The flames in the chandelier somehow create more shadows than they banish. There are books on the floor which Emma hadn’t remembered being there before. Had the rumpled bedding in the corner moved since they left?

“We should turn off all the lights again,” Emma said. “If the police knock, then we can pretend no one is home. And it will make it more likely for the daemons to come back.”

“I don’t want to.” Charlie said gruffly. He’d been quiet the whole way back from the Dim Sum Palace. Emma returned grandmother’s gun back to the box beside its stuffed chair. She thinks of everything in the house as belonging to her now, but not the gun. She trusted daemons more than it.

Charlie didn’t follow her into the library. He hesitated, half turning in the doorway.

“Umm… well I wanted to help, but it’s getting late and all…”

“It’s your fault I have to deal with the police too. The daemons weren’t going to hurt me. I don’t know about the police.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about them, do you? You’re just making it up.”

“Everyone makes up everything, but I happen to be correct,” Emma said defiantly.

“I bet I know more about daemons than you do. I knew your grandmother better than you did. She probably even loved me more. Admit it.”

Emma sat down in the over stuffed chair. She daintily crossed her legs. If nothing else, she was looking forward to getting out of these old jeans and into grandmother’s closet. She might even start sewing and hemming her lace gowns with their bone buttons right away. It’s not like she would be sleeping tonight, with the daemons still on the loose.

“I do not like your tone,” Emma said stiffly. “You are the one who offered to help. If you decide to leave after only making things worse… well, no one is making you stay. But I will remember if you leave, and I will remember if you stay, and witches have long memories.”

“You are not a witch!” Charlie nearly shouted. He clapped his hands over his mouth, alarmed by his own volume.

“How do you know?”

Charlie had no good answer for that. He hung his head and respected the wisdom of silence.

“You’re already in trouble, Charlie. It’s just a matter of deciding which kind of trouble you’d rather have. Do you know where my grandmother might keep her keys?”

Charlie shook her head.

“I want to open her desk. I think that’s where she keeps her contracts with the daemons. Will you help me search the house for her keys?”

Charlie nodded, defeated. “Okay. I’ll stick around. Up to two more hours. But I’ll really be in trouble if I get home after 10.”

The search of the library was quickly exhausted. Emma tried pulling a few random books from the shelves. No secret door or treasure presented itself. Soon she was wandering down the hall, looking in the bathrooms. Nothing in the porcelain tub with clawed feet. Nothing behind the mirror with its silver frame. Nothing in the mirror — nothing in the mirror. Not even the bathroom. Not even her.

Emma stared into what she thought was a mirror a moment ago. But it was more like a window into someone else’s house. It was a rather cozy looking living room, with wreaths upon the fireplace. And even stranger, it was daytime there, and Emma could see snow on the ground out the window.

“Find anything?” Charlie called from the kitchen.

“A mystery for another time,” Emma decides. This house must be filled with hidden wonders. She must focus on getting her daemons back.

“You might want to see this,” Charlie called.

Emma wished there were curtains to close over the bathroom mirror. There were not, so she closed the door instead. Down the hall — were those the same portraits hanging as last time? She was sure they were black and white before, but they were clearly in color now. She shuddered slightly as she entered the warm light of the kitchen.

Charlie knelt on the clay tiles next to the open oven. It was like looking into an open mouth, with teeth several rows deep like a shark. The black metal tray inside moved sluggishly like a tongue.

Charlie closed the oven again. It looked perfectly normal from the outside.

“The poor thing,” Emma said. “It probably needs to be fed too, doesn’t it?”

“Mrs. Orwell never told me about anything else that needed to be fed, beside the ones that already got away.”

“Do you think the oven makes her dinner for her?”

“I wouldn’t eat anything that came out of that.” Charlie blanched.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“If I was my grandmother, I would wear my key on a necklace. There’s no reason my desk would ever be opened unless I was there to do it.”

“Well I’m not going to the morgue, but I’ll keep looking here.”

Emma stomped to the pantry and flung the wooden doors open. Without even looking properly, she slammed them shut again. She felt frustrated. There were no end to the secrets of grandmother’s house. The daemons could be starting fires again even now. Of course she was afraid when the daemons got hold of her. But she believed what she said: they didn’t mean to hurt her. There was something in the fire, like a window into another world. But not like the world in the mirror, full of light and life. In the fire, Emma felt a terrible will bent toward destruction. In the smoke, twisted daemons rose far more horrifying than her little chickens.

If Emma’s egg hatched into one of her chicken daemons, she really would keep it forever. She headed to the guest room to check on her egg, still hidden in her backpack. They were almost cute, the ones who escaped. At least no less cute than a pug. At least if you tell yourself pugs are cute. Sometimes a comical deformation can have its own charm, and these daemons were playful caricatures and mockeries of living things.

Emma recovered the black scaled egg and breathed with relief. She still had a magic thing. An unasked wish waiting to be hatched. Her agitation immediately quelled with the warmth which spread from its little spines. This feeling could not be an evil thing. She must trust that. Whatever happens, even if the other daemons never came back, she would always have this. Well, maybe always was too strong a word for an egg. But she would keep it safe until it hatched.

Emma looked around the guest room and marveled at the possibilities of a wish. Grandmother never said there were limits. Maybe she had only wished for silly things like a new library because that’s all she wanted. Could Emma even bring grandmother back to life? Would she even want to, now that Emma can become a witch of her own? And that was it! The wish to make all the trouble worthwhile. A sly smile spread over Emma’s lips. She would wish to become a witch for real, like grandmother was. Then the daemons would do what she said. It is better to be feared than loved, she thought, because love doesn’t last. But once you’re a witch and have that power, then people will be afraid of you forever. Even if you live to a hundred years old. As a twelve year old girl who read too many dark stories before living her own, Emma thought that made a lot of sense. She’d never wanted to be in love, but had always wanted to be a witch.

“Did you find anything in here?”

Emma startled. She hadn’t heard Charlie approaching from the kitchen. He was right behind her though, looking at the large scaled egg in her hands. It was too late to hide.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“My last daemon,” Emma said sadly.

Without asking, Charlie reached for it. He brushed aside her hand, and ran his fingers along the scales. A dopey smile spread on his face. They looked at each other, both knowing the other felt the same warmth. Emma felt herself blush, without quite knowing why. It was embarrassing to share such a secret pleasure with this strange boy.

“Excuse you. That isn’t yours.” Emma pulled the egg away and put it back into her backpack.

“I remember that feeling.” Charlie sighed and fell back onto the bed.

“You aren’t looking.”

“Neither are you.”

Charlie kicked off his shoes and pulled the covers up against the sudden chill. As soon as the warmth of the egg was gone, it became so much colder than it had been before she’d touched it. Emma shivered, but let her anger keep her warm.

“You are not going to bed until we find the key,” Emma scolded.

“Just trying to keep warm. How will you hatch it?”

“What do you mean? It’s an egg. Egg’s hatch, and a daemon will come out.”

“You’ve not really spent much time on a farm, have you?”

Emma scowled. The deathly chill was starting to pass though, and she stood her ground.

“Okay fine. How do chicken eggs normally hatch?”

“With a chicken on top.”

“So you’re saying my daemon egg will only hatch if…”

“If there’s a daemon on top, would be my guess.”

“That old bat!” Emma nearly shrieked. No, she would not sound that way! She lowered her voice, and growled: “Grandmother knew what would happen all along.”

“Huh?” Charlie was fluffing the pillow and getting comfortable in bed. Emma didn’t care anymore.

“When she gave me the daemon egg,” Emma said. “She knew the only way I could get my wish was for me to watch after the other daemons. That means she must have known something was going to happen to her before it did.”

“She knew she was going to die?”

“If she even did die, and it wasn’t all a trick somehow. I don’t think she planned on the daemons escaping though. She couldn’t have, could she?”

“Maybe you can hatch the egg in the oven.” Charlie yawned. “At least, if the oven doesn’t eat it up.”

Emma considered, but shook her head. Too risky. She was beginning to pace, as she often did in thought, trying to get her body to keep up with her mind.

“I think…” Emma said carefully. “Until proved otherwise, it will be my assumption that grandmother planned for everything to happen. In which case, it is not such a bad thing the daemons have escaped.”

“How do you mean?”

“Think of it this way: if grandmother knew she would die and didn’t stop it, then it can’t have been so bad. She was a powerful witch who could do anything. And if she knew the daemons would escape, that was okay too, because she planned ahead by giving me the egg. That means grandmother wanted me to solve the daemon problem, so she must believe that I was up to solving it. And if grandmother believed in me, so much that she didn’t even leave many clues behind, then I must believe in me too. So there’s really nothing to worry about.”

“Oh that’s good to hear. I guess you don’t mind if we look again in the morning then,” Charlie said. He turned onto his side and rolled away from Emma.

“Didn’t you say you had to be home?”

“I lied. They won’t miss me.”

“That’s fine. They don’t miss me either. I could tell my mother was relieved to get rid of me for a week. You rest your sleepy head. I won’t make a sound.”

Emma turned off the bedroom lights. She took the egg and her backpack with her when she softly closed the door. Charlie hadn’t expected to get away that easily. One eye opened, he was half-afraid she was still there in the room with him, hiding in the shadows. He was more frightened of her than he was of the daemons. He really was tired though, and was just drifting off to sleep when —

BLAM. The gun went off upstairs.

Charlie was on his feet before he was sure whether or not there was a nightmare. He raced upstairs, tripping and falling through the dark. The black and white portraits leered down at him, though he was sure they were color last time he’d passed.

“Emma? Are you alright?”

The library was the only room which had a light. Emma stood by the desk, her skin flushed with a warm glow beneath the flames of the chandelier. The hunting rifle hung from one hand. She grinned at the large splintered hole where the lock used to be in the desk.

“Oh good, you’re up already?” Emma asked innocent. “Looks like I found the key.”