Well, this is the next installment in the piece I started for the last prompt. Why is this an idea piece? Well, because it's a magical house, after all.

I spent the morning cleaning and discarding things from the kitchen. The hot water stopped after the first hour. Bob didn’t last nearly that long. It’s possible that he did something to the hot water heater. I wasn’t in the mood to go down in the cellar to find out. Instead, filled a pot with cool water and zapped it with a little magic to make it hot.

I didn’t find anything I trusted to eat in the kitchen. Rather than set myself up for another of Bob’s tricks, I called the Ditsy Diner and ordered lunch and dinner with instructions for them to drop the food off on the front porch, but not to ring the door bell, or otherwise make a fuss. I tipped well and they were happy to comply.

As I chowed down on a beet-beef grinder I wondered about whether to work more on Mom’s area, or head back up to the third floor. Working on the second floor, I knew, was about delaying the inevitable. I compromised. I spent half an hour getting the second floor bathroom in better shape. Then I headed upstairs.

All three doors at the top of the stairs were still closed. I expected nothing less. What I had not expected was the small table, one I’d never seen before, clearly magic.

“So, table, what could you possibly want?”

The table top appeared to be a white marble with grey patterning. The lines wiggled and formed words.

“Feed me”

“I don’t think so.” I walked around the table. “So what is your  purpose?”

The surface remained fixed with the same message.

“Well, I guess we are at a standstill.” I checked the doors. Still all locked. “It is not my nature to feed tables, nor would I have the foggiest idea of what you’d want to eat.”

It thought about that for a bit. I could see almost ready to give me a hint, then backing off.

“Bob, this is pathetic. Even for you,” I said to no place in particular.

I expected no response and got none. There was one button on each side of the apron of the table. It was possible that they controlled the door locks. It was equally possible that they led to a dungeon twelve floors below the basement.

I walked over to the door farthest from the stairs.

“I think I’ll do this room first.” I put my hand on the door knob.

The table watched me. At least I think it did. Wasn’t sure what it used for eyes.

I felt for the magics controlling the lock. The problem with designing things that were overly fussy or too cute was that it was often easy to overlook the obvious. I told the lock to open and it did.

I pushed the door slowly, watching for more silliness. The room within was relatively uncluttered. Bookcases lined the walls, a big roll-top desk and chair occupied the center of the room. The desk was closed, but opened easily to expose a few pens and an old blotter.

The books were likewise unspecial. None were magical, nor did any seem to contain magical content. They looked like what one might pick up from an old library book sale after all the good titles had been taken.

I examined the bookcases for signs of a passage into another room. This was not the kind of space my father would use. Yes, he read extensively, but not this drivel. This was for show. Though I couldn’t imagine that anyone other than him, and now me, had ever seen it.

I found it. A couple of the books on the case opposite the door did not move or slide. But they could be pushed. And the bookcase pushed open. Crazy that there was nothing magical or special about it. Just a simple, mechanical latch.

It appeared to be Bob’s old workroom. The one that had once been located off the kitchen. It was dark within. No light from windows and even the little bit of brightness from the outer room seemed to want to stop at the door.

I reached up and found a string. I pulled it and a single overhead bulb lit. It’s nice when some things don’t change. The lamp cord was exactly where it had been when I was kid.

The workshop had never been off limits to me as a child. Indeed, the visitors Bob entertained were generally seen in this space. It was a workshop, yes, but mostly for simple stuff. Inventions that were not for public eyes were not stored here.

It wasn’t the neatest of spaces and everything was covered in an ample serving of dust. One could imagine that the old man hadn’t been in here in months, if not years. Still, I found that hard to believe. As I chucked old tools into the black hole destined for the junk dealer, I looked for something else.

In an old cabinet otherwise full of drills and drill bits, I found a rose. Pink, perfectly fresh, smelling like a marigold.

“Oh, that’s just wrong,” I said. “If you wanted to mess with the scent, you could have at least started with an orange or yellow one.”

I took the rose out to the table on the landing.

“I know I said I wouldn’t feed you, but you can have this.” 

Nothing happened. The rose sat on the table. The table still had its “feed me” message. I went back to the workroom.

I found a pen that had been the first one I’d used in grammar school. I guess packrats will keep everything. It was lightly spelled, with what, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t it was a good idea to send it down the black hole without checking it. I put it with the other pens on the desk. Belatedly, I realized that they were also spelled with the same thing. 

So it looked like I was to search for pens. One more pass through the workshop yielded a handful of coins. 

I dropped a few tables and cabinets through the black hole. The house thanked me and shrunk the room accordingly. I went downstairs for supper. It had been a long day and I felt I had little to show for it.