"Almost the furthest point in the house," he says, smiling crookedly as he fits the key in the lock. It turns smoothly, and even though Black Elm has never contained the same clear kind of presence as Il Bastone, it still feels as though the place is welcoming him back. "The only thing more distant is the attic."

He pushes the door open, the hinges creaking, echoing through the interior. "I'll have to ward it again," he says, looking over at her as they step inside. "It might take time, but we have enough--"

Darlington stops abruptly, the sound of his voice echoing away just as the hinges had only a moment before. They should be entering the great room, vast and opulent, full of heavy wood furniture and the long leather couch by the fireplace; everything he'd grown up with, everything he remembers. Instead, there's nothing but a bare room, an expanse of polished wood floors and dark walls, the fireplace cold and the sun streaming in through the picture window along the back wall to illuminate the emptiness. "There's nothing here," he says. "Everything...the furniture, the books, the...there's nothing here."