Dimwater's Demons by Sam Ferguson

arched window of stained glass was the only bit of decoration in the room, and nearly the sole source of light as well. A tall, iron candelabra was situated in the middle of the room, but otherwise the shadows played heavily upon the area.
    Headmaster Herion was sitting in a large, overstuffed chair made of off-white cushions, repaired with green patches of cloth sewn into the arms. The old wizard smiled with twinkling blue eyes from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. His face was dotted with a short, stubbly growth of white hair rather than his usually clean-shaven look. He was wearing a set of flannel pajamas, despite it being light outside and supper still in the process of being prepared.
    “I would ask that you pardon my appearance,” Headmaster Herion said in his gravelly voice. “I tend to enjoy the more lax schedule in the summer time, and that often means spending an entire day in my pajamas.”
    Feberik nodded.
    “Close the door, will you?” Herion said.
    Feberik closed the door and took a couple of steps into the room, clasping his hands behind his back and puffing out his chest as if he were about to be ripped apart by a commanding officer. “You wished to see me?”
    Headmaster Herion nodded and brought a glass up to his lips, tilting it high into the air and pulling the very last drop of the burgundy liquid out before setting the glass down upon the small side table next to his chair.
    “Have you ever spent a day in your pajamas?” Herion asked.
    Feberik balked and frowned. “I’m sorry?”
    “Hmm, yes, I bet you are if you have never tried it,” Headmaster Herion said as he crossed his left leg over his right. “It is wonderfully liberating, which in turn helps a man think clearly.”
    Feberik scrunched his brow together and shook his head. “You asked to see me about my pajamas, sir?”
    “No, no, of course not,” Herion said as he slapped a hand to his knee. “I summoned you to ask about these.”
    Feberik looked down and watched as Headmaster Herion pulled out a small bundle of opened letters. He unfolded them, and then shuffled a few around that had somehow managed to be turned upside down.
    “Do you happen to know a Miss Carlyn Marks?” Herion asked as he held up a letter.
    Feberik shook his head. “Can’t say that I do, sir.”
    “Well, it appears that you threw her husband through a window at Caspen Manor a short time ago.”
    “Sir, he pulled a dirk on me, I had little choice.”
    Headmaster Herion set the letter aside. “What about a Mrs. Caldwin?”
    Feberik shook his head.
    “It says here that you tossed her into the hallway.”
    Feberik shook his head. “I never roughed up a woman. I did help one off of Lord Caspen’s lap, but all I did was pull her up and then move her toward the hall. I never threw her.”
    “I see,” Headmaster Herion said as he set the letter down.
    At that moment, it sunk in that Herion had called the woman ‘Mrs. Caldwin,’ and he had to ask for clarification. “Sir, that woman is married?”
    “Oh yes, I know her husband well. Master Caldwin is serving in Ten Forts at the moment. I’m sure I have no idea why she would be at Caspen Manor, let alone sitting upon Lord Caspen’s lap as you claim.”
    “Headmaster, you know me. I may be a bit rough, but I never lie.”
    Herion nodded his head. “No doubt,” he said with a short flick of his wrist. “I have several more letters here. Some from nobility, others from the guards or servants of the manor. Feberik, you are not the judge of morality, do you understand?”
    Feberik nodded. “I do, but I couldn’t let it stand.”
    “What?” Herion asked. “Are you going to check in on Lord Caspen from time to time and make sure he never has any fun ever again for the rest of his life?”
    Feberik cracked a smile he couldn’t hide fast enough before Headmaster Herion saw it.
    Herion stood up, tossing the rest of the letters onto the side table. He wagged a bony finger at Feberik. “Master Orres,