he looked like an overwhelmed little boy whose mother had just brought home triplets and put them into his bedchamber.

“I’m sorry, is it awfully inconvenient?” she asked softly. Salazar glanced around at the three intruders into his solitary existence, looking for a moment like he might actually say Yes, it is, now go away; then he sighed deeply and gave Helga his faint hint of a smirk.

“It is inconvenient, but I suppose it’s not awful,” he relented. “BUT I only have one bed, and none of you are getting it.” He pointed a finger at them to make sure they understood that he meant business. Goderic chuckled and began poking his head nosily into the doorways that led out of the kitchen to the handful of other rooms.

“Not to worry, your bed would undoubtedly be too small for me anyway.”

Salazar fixed him with a glare that would have frozen the loch and walked over to stand in the doorway Goderic was snooping in, drawing himself up out of his slouch to his full height. He was obviously thinner and leaner than Goderic; but he was shorter only by a few inches, and he spread out his arms against the doorposts to make up for what he lacked in breadth.

Helga crossed the room and pulled Goderic away from the blocked doorway by his cloak.

“Come along, children, let’s be friendly,” she teased. “After all, we have dropped ourselves into poor Salazar’s lap quite unexpectedly, and we can’t blame him for being ruffled. The least we could do is be polite guests, Goderic.” Over his shoulder, she winked at Salazar. Their host relaxed in the doorway, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame, one ankle tucked nonchalantly against the other.

“I’ll amend my statement,” he smirked. “I’m still not giving up my bed, but you can share it with me, if you like.”

Helga stopped abruptly in surprise, and Goderic backed into her, nearly toppling the both of them to the floor. He tugged his cloak out of Helga’s hands and tried valiantly to keep from laughing aloud. Helga blinked at Salazar, not sure if she was supposed to be impressed by his audacity, or if he thought he was being funny. Perhaps both. She folded her hands demurely in front of her bodice and approached him slowly, dropping her eyelids to give herself a soft, doe-eyed look.

“Oh?” she breathed. “Are… are you sure…,” she stammered, “…that there’d be enough room for all three of us?” Salazar’s smirk drooped a little at the edges.

“Three?”

“Of course; you, me… and your enormous arrogance?”

Helga kept blinking innocently up into Salazar’s face as Goderic melted into a bellowing fit of laughter behind them. He mimed being stabbed in the gut with a sword, accompanied by the appropriate sounds and staggering. Even Rhonwen had slipped a hand over her mouth to hide her giggles. Salazar shot Goderic a dark glare, but when he looked back at Helga he had put his smirk back into place.

“Your loss, Helga Huffle-poffer,” he whispered. Then he sank back into the doorway he had been blocking and dropped out of sight down a flight of stairs.

“Oh, dear,” Helga sighed. “I do hope we can all get on with each other a little better tomorrow than we have tonight.”

“Better?” Rhonwen scoffed, opening the mouth of her satchel as wide as it would go. “That was as friendly as I’ve ever seen Salazar. He must like you tremendously. I think he agreed almost entirely on your account.”

“That’s his way of saying he likes me, is it?” Helga frowned. Bihotza nodded up at her as she went to put out some of the candles.

“Oh, yes, Mistress Helga. “If Master Salazar is very polite, then he is thinking of ways he could hex somebody. Once Master Salazar started saying Lady Bihotza – that was the day before Master tried to make Bihotza go away. Today he says pear-with-legs – that means Master is pleased with Bihotza again.”

“That’s not very healthy for relationships,” Helga mused, walking about and helping the house-elf to put out lamps. Rhonwen chuckled as she reached into her bag to find something.

“Salazar doesn’t have relationships,” she said, pushing her arm into the satchel up to her elbow. “Perhaps we can change that.” She dipped her arm further into the satchel, the mouth of which was now at her shoulder. Helga had thought the bag was only elbow deep, but apparently she had misjudged it.

“Well,” Goderic said, yawning cavernously, “let’s worry about changing Slidrian tomorrow. For now, I suppose we really are sleeping on the floor?”

“Nonsense,” came Rhonwen’s muffled reply as her head disappeared inside her bag. A moment later, she reemerged, pulling on something with both hands. “Why do you think it took me so long to pack, Goderic de Grifondour? I came prepared.” She gave another sharp tug, and a long rolled-up something popped out of the satchel. A tap of her wand caused the object to bounce about in the air before unfolding and stretching itself out on the kitchen floor, revealing itself to be a tidy little cot with a blanket and pillow already laid out. Rhonwen brushed loose hair back from her forehead and gestured to Goderic. “Come on, then, lend us a hand. There are two more of them in there.”

*   *   *

The next morning, after the promised breakfast of new bread and honey, the four of them got straight to work. When the breakfast platters had been removed from the table, Rhonwen laid out the map and showed Salazar the name and location of each orphan they had marked. Salazar spent the morning hunched in his chair with his blanket over his head, obviously disgruntled at being awake so soon after sunrise. He winced every time Goderic’s deep voice resonated through the kitchen. But to his credit, Helga saw, he did occasionally lean his face out of the blanket long enough to ask Rhonwen a question.

Over the course of the day, they discussed a myriad of subjects, with Rhonwen filling up a generous stack of parchments with the plans they all agreed upon. Their first point of discussion was the list of subjects they ought to teach the students, and how they would decide that a student had completed their education. Eventually they concurred that there should be four types of lessons – Information, Basic Skills, Advanced Magic, and Personalized Subjects. Everyone would start with the Informational lessons – a little history and the names of notable witches and wizards; the names and traits of various magical plants and animals; things a student born to a non-magic family would need to learn – plus reading and writing, if they were not literate when they arrived. If a student already knew these things, they could progress to the next level. Basic Skills lessons would teach everyday magic like summoning, vanishing, travel, common charms, and spells one would use for ordinary life. Advanced lessons would teach more difficult magic like divination, potion-making, transfiguring objects, and magical self-defense. If a student then showed a particular aptitude for a certain branch of magic – for instance, Hnossa and any others like her who spoke Parsel-tongue – they would then receive individual or small-group lessons in that subject once a week. The four of them read over this plan a few times and agreed it was what made the most sense; they then worked out a schedule for who would teach which lessons, on what days, and for how long.

“We’re going to need help,” Helga muttered over lunch, reading through their list of subjects. “There aren’t enough of us to teach all of this AND cook and clean for the children, too – and who will go out and wrangle these magical animals we want to teach the children about?”

“Not Bihotza, Mistress,” came Bihotza’s squeaky voice from the other side of the room. Goderic chuckled.

“I’ve just been thinking of that,” he said. “I think we should hire a man to care for the grounds around the school, and to keep a small stock of magical creatures fed and watered so the children can study them. This person could also teach lessons on magical creatures, and perhaps take care of some ordinary livestock, some pigs or geese, maybe, for eating. Does anyone know someone who’d fit that position?” None of them did; but they agreed that they could send word to Gwydion Pyk in Lundenburh and have him put the question to his wizarding guests when they passed through his inn, and send them a suitable candidate. Helga then suggested that they also hire someone to care for the school building itself – to help Bihotza with the cleaning and repair any damages the children would inevitably cause. In this case, Goderic said that he had just the man in mind.

“Who is he?” Salazar asked suspiciously from under his blanket.

“His name is Hankertonne Humilis. When I had lands from the king near the town of Chedglowe, he was my caretaker there, because I wasn’t often at that property. Last year the land went to the abbey at Malmesberie, and I think he went to work for Abbot Ælfric, but I doubt he’s happy there. An abbey isn’t the best place to try cleaning things using magic without getting caught. He’d probably jump at the chance to work here.”

“Then we’ll write to him as well as Gwydion,” Rhonwen said, making a note to herself on a parchment that held a list of tasks to accomplish. “Now, what about the kitchen? Bihotza can’t cook for so many on her own.”

“May I suggest someone for that?” Salazar asked, coming out from under his blanket a little now that the hour had passed midday. When everyone nodded, he went on. “More accurately, two someones. They’re a couple. Hoshea ben Menashe, and his wife Ya’el. They were friends of my parents, cooks for some lord’s estate in Vasconia. I’d like to invite them here.”

“Jews?” Goderic said, after pondering the sound of the unfamiliar names for a moment. Salazar stiffened.

“Is that a problem?”

“Course not,” Goderic shook his head. “Just never met a Jew before, especially not a Jewish wizard. Do they allow magic in their religion?”

“Does yours?” Salazar murmured, eyeing the cross resting in the open neck of Goderic’s tunic. Goderic shrugged.

“Good point,” he conceded. “But you think they’d be right for the job?”

“They’d keep a clean and efficient kitchen,” Salazar nodded. “Good, healthy food for the children, and they’ve worked in a large house before so they know how to cook big with small amounts of money. And Bihotza is familiar with them, so she won’t feel like she’s being invaded in her own territory.”

“Master Salazar is the one who feels like he’s being invaded,” the house-elf mumbled as she crawled under the table to fetch a quill Rhonwen had dropped. Rhonwen smiled at her as she handed it over.

“Well, it does sound nice for you to have some old friends here, I agree.”

That afternoon Rhonwen composed the three letters – one to Goderic’s man Hankertonne, one to Salazar’s friends in Vasconia, and one to Gwydion Pyk – and after they had stopped for the evening, she apparated back to her home in Cymru to pass them off to her owl-keeper to be sent. When she returned, she brought the stack of parchments cut for her by her harpist, along with his instructions for casting the charm on them to make them speak. They would wait until all the other planning was done before they wrote the letters to the children, so they would have a good idea of precisely when lessons would begin, but Rhonwen spent that evening practicing putting the singing charm on other parchments, just to be sure she had got it right.

The next three days were spent in creating detailed drawings of the modifications they would be making to Salazar’s house. Rhonwen had Salazar draw a plan of the building as it was, and then she produced several sheets of parchment that had been stretched to translucent thinness. These were overlaid onto Salazar’s drawing of his home, so they could draw rooms and corridors they planned to construct and see how they would need to intersect with the existing structure. The rooms below ground were more extensive than the others had first realized, and Helga thought it a shame to waste them – this nearly caused an argument between Salazar and Goderic, but Salazar was adamant that those rooms remain undisturbed. Rhonwen brokered a compromise in which a single room at the bottom of one flight of stairs would be expanded into a larger kitchen, leaving the rest of the cellar rooms untouched, to which Salazar grudgingly agreed. This larger kitchen would be better able to serve a score of people, and the current small kitchen in which they now sat would become a sort of small meeting room for the instructors and other staff. The rest of Salazar’s house above ground consisted of two large rooms – one at the entrance, and one off to the right which must have been the dining hall for the Roman soldiers who had built it – and a series of smaller rooms past the kitchen which must once have been sleeping quarters for the soldiers. It was decided that the dining hall, which Salazar rarely used, would retain its original purpose and be set with large tables for the students to eat from; meanwhile, the smaller soldiers’ dormitories would have their walls magically rearranged to form four classrooms. Rhonwen suggested putting a large staircase in the entrance room, which would lead up to a second floor full of dormitories for the children. Finally, Goderic proposed a wall around the building on the three sides not facing the loch, forming a courtyard in which the students could play or practice more destructive spells with some protection from the wind – and also making the school defensible, should the need ever arise. Rhonwen agreed, and then sketched a tower at each corner of the wall outline – one of which, she requested, would be set aside for her private rooms. Goderic concurred, and claimed a second tower for himself. Helga said she wasn’t enthused about the prospect of so many stairs each morning, and so she opted for a chamber below ground that branched off the kitchen room they were going to expand.

When the drawings were completed, as the week neared its end, Rhonwen sent another letter – this time to Williame Morieux, the wizard builder from Brittany who had helped with some of the expansions on Eryr house several years before. She hoped he would come and serve as an overseer of their building over the next few months – the four of them were reasonably gifted users of magic, but wizard builders were experts in spells and charms that had been precisely crafted for the construction of buildings, and Helga pronounced that she’d never be confident the whole thing wouldn’t fall down on them unless they got someone to help who had experience in the field. They had gotten a response from Gwydion Pyk the day before saying that he would certainly try to scrounge up a candidate for the position of groundskeeper, and now there was nothing to do but wait for answers to their remaining letters so they could begin the construction. Nothing else to do, of course, except writing the invitation letters to the students.

“We will have to tell them,” Rhonwen said as they sat around the table late in the evening, writing herself another checklist, “what we plan to do here, what day to arrive, and how to get here.”

“But suppose the letter is discarded by the child and then found by some mundani?” Goderic asked. “We can’t let the location of the school be discovered, that was the whole point of coming so bloody far north and turning Salazar’s house upside down.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Salazar smirked, “something I feel will not happen very often between Goderic and myself, so please take note.”“Perhaps we could send them a farar-skjóti,” suggested Helga, but Rhonwen shook her head even as Goderic made a face.

“What’s a fara-skooey?” he whispered.

“A portus key object,” Rhonwen translated for him, still shaking her head. “No, that’s too much of a risk. A non-magic person might find it and end up here by mistake.”

“The ones who have had magical parents could come by hearth travel, they’d know how,” Salazar mused. “We could build a fire large enough for it outside. And some of the braver ones who aren’t from magic families would probably try it, if we explained how and sent them the potion. But walking into a large fire is probably intimidating to a child who’s only just understanding they can do magic in the first place. Some will want to travel on horseback or some other way. So the question is; how do we direct them here without giving away the location to anyone else who would read the letter?”

In the end, it was decided that the best option would be to send each child a small pouch containing a vial of the hearth-travel potion and a small piece of enchanted glass. They could use the potion and travel through a large fire, or they could look into the glass and see images of how to travel to the school if they were riding or flying. In this way, only the child holding the glass would be able to find them. Bihotza gave Rhonwen the remnants of a broken looking-glass to use, and she put on the enchantment while Salazar brewed the potion. Helga was pleased to see that he had not been exaggerating when he’d said he was skilled with potion-making – and when she said so, he called her yet another ridiculous name, so she supposed he must be pleased to hear it.

When they sat down again to write the letter an hour or so later, Helga felt a gentle tug on her sleeve and looked down to see Bihotza standing patiently beside her chair, her large ears wiggling importantly.

“What is it, Bihotza?” Helga asked. The house-elf climbed up on her stool so all four of them could see her and cleared her throat.

“It’s only that… how will the children come here by fire, Master Salazar, if they don’t know the name of the school?”

The four of them looked at each other blankly, realizing that they had nearly forgotten the most important part of the letter they would be sending. In order to travel by hearth, one had to clearly speak the name of their destination – and as of yet, they had not given their school for magic a name. Helga laughed aloud.

“How stupid of us! Of course, Bihotza, thank you! We have to give the school a name. Does anyone have a suggestion?”

“Well, we could always name it after me, as it is my house,” Salazar offered, “but th—”

“—but that wouldn’t make you much of an equal partner, now would it?” Goderic finished. “Anyway, if we’re going that route, it should be named after Helga. It was her idea to begin with.”

“Oh, yes,” smirked Salazar, “Funffle-moff is an excellent name for a school.” His face didn’t change, but his eyes glittered with suppressed laughter, and Helga stuck her tongue out at him.

“I don’t think it should be named after any one person,” Helga countered. “It doesn’t belong to any one person – it belongs to all the children, and I hope it shall continue to belong to generations of children after we’re gone. No matter how the world changes, there will always be orphans who need teaching.”

“Then we should choose something simple and easy to pronounce,” Goderic said. “We don’t want children mispronouncing it and ending up in some stranger’s fireplace in Rome.”

“Spoken like a man who has done exactly that,” Salazar murmured amusedly. Goderic crossed his arms.

“I was seven, I couldn’t pronounce my Rs, and I thankfully only ended up in Northumbria. But it was very traumatic.”

“I’ll bet it was,” Salazar grinned, but he resisted the urge to prod further. Helga was nodding.

“Yes, it should be short and simple, but it should also be meaningful. We’re creating something very important here. Meaningful – but still playful. After all, this will be a place for children. Rhonwen, what do you think?”

Rhonwen had been sitting very quietly while the others talked, looking out the slit window over the loch. Now she turned back to them, her face dreamy and a bit distant.

“I was given a dream the first night we slept here,” she said slowly, turning the copper bracelet she wore round and round on her wrist. “It seemed odd at the time, but now I think it relevant. In my dream I stood at the edge of the land looking down onto the loch, and this house was not here. It was all grass and moss and clumps of mugwort growing among the stones. As I turned to look behind me at the land, I saw a white pig come trotting up the path, running fast but slowing down as it neared me. It was like Henwen in the old legends, except he was a hog instead of a sow. He came and sat down in the grass on the spot where the house sits in reality, winded as though he had run far and long and was suddenly able to rest. When he had caught his breath, he began to eat the clumps of mugwort that grew round about him. Now I see the meaning I was meant to take from it.”

“I’m glad you do,” Goderic muttered, raising his eyebrows at Helga and Salazar. Helga asked for both of them.

“I don’t know the story of Henwen. Would you tell me?”

“It was part of the stories of Arthur,” Rhonwen explained. “Henwen was a white sow whose offspring were portended to bring ill-fate on Prydein, and so she was harried and chased until she was driven into the sea.”

“Not unlike our kind are harried by those who fear our abilities,” Salazar said quietly, and Rhonwen nodded.

“In the stories, Henwen was driven away; but in my dream, this white hog found a place to rest here on this hillside, and he ate the mugwort herb – a charm of protection.”

“Strong against the hateful things,” Goderic murmured, and when Rhonwen lifted an impressed eyebrow, he chuckled. “Mother used to sing the Nine Herbs to us when we were small – Eaderic was still in his cot. I was always useless at magical herbs, but that one I can still recite: Remember the mugwort, and what it makes known / the mighty declaration it sets in stone. / Eldest of green-things, and matchless it be, / as strong against thirty as against three. / Strong against sickness, and poison in the glass, / strong against the hateful things that through the land do pass.”

Rhonwen smiled at him. “Not the exact words as I learned them, but then, every mother sings her own version, I suppose.”

“They must do,” Goderic replied. Beside him, Salazar shifted uncomfortably in his seat and began searching around for the wine jug.

“So,” he grumbled, “you’ve had a dream about a white pig and some mugwort, and we’re supposed to get a meaningful name from that, are we?”

“A hog eating mugwort,” Goderic mumbled, twisting some of his longer whiskers around his finger. “A white hog… eating mugwort….” The four of them fell into a comfortable silence as they pondered how to glean a name from the contents of Rhonwen’s dream. For several minutes there was no sound but the whisper of candles and the soft crackle of the hearth fire. When a voice finally broke the stillness, it was not one of the four at the table who spoke.

“Hog-wort.”

All four heads turned to look at Bihotza the house-elf, who had gone to stoke the fire while they were pondering. She put down her poker and came back across the room, the little glass beads in her hair glittering in the firelight.

“What did you say, Bihotza?” Salazar asked, leaning down to her. The house-elf clambered up onto the stool beside Helga, smoothing her dress primly before speaking.

“Hog-wort, Master Salazar,” she repeated. “Masters and Mistresses could call the school Hog-wort. That puts the two words together, you see. Hog-wort’s School. Easy for the children to say, Master Goderic, and it tells Mistress Rhonwen’s dream.”

“Hog-worts,” Salazar mouthed, testing the sound of the word. He looked at Helga.

“Hogworts,” she repeated, a smile slowly creeping up her face. “Yes, I like that!”

“No mispronouncing Hog-warts,” Goderic grinned. They all looked at Rhonwen, and she picked up her quill. Smiling warmly, she drew their stack of written plans over to her and wrote across the top, the quill scratching quickly across the page in a satisfied way.

“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” she pronounced, drawing a line under the words. “That’s it, then. That’s our school.”

“Bihotza, you are a treasure!” Helga exclaimed, giving the elf a little squeeze. “What would we do without you?”

“Like as not,” Bihotza squeaked, “the Mistresses and Master Goderic would do passably. Master Salazar would starve.”

The kitchen rang with laughter as Salazar tossed some crumpled-up scraps of parchment and bounced them off Bihotza’s wedge-shaped nose.

*   *   *

Next morning, all four of them apparated back to Eryr house – Salazar with great reluctance – to see the letters sent off to their intended recipients in the claws of Rhonwen’s prized team of trained owls. They stood atop the tower with the owl-keeper, a satchel full of parchment scrolls at their feet, surrounded by nearly a score of silent barn owls with large black eyes and inscrutable faces. They were all tethered to wooden perches at the moment, but the owl-keeper stood by, waiting for the order to loose them. Each scroll in the satchel was sealed with wax and had a little cloth pouch tied around it, in which was secured a vial of hearth-travel potion and a piece of enchanted glass. While Goderic walked about among the owls, attempting to get one of them to hoot back at him, and Salazar sulked in the corner of the tower deep inside his hood, Rhonwen and Helga looked over their master copy of the letter again, making sure there were no further revisions to be made.

At the top of the letter was a greeting, with a blank space for each child’s name; as they sent each one, Rhonwen would say the child’s name over it and tap it with her wand, and the appropriate name would appear in the empty space. The letter read:

This is a message for ____________.

Greetings, and do not fear this message, as it is for your benefit. It has come to our attention that many children in this land who have magical abilities find themselves now orphaned and without family to care for them or teach them to use their magic. You have been identified as one such child. We are a group of wizards and witches who have endeavored to create a school for magic, which we now invite you to attend – the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

At this school, you would learn all you need to be a competent witch or wizard, as well as subjects taught in the non-magical world such as reading and reckoning numbers. More importantly, you will also be fed, clothed, given a place to sleep, and kept safe from discovery by non-magical people. We do not require any payment from you – only that if you come, you try your best to learn what we have to teach you.

Attached to this letter, you will find a wax seal and a small pouch. If you do not wish to attend this school, simply bury this letter and these items where they will not be found. If you do wish to attend, please send the wax seal back to us with the owl who brought it. In this way, we can reckon how many children will be coming.

Inside the pouch are items to help you travel to us. One is a piece of enchanted glass. If you have means of travel, such as a mount to ride, then you can use this glass to direct your course. Simply look in the glass regularly as you travel, and it will show you the next part of the road ahead, until you come to our location. If you do not have means to travel, then you will use the liquid from the small vial also found in the pouch. Away from non-magical eyes, build a fire large enough for you to stand in. Pour the liquid onto this fire. When the flame changes color, step into the fire and say very clearly, “HOGWARTS.” You will be transported by magic from that fire to a hearth at the school location.

Please arrive on the last day of the weed-month, when you will be assigned to a teacher and given a bed. Lessons will begin the next day. We hope to see you here, well and eager to learn.

Signed:

Lady Rhonwen Hraefnsclawu

Helga Hunlafsdottir

Goderic de Grifondour, thegn of Salisberie

Salazar Slidrian

Helga marveled at the charmed parchment – which she could read with the help of the enchantment, even though it was written in Latin letters. They had done the enchantments late last night, and then used this master copy as a test. Sure enough, when they had sealed it and then opened it again, the page began to speak the written words aloud in their own voices. They had each used their voice for one paragraph – Rhonwen, Helga, Goderic, and Salazar last – and had each read their signed name in their own voice as well. Helga had insisted on this; she wanted the children to hear all four voices of the people who would be teaching them. The harpist’s charm had worked brilliantly, and now all that remained was to send them. Helga took a deep breath of the mild morning breeze.

“Are we ready, Rhonwen?”

“I think we must be, or we will begin to doubt ourselves,” Rhonwen replied. She picked up the satchel of letters and walked over to the first owl on the nearest perch. After shooing Goderic away from the bird before he got himself bitten (she could tell the owl was nearing the end of its patience, even if Goderic could not), she placed the first letter in the owl’s ponderous claws. “Arthur and Morgen of Weslege,” she recited, and tapped the scroll with her wand. The parchment glowed a pale blue for just a moment and then was dull again. At Rhonwen’s nod, the owl-keeper unlatched the owl’s tether, and the bird launched itself into the brightening sky, flying fast and hard due south toward Devenescire.

Rhonwen repeated the process for each scroll, going down the line of owls, giving each bird a letter and then investing it with the name of its recipient. When she had addressed the final parchment – to “Ysolt and Brictric Blæc of Hexworthy” – she closed the empty satchel and then stood back with a deep breath. The four of them watched the big bird winging its way southwest, following its progress until it was lost against the white-gold clouds of the summer morning. When they had stood quietly for a minute or two, the owl-keeper threw open the hatch door that led down into the tower and began carrying the empty owl perches back inside.

From deep inside his hood, Salazar murmured, “Since you’ve dragged me out into the sunlight for this, Rhonwen, can you at least feed me some breakfast?” Rhonwen smiled at him, and gave his shoulders a quick squeeze while he was too sleepy to flinch away.

“Yes, but we’ll make it a quick one and then get straight back to the School. We have a lot of work to do, and only one summer in which to do it.”