I spendthe next two days researching and double-checking the spell. First, I study the sentient objects already in my possession, comparing their magic with my own. I have resumed Father’s habit of collecting magic. Looting the Magic Collective’s coffers all those years ago provided ample funds. I can afford it, and they are safer with me.
I make a safe space in the basement—shelves of artefacts in orderly rows. Objects that prefer the dark have their corners. I keep it stocked, cast wards and containment spells, and prepare for the unexpected.
My collection is eclectic. Most contain no real soul—only vestiges of power. It is sad, but at least they can no longer be misused.
Then I delve into the books, texts from all over the world. My paper magic recognises no language barrier: Latin, Hebrew, and French—words are words, and magic responds.
I do not want to do this.
Yet each breath rasps in her chest, and each hour she coughs more blood. I have offered to heal her, but Beryl only smiles and says, “It is time.”
Time. What a cruel mistress.
I must keep reminding myself that magic is neither good nor evil. Humans merely label it—useless, great, dangerous, forbidden—yet it is none of these. Magic is the intent of the magic user, nothing more. Is magic morally sound? Certainly not. It is people who are ultimately flawed, and the poor magic is along for the ride.
I am as ready as I shall ever be.
Instinctively, I avoid the front parlour, the room where I died, for it carries too much weight. Instead, despite the hammering rain, I prepare a circle in the walled garden.
I move the vegetable beds to one side, widening the plot only as much as necessary. I conjure a ring of stone bordered by flowers in full, vibrant bloom; their scent sweetens the damp air. Above us, my ward forms a silent dome, keeping out the rain and holding the September chill at bay. No one will see or hear.
Beryl prefers the quiet of night, so we stand beneath a dark sky that weeps steadily for her. The rain’s rhythm beyond the ward is soothing, as though the heavens themselves mourn.
The circle: sigils etched precisely in stone, salt lining each groove, and finally, Beryl’s blood. Itake only what I need, painlessly. My magic supplies the light; candles are unnecessary. Lines of pale radiance thread through stone and salt, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
Dressed in her best, Beryl stands tall and unafraid. Lipstick precise, hat straight, hair perfectly pinned. Harriet, solemn and pale, repeats my words.
Step into the circle.
Beryl lifts her dress and steps across the line, then lies down at its centre with quiet grace. Outside the circle, Harriet sits cross-legged at her shoulder, trembling yet resolute. These women are made of iron.
When they are ready, I begin the chant. Layer by layer, the spell builds—steady, rhythmic, suffused with power. Midway, I sense a spark in Beryl’s blood: a trace of shifter, a whisper of vampire, the faintest echo of mage—ancestral fragments woven deep. No wonder her instincts were keener than any human’s.
I shift the spell as I once did for myself, adding power from my reserves; the rest I draw from the ley lines, from earth and sky, from the scent-laden air.
At the crescendo, I guide her gently from life: no pain, no blade. One moment, Beryl is alive; the next, only ash and magic.
In a second, faintly glowing circle waits the stake.
I cradle Beryl’s soul with my magic as tenderly as a mother with a newborn, weaving it into the wood and sealing her ashes within. This stake is no mere weapon of vengeance; it is a monument to her courage and choice.
Beryl was never meant for a mere grave.
With the final words, I add a thread of my own being, a sliver of my own essence to bolster what Beryl lacks—andsomething unexpected happens. A piece of Beryl slips into the hollow torn from me, not strength exactly, but somethingother.
She is inside me, and I am inside her, each an echo of the other. I accept the bond gladly.
The spell ends.
The garden dims; the sigils fade, leaving only the faintly gleaming stake. Silence falls like snow, soft, heavy, sacred. Rain still pounds beyond the ward, but inside the ward, the air is perfectly still.
Harriet rocks gently.
It is done,I say.
“Did it do the trick?” she whispers.
I think so.
