Azzie took up his abode in the basement. It was just the sort of a place for a demon. He had brought along several scrolls to read and a sack of rotted cats' heads for snacks. He was looking forward to a quiet time. But no sooner had he settled in than the interruptions began.

First it was Scrivener's wife, a tall wench with coarse brown hair, wide shoulders, and a big bottom, coming down to the cellar for provisions. Then it was the oldest son, Hans, a weedy lout who looked just like his father, searching for the honey pot. Then Lotte the maidservant, down to pick out some potatoes from last year's harvest.

What with one thing and another, Azzie got little rest. In the morning he looked in on Scrivener. The resuscitated man seemed to be on the mend. He was sitting up and taking herb tea, arguing with his wife and scolding the children. One more day, Azzie decided, and he'd be all right and it would be time to move on to more interesting matters.

The two dogs of the household knew he was there, and slunk away whenever he came by. That was to be expected. But what happened next was not in his plans.

That night he went to sleep in the moldy part of the cellar where some turnips had rotted and he'd made a noisome little nest for himself. But he awoke abruptly when he sensed the presence of light. It was a candle's glow. Someone was standing there looking at him. A child. How insufferable! Azzie tried to bound to his feet and fell back. Someone had tied a piece of string around his ankle!

Sheer reaction made him rear up. A child. A little fat-faced flaxen-haired girl of seven or so. Somehow she must be able to see him: in fact, she had trapped him.