Mary tenses. Though a powerful magic user, she has clearly spent little time with sentient objects. Each time I speak, she flinches.
Harriet pats her hand and smiles, then nibbles her lip. “I want to become a book.”
A blasted book. I groan.
Beryl shoots off the table.Absolutely not!She whirls through the air dangerously close to Harriet.
Mary lunges to shield her grandmother, but Harriet only smiles, untroubled. She knows she is safe.
“Miss Beattie,” Mary hisses, “please move away from her throat,” and pushes the stake aside.
Offended, Beryl hovers, then drifts back to the coffee table.
“Now, Miss Beattie, cut the theatrics,” Harriet chides. “I’ve mulled this for donkey’s years. Me George is gone, me health’s shot, and the doctors say I ain’t got long.”
You will not be a book,Beryl snarls.
“Miss Beattie, that ain’t yours to decide. I reckon I’d make a fine book. World’s changin’, tech’s comin’ in fast, and I’ve magic in spades. Technomancers get no respect—but if you saw what I’ve seen, you’d be gobsmacked.”
Her eyes gleam. “I’ve studied magic near seventy years—thanks to you, teachin’ me to read and sendin’ me off to school. I’m ready to pass it all on. Can’t stand the thought of all that dyin’ with me.”
To become a sentient object?Beryl growls.A book? Why not simply write one?
“It ain’t the same—and this ain’t vanity.” Harriet lifts her chin. “You became a weapon for vengeance. I’m doin’ this for me, for the next ones, for any mage who needs a leg-up. It’s my choice, and no one’s stoppin’ me.”
Beryl’s fury falters into heartbreak; Harriet is like a daughter to us.
I recall how I glossed the misery of my own existence—always drowning, always watching those I love die. Harriet has seen only the gold leaf, never the rust beneath. I will not repeat that mistake.
Harriet,I say gently,is this truly what you want? Let me offer an alternative.
She tilts her head. “Go on, then.”
Since I changed Beryl,I have researched. What Beryl needed was power and a soul anchored to purpose. You wish only to preserve knowledge?
Harriet reluctantly nods.
Instead of sacrificing your soul, I could extract your magic—your voice, your expertise in technomancy—and bind that to a book. A self-updating artefact, a living library within the pages, but not a sentient one.
She listens, eyes narrowing in thought.
Mary’s brows knit. “Different how?”
It would be an extension, not a prison,I say.Your soul would remain yours. It will not be you, but the book will know all you know: a magical copy of Harriet.
“A Harriet copy?” Harriet echoes, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
Yes—rather than trapping your soul, you can pass on your magic. Yet it remains a huge sacrifice. You will be giving up that magic.
She falls silent, a tear slipping down her nose. “You can truly do that?”
I absolutely can.I hesitate, then ask,What do you think, Mary?
Mary looks at her grandmother, searching her face. Fear sits just behind her eyes. “It is a solution. I have never heard of anyone gifting their magic. Will it hurt? Will it shorten her life?”
No. It will not hurt or shorten Harriet’s lifespan. But it will feel odd—cold. I shall leave her a sliver of power—enough that the absence is bearable—but the bulk will move into the book. A grimoire.
“May I name it?”
