Inside, the place was as ugly and tasteless as the out. Thick, velveteen drapes mouthed the windows, devouring the sunlight into a muggy dimness. Daugi snuffled and licked experimentally at a dark patch on the carpeting, only to gag on the thick dust that collected on her tongue. A giggle welled up in Fenn’s chest at the sight of her shaking her head back and forth, her tongue lolling in disgust.

It was an odd house to be certain, cluttered with old-fashioned furniture in ghastly disrepair. One could hardly walk three paces without discovering a melted puddle of a candle tucked into a corner or guarding a tabletop. A metallic smell clung to them, and their wax was tinged black. It was a wonder that the house hadn't burned down before Darcy died. Fenn inspected one placed precariously on a windowsill. The sill itself was greasy with lines of congealed white dust. He dabbed a finger in and tasted it with only a little hesitance; salt. These measures spoke of ritualistic magic, even holding a bit of leftover magic-brightness to the touch. The feeling was unmistakable.

Perhaps he didn't study that particular brand of magic, but he had read a thing or two. Salt was sometimes used as a ward, to keep things out -- or in, as need be.

Fenn snorted and pressed on through the halls, Daugi trotting behind him with pricked ears. He wasn't sure what sort of spells had been cast in this house, but it probably hadn't helped those haunting rumors. It was said that Darcy had been declared dead “under mysterious circumstances”, and none had been brave -- or stupid -- enough to investigate these circumstances.

The boy combed through the crooks and corners of the house, piece by piece. First, he ducked into a large bedroom to the right of the first hallway. Its floors were in brittle condition, straining with every step of the sleepy wolf behind Fenn. All that was left standing was an empty bookshelf, a battered wardrobe, a matching pair of bedside tables, and the musty bed itself. Pasty fungus had taken over the water spots on the ceiling.

Fenn surveyed the room in quiet appreciation of the victorian design before turning to his canine friend. In absence of a voice to speak with, he made rough gestures and shapes with his hands. The first was a rough square, followed by a motion that was reminiscent of turning pages. Book. Need to find. Search?

“Wuff.” Daugi trotted out of the room, bright-eyed with the anticipation of helping her tiny charge. Confident that she'd be up to the task, Fenn was free to explore the room as he needed.

Fenn crouched by the bed, lifting up the covers to peer underneath. No stone could be left unturned, no reach unexplored, no door unopened. That manuscript could be anywhere. The dark underneath the mattress unnerved him. There was a skittering sound, like a small animal moving about on spindly legs. A shudder ran through the small Fae. All the same, not really knowing what he was or what he could do was unnerving him a lot more these days. None of his excursions into the frozen wastes of Salvar had given him any insight into his kind. The lack of understanding about his heritage caused complications. Fae were very different from the other races. He didn’t understand how his magic was supposed to work, he wasn’t sure how -- if even if -- he would grow up, and he was just dying to know if they were all voiceless, or if that was his own flaw entirely.

He hoped that it wasn’t just him, but he wasn’t holding his breath on it.

Either way, Fenn reasoned to himself, he had escaped senile dragons, kidnappings, and the judgemental eyes of bloody corpses. A haunted house with no ghosts and lacking hygiene wasn’t the worst thing he had ever encountered. The dark under the bed? Pffft, nothing. That thought was reassuring. His magic subdued by the unsettling atmosphere and muggy air, the freckles of frost on Fenn’s face partially melted, making him uncomfortably sticky. Wiping back a slick of damp hair from his face, Fenn sucked up a deep breath and stuck his hands under the bed, searching by touch for anything roughly book-shaped. Naught but squishy, bulbous masses met his prodding fingers. Whatever it was became gummy under his cold touch.

Eight beady white eyes emerged from the blackness, glaring vehemently at the boy’s straying hand. Fenn blanched at the brown, bird-sized spider that the eyes were attached to, yanking his hand back before it could strike. His hands were speckled yellow and white with broken egg sacs.

Chirp chirp.

Whoops. Omhym nest.

He jumped onto the bed and flung the covers back over the side, muffling the irate chirping of the singing spider as it charged against the quilting that trapped it underneath once more. His body was all jittery now. A sharp “Auf!” greeted Fenn from behind as he gagged and wiped the residual spideregg and webbing onto the bleached pillows. Daugi! He turned around expectantly, brightening when he saw the old tome clutched between her teeth. Excitedly, he leaned over for a closer look. It was…

A greasy brown cookbook, its pages yellowed by time.

It fell from the wolf’s jaws with a good thud, a noise not half as loud as the happy thumpthumpthump of her tail against the floor.

Fenn sighed, and shook his head at his partner, sorry to burst her bubble. He signed resignedly at her. Wrong book. Thanks, sorry. The direwolf drooped in disappointment. That was okay. There was still more to explore.