“Oh! Beggin’ yer pardon—I ‘ad no idea you could do that! I’ve never met a livin’ house before. Not well-off nor book-learned enough for soul-bound things. Not even got a proper quill. Forgive me manners—’ello, Miss House. I’m Harriet.” She bobs her head.
A pleasure, Harriet.
She needs water, needs the bleeding stopped. I wrest moisture from the air; a glass swells full and hovers before her, beads of condensation forming on its sides.
“Blimey, that’s a right fascinatin’ gift,” Harriet marvels. Her voice trembles with awe, eyes fixed on the floating tumbler. “If I could do that every day, I’d drink like a queen!”
Go on, it is safe,I say.
“Oh, thank’ee kindly!” She plucks the glass from mid-air and drinks greedily. When she finishes, I remove it and dispose of the empty vessel.
May I heal your arm?
“My arm?” Her remaining colour drains. “I do ‘ope I ain’t gone and bled on your fine leather settee.” She blinks slowly, lashes drooping. “’Course you may, if it’s no trouble… I can’t pay, but maybe I could work it off…” Her body slumps sideways as she slips into unconsciousness.
Permission granted; that is enough.
I draw on herbs from the walled kitchen garden and on power siphoned from the environment and the nearest ley line. What once required days of preparation now takes mere seconds. Recalling a medical journal I read months ago, I first vaporise every trace of dirt and bacteria, then cast the healing spell, watching as the wound knits itself closed and angry flesh smooths.
She is healed.
Yet she is thin, blood-loss pale. She needs rest, so I weave a sleeping spell.
I know I am taking liberties.
Upstairs, in the empty front room, I create a bedroom: soft floral wallpaper, a thick rug, a brass bed, mahogany tables, even old family photographs of my late family—my father, my brothers, my sister—to lend life. Heavy curtains cloak the windows. A small clock ticks on the bedside table, steady and reassuring.
I can be a home.
With a flick of my will, I lift Harriet from the sofa. As I guide her through the house, I cleanse her skin, wash herhair, dissolve the ruined dress, and clothe her in warm pyjamas. I settle her beneath clean sheets.
She needs sleep, safety, care. For the first time in an age, I feel like refuge, and for the first time in just as long, I feel like myself.
Maybe this small act of kindness will anchor me and begin to draw me back to myself?
But I am not myself. I am something new.
Inside, I tend to the girl; outside, my magic leans against the ward like a cat against a doorframe, waiting.
Two of the mages poke at my wards, and I watch.
When I whisked the girl from the street, Miss Beattie gave me a satisfied nod.
I always thought she watched me differently, but only now do I see how differently: she senses I am unusual.
Of course she does—she is a vampire hunter and painfully observant. Perhaps she does not know exactly what I am; perhaps she suspects merely a hidden mage. I cannot ‘jump the wand’ yet, so I keep checking on her, ensuring she is unharmed.
Six of the mages who were chasing the girl now ring around her.
Before they can act, I extend the ward to cloak the street. We need no prying eyes. I doubt our neighbours would report us; curtains twitch, doors remain bolted. Most prefer to pretend they saw nothing, but caution is better than regret.
The newly formed Ministry of Magic claims to take the murder of magic users seriously. I suspect it will soon become a nest of power-hungry officials guarding their own interests. It is not the sort of attentionwe need.
Miss Beattie rolls one shoulder, flexes her wrist, and gives her sword a single, loosening swing. I never knew vampire hunters favoured blades like that; I imagined stakes, not steel.
The red-headed mage sneers. “We want the girl. Bring her out, and we’ll let you live.”
The vampire hunter smiles, serene and unbothered. Scary. I wager she has faced monsters far worse than these nervous boys with shaky hands and cheap spells.
