Free Cold Burn of Magic by Jennifer Estep Page B

Talent.
    I stepped out of the car, and Reginald gestured toward the mansion.
    â€œThis way, please, miss.”
    Grant and Felix came up behind me, and I had no choice but to follow Reginald.
    He moved toward the front door, his steps quick and precise, his back straight, his black tweed suit not even daring to wrinkle much less attract a speck of dirt. Unless I missed my guess, Reggie was the sort of guy who loved lists, order, and rules, and hated the people who broke them, like me.
    Reginald opened the door and stepped through to the other side. I went in next, with Grant and Felix still behind me.
    The exterior of the mansion might have been rough, black, and blocky, but the inside was smooth, light, and delicate. Floors made of polished white marble gleamed like sheets of glass underfoot. Real flecks of gold, silver, and bronze shimmered in the paint that covered many of the walls, while crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceilings, sending out warm sprays of light in all directions. And the furnishings were even finer, made out of dark, heavy woods, colorful stained glass, and genuine gemstones.
    I tried hard not to gawk, really I did, but I soon gave up, even though I was acting like the worst sort of slack-jawed, wide-eyed tourist rube.
    And it wasn’t just that everything was so fine—it was also the obvious care and work that went into it. Everything gleamed as though it had been shined moments ago, no doubt thanks to the pixies. I spotted several of them, all around six inches tall, miniature humans with translucent wings attached to their backs, zipping through the air and carrying everything from dust rags to mops to small buckets of water.
    Technically, pixies were monsters, since they weren’t quite human—or at least human-sized—like mortals and magicks were. But really, pixies were the housekeepers of the world, offering their services in exchange for food, shelter, and protection. I’d been hoping that one—a nobody like me without a Family—would take refuge in the library basement, and we could work out a similar deal, especially since I hated making up my bed. And doing laundry. And every other housekeeping chore. But it hadn’t happened. I bet that none of the Sinclair Family members ever had to make their beds. I bet that whoever lived here never had to lift a finger. Not with all these pixies scurrying around.
    Reginald followed a female pixie balancing a tray of cucumber sandwiches on top of her head. Apparently, she was headed toward our destination.
    I kept gawking as we moved through one room and one wing of the mansion to the next, going so deep into the structure that I had no idea where we were—or how I could get back out again.
    Or if I was ever going to get back out again.
    Finally, Reginald opened a set of double doors and we stepped into an enormous library, one that stretched up three levels, all the way to the top of this particular section of the mansion. Each level featured a wraparound balcony, all filled with bookshelves, and all overlooking the main, square reading area on the first floor. The ceiling rose to a point; it was made out of panes of black-and-white stained glass that cast alternating pools of shadow and light onto everything below.
    Here on the first floor, ebony shelves filled with books, photos, crystal paperweights, and other expensive knickknacks lined one wall. An antique ebony desk occupied the back of the room, in front of a series of doors that led out to a balcony encompassing the entire length of the library. Another crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, like a cluster of icicles frozen in place.
    I eyed the shelves, wondering if I might discreetly swipe a silver picture frame or two. Just because I’d been brought here more or less against my will didn’t mean I had to leave empty-handed. Like Mo had said, I was always looking to put more cash in my pockets, along with silverware, jewelry, and other