Location: Still underwater. Still near the reef. Beginning to recognize individual parrotfish, which is not a good sign.

  It dawned on me, probably somewhere between contemplating the existential threat of deep-sea noises and wondering if library mildew counts as a potion ingredient (verdict: probably, but not worth the side effects), that I keep mentioning rooms and features of this house without ever actually describing the damned thing. For any hypothetical future reader unfortunate enough to decipher these ramblings, my constant complaining about specific windows, shelves, or bathtubs probably lacks crucial context. Context like: the house itself is arguably as temperamental and inconvenient as my own fucking hair.

  So, consider this the reluctant architectural tour. Don't expect floor plans or decorator jargon. This is just the functional layout of my perpetually relocating, semi-sentient headache.

  From the outside (on the rare occasions we're stationary long enough and in an environment allowing for outside observation), it mostly resembles a slightly crooked wizard's tower mashed haphazardly onto a sturdy cottage base. Three stories tall, grey stone mostly covered in creeping ivy (which occasionally changes species depending on the environment), steeply pitched roof, and one large, prominent circular window on the main floor – the Void-Window, as I grudgingly call it, currently offering a rather fetching view of anemones and disinterested clownfish. There are other windows, smaller, scattered seemingly at random. The whole structure hums faintly with containment charms and the low thrum of whatever arcane engine keeps it dimensionally untethered (and occasionally decides Tahiti is overrated, let's try the Negative Energy Plane!).

  You enter (if I deign to answer the door, which is rare, Moss Golems notwithstanding) into the main parlor/living area. It’s… lived in. Overflowing bookshelves line two walls (these are the ‘general reading’ and ‘mildly cursed fiction’ shelves, distinct from the main library/study). There’s the big armchair the Hair currently favours when it’s not actively causing trouble, positioned near the magical hearth that provides heat regardless of external conditions (essential). The main worktable usually sits near the Void-Window, covered in my current projects/mess – right now, notes on marine flora, the failed scrying bowl remnants, and several empty teacups. Dust bunnies congregate in corners, occasionally plotting under the sofa. The Hair, when loose, treats the entire floor as its personal domain.

  Off the parlor is the kitchen. Functional is the kindest word. Always smells faintly of woodsmoke (from the hearth), ozone (from stray spell energy), and whatever exotic ingredient I last experimented with (last week it was sulfurous swamp gas, delightful). Basic cupboards, sturdy countertop (enchanted against most stains, acid burns, and minor explosions), sink with magically purified water supply. The pantry is deeper than it looks (expansion charms are wonderful) and perpetually overstocked, a necessity learned after that six-month stint stranded in the Great Nothing Plain where the only edible thing was dust. Oh, and the grumpy badger spirit I mentioned ages ago? Still occasionally rattles tins in the pantry if he disapproves of my cooking smells. We have an understanding. Mostly.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The real heart of the house, for me at least, is the study, sometimes spilling over into what might generously be called a potion lab. It’s behind the parlor, insulated for sound and smell (mostly). More bookshelves, floor to ceiling, crammed two-deep in places – these hold the serious grimoires, the research texts, the irreplaceable stuff. The infamous ingredient shelf I ‘organized’ recently dominates one wall. Another sturdy worktable, usually covered in alembics, burners, notes, and failed experiments. This is where I actually work, and where the Hair seems to most enjoy ‘helping’. It smells perpetually of dried herbs, arcane chemicals, burnt sugar, and failure.

  Upstairs is simpler. My bedroom – surprisingly minimalist compared to the downstairs chaos. Bed, wardrobe (also bigger on the inside), another window currently showcasing startled-looking jellyfish. I need one space relatively free of clutter, otherwise the sheer weight of four centuries of accumulated stuff would drive me completely mad. Then there's the bathing chamber – home to the aforementioned claw-foot tub that requires expansion charms for Hair washing day, plus necessary plumbing maintained by sanitation runes that occasionally require percussive maintenance (i.e., hitting them with a wrench while swearing).

  There’s a cellar, accessible via a trapdoor mostly hidden under a rug the Hair likes to nap on. It holds the main power capacitor, the useless Navigational Orb, storage for bulk supplies (extra cauldron fuel, barrels of purified water), and the access points for the primary structural wards. It’s damp, smells of earth regardless of our location (don't ask me how), and I avoid it unless necessary.

  The whole place is interwoven with magic. Wards in the walls, temperature regulators, structural integrity fields, the enchantments keeping the inside in and the outside out. It groans sometimes, hums others. It absorbs ambient energy. And, as established, it moves when it feels like it, without consulting the occupant. It’s less a house, more a stubborn, dimensionally-promiscuous hermit crab shell with questionable taste in destinations.

  So there you go. A tour of my chaotic, wandering cage. Cozy in places, infuriating in others. Crammed with history, magic, and entirely too much hair. It’s objectively a terrible place to live if you value stability, predictability, or easily accessible grocery shopping. But after almost three centuries of it being my specific brand of terrible? Couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Probably. Ask me again when we land in the Jell-O dimension.

  Now, where was I? Ah yes. Trying to ignore the Grouper fish judging my interior decor choices through the window.