She breaks off before revealing more.
Beryl always knows more than she lets on. Her vampire target resurfaced ten years ago, and since then she has hunted him with a single-minded focus that borders on obsession. She rarely speaks of it, but I have learnt to listen for what she does not say.
I suspect this woman is connected to that hunt.
I do not ask.
If Beryl wants my help, the woman must be worth protecting—more victim than perpetrator—and that is all I need to know. Beryl has changed over the years. Life as a sentient object was hard for her; she was unprepared for the loss of her body, and the adjustment twisted something in her. Part of her went a little mad, another part a little bloodthirsty.
Yet her kindness never left.
Tell me about her,I ask.
Her name is Winifred,Beryl says, offering just enough to pique my interest.
At Beryl’s subtle prompting, I begin my own research. I learn all I can about Winifred Crowsdale, or Fred, as she insists on being called.
Why a woman chooses a man’s name I cannot fathom, but modern women are boldly unapologetic, and I admire her all the more for it.
Fate has dealt her a cruel hand. She is kind and gentle, yet alone now, save for a husky she adopted after her friends were murdered. The vet reports say the dog is perfectly healthy; his only sin is mischief.
He is delightfully naughty. I have always favoured the cheeky, the strong-willed, the stubborn. That is why I adore Beryl—she is feral in her own way.
Fred is trapped in a tangle with a slum landlord who makes safe lodgings impossible. Homelessness will get her killed.
So I intervene.
I slip an advert into the newspaper she is reading:Room for rent. Pets welcome.Simple, impossible to ignore. The inkshivers as my magic settles, as though the words have always been there.
With nowhere else to go, she comes to me.
Rain drums on the street when she appears at my gate—coat soaked, blonde hair plastered to her forehead. After testing my ward, she squares her shoulders, walks up the path, and raises a hand to knock.
I open the door.
Her flinch is tiny yet real. “Hello? I’m, um, here about the room.” Fred steps inside, her coat dripping onto the chequered tiles.
A rental agreement thumps onto the sideboard, parchment and modern pen. She startles again, then edges closer to read. My magic threads through the paper; tension drains from her shoulders when she finds nothing sinister.
She signs and lays down the money. The contract and cash vanish into safekeeping.
“May I choose a bedroom?” she asks, voice small but hopeful.
The next hour is pleasantly busy. While she fetches Baylor, I pack my herb-and-vegetable garden into stasis, folding planters and soil into pocket-space so the dog can dig without mess. I extend a modest driveway and garage from the bare side path—just enough to house her car.
As Fred settles Baylor in the newly dog-friendly garden, I empty her vehicle by magic: clothes dried, folded, and arranged—wardrobe by colour and size, bathroom shelves by use. It takes hardly any effort, and it spares her hours.
When she comes back upstairs and sees everything sorted, her bottom lip wobbles; her hands fly to her mouth. “Thank you,” she whispers, patting my wall. “Thank you so much.”
In the dining room Beryl hovers over the console table, fussing with invisible specks of dust while eyeing the happy, sniffing dog through the window as though he were a new—and possibly dangerous—species.
If he drools on me, I’m leaving,she mutters.
We watch soil fly as Baylor excavates a crater.
I hope he does not find the bodies,she grumbles.
Pardon? What bodies?I am mortified.There are no dead bodies in my garden.
