Magic Below Stairs by Caroline Stevermer

a broom, a pint of ale, a pint of water you’ve drawn from the well yourself, a pound of salt, a lot of rosemary, and a handful of feathers, any sort, so long as they are clean.”
    It took the best part of an hour for Frederick to fetch everything. Then, despite the fine weather, Lord Schofield ordered Frederick to kindle a fire in the dressing room hearth. The flue drew properly, smoke rising just as it should, without drifting back into the dressing room.
    â€œThat’s interesting,” Lord Schofield said, peering into the depths of the fireplace to watch the smoke going up.
    While Frederick had been carrying out all his instructions, Lord Schofield had assembled his magical implements. There was now an embroidered cloth on the shaving stand where the set of razors was normally kept. On the cloth lay an array of objects, some as familiar as a battered-looking kitchen knife, some too strange for Frederick to put names to.
    Lord Schofield tossed a pinch of salt on the flames. “Hand me the broom. Now, stand in the doorway and don’t let anyone else in, no matter what.”
    â€œNot even Lady Schofield?” Frederick took up the position Lord Schofield indicated.
    â€œAt this hour? She will still be sleeping. But no, just this once, not even Kate. Now be quiet.”
    Slowly, far more slowly and far less thoroughly than Frederick would have done it, Lord Schofield swept the entire dressing room. With every stroke of the broom, he muttered to himself. The sweepings, what few there were, went on the fire. Then out came the chalk again. This time it was not a circle Lord Schofield drew on the floor, but a triangle. He made marks around the outside of the triangle, but if they were words, they were written in no alphabet Frederick had ever seen before.
    The salt, Lord Schofield sprinkled in a ring around the triangle. The rosemary and the feathers were distributed at irregular intervals within the ring. Lord Schofield put a crystal dish in the center of the triangle and poured in as much well water as it would hold. All the while, his muttering went on, a soft chant Frederick did not understand, even though it sounded half familiar.
    At first, Frederick worried that Lord Schofield would catch some hint that Billy Bly was in the house. But soon that concern faded. The fire on the hearth made the room seem uncomfortably warm.
    Frederick yawned. Even though he and Lord Schofield were the only ones in it, the room felt crowded. Frederick yawned a second time. Trying to wake himself up fully, Frederick squeezed his eyes shut hard, opened them, and looked again at the scene before him. The ring of salt, it seemed to Frederick, was whiter than it had been. The crystal dish of water seemed not as full. Lord Schofield kept on chanting.
    The rosemary drooped and wilted. The feathers looked exactly as they had when Frederick collected them from the first hen to cross his path in the farmyard. The crackling of the fire made Frederick feel drowsy. If anything, the room had grown more stuffy than before. At last, Lord Schofield put his hands together over his heart and fell silent.
    Almost overwhelmed by the warmth of the fire in the stuffy room, Frederick yawned a third time.
    Lord Schofield glared at Frederick as he took up the broom and swept the whole arrangement into a heap in the center of the triangle. He disposed of the mess in the fireplace and added a few sticks of firewood to help the blaze along. Then Lord Schofield used the water in the crystal dish to wash the floor clean. At last, when the final traces of the ritual had been tidied away, he spoke. “Stop yawning, you infernal nuisance, and make yourself useful. Hand me that tankard of ale.”
    Frederick obeyed. Lord Schofield leaned on the broom as he drank the ale in hasty gulps. He smacked his lips and sighed. “That’s better.”
    â€œSalt doesn’t burn.” Frederick stared at the blaze in the hearth. He glimpsed strange