Of course.
“‘Harriet’ never did sit right with me. As a book, I’d sooner be ‘Hatty.’”
Hatty is perfect,I say.I do not wish to sway you, but this is still a sacrifice. You will feel changed. Are you certain?
She lifts her chin. “I’ve one foot in the grave already. I refuse to fade quietly. If I can leave somethin’ useful behind, I’ll count meself blessed—and I fancy some wee technomancer, fifty years hence, arguing with me magic. I don’t need me soul caged to do that. Let me do it this way.”
Beryl remains motionless on the coffee table.
Beryl. What do you think?
I think it is a good idea,she says at last. She sniffs.Thank you, House, for keeping our Harriet safe.
“I’ll do it today, now. Me mind’s made up,” Harriet adds.
Mary?
Mary nods. “If this is what you want… Miss House, I vow to keep my grandmother’s grimoire safe. If anything happens, I will let you know and guard it until the right mage comes along,” she whispers.
Thank you.
We go into the garden.
The grass is damp, the air cool. I conjure armfuls of white-and-lilac flowers—her favourites—and spiral them around the bench where she sits. Sunlight breaks the cloud, catching silver in her hair.
Mary stands close, one hand on Harriet’s shoulder, the other clutching the blank book. Beryl hovers at the garden’s edge, silent.
Last chance to change your mind,I warn.
“Not this time,” Harriet replies. “Do your worst.”
My best,I correct.Mary—hand her the book.
Mary passes it over, then steps back. I chalk and salt an intricate circle around the bench; sigils flower across the stones.
At my call, Harriet’s magic rises like winter breath—filaments tasting of electricity, decades of technomancy and stubborn study. Gently I draw each thread into the waiting volume. Runes and sigils etch along the margins and into Hatty’s spine.
Harriet shivers. “Cold—like someone’s opened a window inside me.”
Almost done.
I take a drop of her power and leave a sliver of mine nested in her chest, while the rest settles into the book. Hatty grows weighty in Harriet’s hands, humming with a life’s work but bearing no chained soul.
There. It is finished.
Harriet exhales. “Well, that were… somethin’.” She flexes her fingers. “I feel lighter—quieter, maybe.”
Mary’s tears spill over. “Are you sure you are all right?”
“I’m fine, love. Stop yer blubbin’. Bit o’ quiet never killed no one.”
On Harriet’s lap, Hatty opens of its own accord. A single sentence coils across the page in a spiky script:
’Ello. Let’s do some magic.
We all laugh.
The grimoire is awake—clever, responsive, brimming with Harriet’s magic.
