If a Wizard is never late, nor is he early - as the proverb goes - then his present lack of punctuality must be intentional.

Maybe he fears the flame-bright frustration of the freshly convened House-Of-Many-Doors Renters’ Association. More likely he thinks making us wait beneath the vast arches of his study will temper our fury, rather than kindling moment by moment.

We’ve kept our side of the contract; we’re staying until he steps up to his.

We all knew that the House opened onto many streets, in cities across the world, perhaps more than one world, for the convenience of a single man in his self-purported Great Works.

All these facades, empty houses leading to the same House, lying stagnant as demand for living space rose and ordinary folks like us struggled to find somewhere to exist. So when he agreed to rent out his interstitial chambers, below market rates, we all agreed to the Rules.

Access for the Wizard as/when he requires it.

No Children.

And most vehemently expressed, Do not enter the Inner House.

They seemed reasonable enough when we thought the Wizard a man of Great Import. Surely he wouldn’t interrupt our day-to-day lives without Grand Purpose?

I never even thought to breach the Third Rule until a woman came tumbling out of my mirror, her skin iridescent with scales, bringing her own litany of complaints to add to my own.

There’s liberation in learning you’re not the only one, that you can stand united before the door of a Wizard and demand equality. And in his absence, our grievances fester.

“Twenty-four hours notice!” a woman in a purple dress demands. “He can’t just keep dropping in because he’s lonely.”

“I’d appreciate it if he at least knocked,” says a man, leaning on his stick.

“Maybe he can magically fix the plumbing while he’s at it.”

“I WILL CONSIDER YOUR DEMANDS.” The Wizard’s voice rolls like thunder, and we fall silent. “NOW GO!”

A couple of folks shift nervously; together, we stand firm.

“No,” I say, addressing the arches. “No more smoke and mirrors. No more of this! Treat us as equals, or we’re done.”

A candlestick flickers on the edge of my vision, melting like wax, and then he’s standing there before us, a thin man with hunched shoulders and furrowed brow.

“Let’s talk,” I say.