The back room
The wall of locks
Marrow’s unsold work covers the back wall, hundreds of locks deep. Six of them carry a ward, and one is already awake.
The concept
Marrow’s Lock & Key, shut since 1891
Halfway down a laneway the maps stopped bothering with stands a narrow shopfront, its gold lettering gone green: Marrow’s Lock & Key. It shut in 1891, and three generations of locksmiths have since failed to open its front door.
Its owner, Oswin Marrow, was the finest lockmaker of his age and wanted more. He made a bargain with a presence he only ever called the Creditor: no lock would refuse his hand, and none he made could be broken. The price was one soul, payable whenever the Creditor knocked.
Marrow never meant to pay with his own. So, every so often, a brass key arrives in the post for a handful of strangers, tied with a paper tag naming an address and an hour. This week the keys came to you.
The door swings open at a touch and seals behind your team with the thud of a vault. That is the moment you are warlocked: every exit bound by Marrow’s wards, seven sigils glowing on seven locks, and a ring of candles already burning down.
When the last flame dies, the debt falls due. Whatever waits behind the seventh door will step through it, and it is not particular about whose soul settles Marrow’s account.
Almost at once a dry, courteous voice offers to help, pointing out a loose floorboard here and a hidden keyhole there. Listen closely. Everything Oswin Marrow tells you is true, and none of it is for your benefit.
Every lock in the shop answers to the warlock. Make one of them answer to you.
