One small candle burned in a sconce outside the door. It didn't cast much light when I took it in. It wasn't there for that. It was meant to fire lamps when His Nibs had people in who needed the comfort of the light.

I raised the candle high. The Dead Man was right where I'd left him. Where he had been since I bought the house, seated in a massive wooden chair, looking like a badly rendered idol featuring an anthropomorphic elephant god. I said, "Cold in here."

"Yes."

"Really cold in here."

She explained the mix of spells, leased from the same supplier as those chilling the cold well in the kitchen. "Kip Prose designed the suite. It does not cost that much. It will make sure he is with us for a lot longer."

"Kip Prose. Of course. He's into sorcery, now, too?"

"No. He could not make a rock fall down if he had to use magic. He can come up with mathematical models to make spells work more efficiently, though."

The last contractions had dropped out of her speech. She was talking slower. She had begun to show a little of the ratman lisping accent.

She was nervous.

"How much is the cold costing?"

"Less than you might think. It is an investment in our future. We can keep food fresh in here, too."

I do fuss about money. Someone has to make people think a little before they empty my pockets.

I was the despair of Dean and the Dead Man, and of Singe after she helped herself to a place in my life, because I am disinclined to work any harder than necessary to avoid ending up ranting on the steps of the Chancellery in hopes somebody will be amused enough to toss a coin into my tips box.

I heard harsh talk about poorhouses as those fine business minds missed the fact that the poorhouses were shutting down. Without a war there was no need for sweatshops to make things soldiers needed.