I dress in a dark-blue tea dress scattered with white spots, a loosely fitted waist, short sleeves, and a full skirt to mid-calf. The white cardigan is soft against my newlycleaned skin; the knit snags gently on the pads of my fingers as I fasten the buttons.
My freshly washed hair—still grey with that odd lilac sheen—gets a thorough brushing before I twist it into a loose bun.
I consider wearing it down, embracing modern fashion, but the ends still scratch my neck, so up it goes.
Now I sit in a Ministry conference room while we all wait for the paper mages.
The round table is ringed by enchanted chairs that glide at a thought, though with the anti-magic cuff still locked around my wrist, my thoughts go nowhere. The metal cuff pinches whenever I shift, sending little jolts of discomfort up my arm.
Lander leans in—far too close—his shoulder brushing my cardigan as he nudges my chair; it glides forward and clicks softly against the table.
Ministry staff watch from every side. A spectacled man keeps glaring over the rims of his glasses, pen poised. Guards stand like statues at the room’s edges, hands near wands, eyes scanning every twitch.
Then the paper mages arrive.
My heartbeat drums in my throat. Lander takes up too much space beside me. His arm shifts, blocking my view with his broad shoulders. The heat of him seeps through my sleeve; I resist the urge to elbow him aside.
“Where is she?” someone demands, the voice sharp as a knife.
Footsteps approach. A man steps around the table to my left. I look up.
Dark hair, near-black eyes, and a jagged scar—shapedlike lightning—cut from temple to mouth. A spell gone wrong. He could have had it healed, but has chosen not to.
The mark sharpens rather than mars his face. Broad-shouldered and built like a shifter, he takes up too much space beside Lander.
“You have been magically depleted?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t sense any magic,” he says, leaning closer.
“No,” I reply, lifting my arm. “Because I am wearing this.” I gesture at the cuff.
“May I?”
With my nod of permission, he takes my hand gently. His skin is warm, his grip careful. With a soft click, the band pops open. He drops it to the floor, lips curling in disgust, then rubs the red mark left behind with his thumb.
The touch feels more like care than intrusion.
Magic—delicious, familiar magic—surges through me. It is like plunging my hands into a warm current. For the briefest instant I feel as though I am back by the bathtub, overheated and light-headed, but then the rush settles. Power licks along my nerves until I fear I might burst. I am not as strong as I was when I was House, yet my magic is unmistakably here.
“You called. I came.” His mouth curves. “Dazzle me, little paper mage. Show us all some paper magic.”
Meredith cuts across him, voice impatient. “She’s not a performing puppy. We must discuss terms?—”
He ignores her, his gaze never leaving mine. “Please.”
Spellwork, at least, has not deserted me. Power rises at my call as easily as ever; my magic remembers what my new body has not yet relearned. It is walking in a straightline on these unreliable legs that still feels like the difficult part.
I choose something simple. A childish game I used to play.
A map of the sectors hangs on one wall, a long sheet pinned at each corner. Perfect.
The map peels away, slipping free of the tacks that held it hostage. It billows, then hovers above the table, suspended mid-air.
Gasps flutter around the room.
With a flicker of imagination, I let loose. The paper tears with precise, clean lines, shaping itself into classic gingerbread figures. More than a dozen identical silhouettes drift down and land neatly on thick paper legs.
