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ready to dive upon any daring to walk beneath it.
    As they ascended to the second floor, Carter said, “It seems Duskin is now her sword, while she stands behind, gloating.”
    “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Brittle said. “She insisted on greeting you first. Things have been … difficult since your father departed.”
    “Of that I am certain.”
    They turned left at the top of the stair, down a long corridor paneled in oak, carpeted in vermilion, its rafters wrapped in shadow, that brought them quickly to the familiar door of Carter’s room. To his surprise, two old friends waited within. Seeing him, both Enoch and Chant sprang from their seats. The ancient Windkeep defied all propriety by laughing and throwing his arms about Carter. His grin made his olive skin crinkle all around his eyes. “Murmur wouldn’t allow the servants to meet you in the drawing room,” he said. “She wants us to know our place, so we arranged a meeting here. You look tall. You look handsome. You were scrawny when you left; now you’re the brawny one. How are you?”
    “Wonderful!” Carter cried. “Especially now, to see all of you. This is a homecoming indeed!” He clasped Chant’s hand. “You each look exactly the same. I thought you would be shorter, or older, but you’re not.”
    In truth they seemed wholly unchanged. Chant’s hair retained the same touch of gray, while Enoch had always appeared ancient as a great oak and just as stout—his dark eyes were merry as ever; he walked like a young man. Carter scarcely constrained himself from weeping once more.
    “Fourteen years is not so long,” Chant said. “Not when you live in a house old as time.”
    “So you still light the lamps each night?”
    “Of course.” Chant’s rose eyes twinkled. “ Then I’ll come when I’m a man, With a camel caravan; Light a fire in the gloom, Of some dusty dining room. As always.”
    “And you wind the clocks?”
    Enoch laughed. “Every one.”
    Carter sat upon the silk coverlet, stroking it with his hand. “You’ve left the room the same. I thought it would be altered.”
    Enoch sat beside him and looked intently into his eyes. “We have been waiting for you. We need you now. Your father has been gone ten years; will he ever return? But the house must have a Master. You’ve been brought back to see if you might be the one.”
    “There is Duskin,” Carter said.
    “Yes,” Enoch replied. “Perhaps. He, too, is an Anderson. But things don’t work that way in this house, to be passed from father to son. The Master must be worthy. His mother makes Duskin bitter; many years may pass before he learns better. But who knows? You are home! What could happen? Anything!”
    Carter looked at the three smiling faces surrounding him. “I have learned one thing while I was away, that the High House is unlike any other. In the outside world, guests do not appear dressed in medieval garb, bobbies all have faces, and houses don’t have infinite corridors. I learned not to tell my tales; even my foster parents thought me filled with fancies. Or did I simply dream those things? What is this house?”
    “That will be explained,” Brittle replied.
    “Would you learn it all in a day?” Enoch asked. “It’s too long for that. Today you should remember. Walk the familiar ways. See if the house fits you.” He pulled a pocket watch from his coat and groaned. “I have clocks to wind that can’t wait.”
    “And I, lamps to light,” Chant said.
    Just then thunder boomed overhead. Brittle peered outside and shook his head. “It will be a great storm tonight. Twilight will come early.”
    They said farewell and left him to reminisce among his old things. And if they departed abruptly, Carter thought little of it, for he knew they were thinking of his father, and that made the meeting, however joyous, hard as well.
    He sighed, opened his suitcase, and drew out four wooden soldiers, a notched wooden sword, and a picture of his mother, all of which