He stood there for a long moment, chest heaving,hands on his hips, staring at the invisible barrier with the expression of a man who was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.
Then he walked to the edge of her property line where the lawn met the sidewalk and reached out one hand.
The air shimmered. Like heat waves rising off summer asphalt, but colder. More deliberate.
His fingers met resistance. He pushed harder. The air pushed back.
"Well," he said, his accent thicker with frustration. "That's that, then."
"What's that?"
"I'm trapped. Completely. Can't leave your property. Can't even stand on the bloody sidewalk." He turned to face her, and the look in his eyes was equal parts fury and resignation. "You've bound me here like a dog on an invisible chain."
"I didn't mean to?—"
"Doesn't matter what you meant, does it? Magic doesn't care about intentions. Only results."
Something in Cassie's chest twisted. Guilt, maybe. Or panic. Or the horrible realization that she'd accidentally imprisoned a man in her suburban split-level because she couldn't be bothered to call a plumber three weeks in advance.
"There has to be a way to undo it."
"Aye, there is. You just have to figure out what spell you actually cast, howyou powered it, what anchor you used, and then perform the exact counter-ritual without making it worse." He crossed his arms, wrench still glowing faintly in his grip. "Think you can manage that, lass? Or should I just make myself comfortable for the next decade?"
Before Cassie could respond with something defensive and possibly wine-related, a sound came from inside the house.
A mechanical grinding. Then a cheerfulding.
They both turned.
Through the kitchen window, Cassie could see the sink. Which was no longer leaking. In fact, it looked... perfect. The faucet gleamed like it had been polished. The basin sparkled. Even the disposal sounded different—less like a dying garbage eater, more like a gentle purr.
"Did you..." Cassie started.
"I didn't touch it."
They walked back inside. The kitchen had transformed in the ten minutes they'd been testing property boundaries.
The sink wasn't just fixed—it wasbetter. New faucet. New handles. The tile backsplash behind it looked freshly grouted.
The cabinet doors hung straighter. The hinges no longer squeaked. The one that always stuck now opened smoothly, revealing shelves that had somehow reorganized themselves. Spices alphabetized. Mugs arranged by size. The Tupperware lidsactually matched their containers, which Cassie was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.
"Well, that's not ominous at all," Liam muttered.
A cabinet groaned. Actually groaned. Like someone stretching after a long nap.
"Finally," a voice whispered from somewhere near the pantry. It sounded creaky. Annoyed. Possibly arthritic. "Do you know how long I've been crooked? Forty years. Forty years of watching you heathens use me wrong."
Cassie's spine went cold. "Did the cabinet just?—"
"Complain? Aye. Seems your house has opinions now." Liam ran a hand through his hair, which had finally dried into an appealingly tousled mess that Cassie absolutely was not noticing. "That's what happens when you flood a space with uncontrolled magic. Everything soaks it up."
"Everything?"
The toaster dinged. Then spoke.
"Bonjour," it said, in a crisp French accent that sounded deeply offended by its own existence. "Je suis un toaster. C'est ma vie maintenant."
Cassie stared at it. "My toaster speaks French."
