“One for yes, two for no?” she asks.
Amused, I click once more.
“Good,” she says, smoothing an errant hair. “If she needs shelter, send her to me. I have food and clothes she can borrow.”
Another single click.
She smiles. “Splendid. I am just next door if you require anything. You are welcome to watch me drink tea. And if you wonder how I recognised you”—she taps her chest—“I am observant, yet it hardly takes acuity to see that the house next door has had no one enter or leave in twenty-eight years I have lived here, while its garden remains immaculate year-round.”
She nods toward my bright-green lawn. “That grass looks as though you have cut it with scissors. You might want to fix that.”
I flick the latch twice.
“Do not fret, magical house; you have nothing to fear from me. I only hunt vampires—the murderous ones—and you are my favourite neighbour.”
With flawless posture and the elegance of a trained dancer, she turns on her heel and steps towards her own door.
Chapter Five
One Hundred and Seven Years Ago
Life has grown…interesting. I never thought I would care for anyone again, yet now I have Harriet to watch over. Harriet had nowhere else to go, and her home is here now. Especially after the vampire hunter’s private ‘chat’ with her father, which ended, as one might expect, in chaos.
For my new guest, I refurbished every room. I even widened the hall windows and fitted stained glass; when the sun reaches its zenith, coloured light spills across the black-and-white tiles in jewel-toned pools.
The dining room now boasts a mahogany table, matching chairs, and a dresser. Upstairs, I have taken a bold step: installing a bathroom, complete with a fixed bath and hot running water. Pipes hum inside the walls. Recentarticles over the past twenty years have extolled the virtue of moving the privy indoors and—thanks to magic—plumbing is simple. Harriet dislikes bathing, so anything that encourages her is worthwhile.
Miss Beattie has taken a keen interest in us both. Fortunately, nothing has come of the mages we disposed of, and the vampire hunter now visits with purpose. She strides through my wards like a bull in a china shop, flings the door wide, and saunters in as though she owns the place.
The governess side of her has come to the fore, and she has set herself the task of teaching Harriet to read and write. The poor girl receives a sharp rap on the knuckles whenever she slouches or misspells a word. Harsh as it seems, something remarkable is happening: Harriet is changing.
The frightened mouse is shedding her timidity and slowly becoming a young lady. Harriet, now nineteen, has had three and a half years of good food, which have rounded out her face. Her blonde hair gleams; her dresses are fashionable and clean. She is studying at the Magical College and still carries dirt beneath her nails. Harriet will pick her nose when she thinks no one is watching, yet she has truly come out of her shell and is a pleasure to be around.
We have come to expect the vampire hunter just after she finishes work, so in the dining room I prepared tea and a light meal.
Tonight is not a pleasant meal.
We are at a stand-off.
They sit opposite each other at the table, stiff and awkward. Harriet’s cheeks burn crimson. Embarrassment, laced with tension, thickens the air.
Miss Beattie, by contrast, is bloodless: fury presses her lips into a thin white line as she pushes food around her plate without taking a single bite. Then, with a sharp clatter, she drops her fork, as though she wants to fling the utensil across the room. The polished, poised lady vanishes; in her place stands barely restrained anger. She smooths the immaculate skirt of her dress with deliberate, rigid hands and glares, her grey eyes sweeping the room like searchlights.
“I have thought it through; it is the only way,” Miss Beattie says at last, each word clipped. “I need you to do this for me.”
No. I will not turn you into a weapon,I snap.
Harriet shrinks back, shoulders rising to her ears. I have frightened the girl, yet I do not apologise.
“She ain’t goin’ to do it, Miss,” she murmurs.
I know things are serious when Miss Beattie—Beryl—does not even chastise Harriet for slouching. She is all het up, but I still refuse to do as she asks.
“Why?” Beryl snarls. “Why won’t you help me? You have the magic, I know you have.”
Of course I have the magic.I groan inwardly.
Harriet, our reluctant intermediary, this time repeats my words verbatim.
