"Petunia specifically requested I be moved to the east wing. She put me in the smallest room in the building because she knew I was bringing someone, and she wanted to make sure there wasn't space for both of us. She's been doing this since we were kids. She took the big bedroom. She took the front seat. She took the last piece of birthday cake, every single year, and when I cried about it she told Mom I was being dramatic."
"Your sister's tactical strategy is resource denial."
"It's not a tactical strategy. It's just spite."
"Spite is a strategy. An inefficient one." The elevator shudders to a stop. The doors grind open. "She underestimates your resources."
"What resources? I have a brass key and a twin bed."
"You have me."
The hallway stretches ahead of us. Narrow. Low-ceilinged. The enchanted sconces along the wall are spaced farther apart here than in the lobby, producing pools of light separated by long shadows. The carpet is thin. The wallpaper peels at the corners. This is not the west wing.
Room 3-E-14 sits at the dead end. I insert the brass key. Turn it. The lock resists, then surrenders with a gritty click.
I open the door.
A twin bed dominates the center, iron frame, sagging mattress, a thin quilt patterned with purple foxgloves pressed beneath a single flat pillow. A writing desk occupies the gap between the bed and the window, so narrow that the chair can't pull out all the way without hitting the bed frame. The wardrobe stands against the left wall, a heavy mahogany piece roughly the dimensions of an upright casket. The washroom door is ajar, revealing a standing shower stall that would accommodate one of my legs.
The window, as promised, exists. It faces the service parking lot.
Magnolia steps in behind me. Stops. Her shoulder blades press against me because there is nowhere else for her to stand while I'm in the doorway.
"One hundred and forty square feet," she whispers.
"The receptionist was generous. This is one hundred and ten."
"Where are you going to sleep?"
I drop my garment bag on the desk chair and assess the available materials. The bed is non-negotiable. She gets the bed. The floor space between the bed and the wardrobe measures roughly six feet by two feet. I need six feet nine inches by two and a half feet. The math doesn't work.
Unless I extend the available floor space.
I grip the wardrobe's left side panel and test its weight. Solid mahogany. Dovetail joints. Well-built, but nothing special. Built by a craftsman, not an enchanter. No wards. No living wood.
I strip my jacket. Drape it over the desk. The armor-silk hisses softly against the wood.
Then the shirt. The buttons resist. They were sewn for precision, not speed. I bring the fabric over my head instead and toss it on the jacket.
Magnolia makes a sound. Small. Involuntary. Like air escaping a sealed jar.
I ignore it.
The wardrobe's back panel is quarter-inch mahogany, nailed to the frame with iron brads. I hook my fingers under the top edge and pull. The nails squeal. The panel separates in one piece, a clean rectangle of dark wood, roughly six feet by three feet.
Perfect.
I lean it against the wall and go for the shelves next. Three interior shelves, each one a thick slab of the same mahogany,slotted into grooves on the side panels. I knock them free with the heel of my hand. They drop with satisfying thuds.
"What are you doing to that wardrobe?"
"Decommissioning it."
"It's an antique."
"It's particle board with a mahogany veneer."
"It is not."
