After eating a little something—and keeping it down—I feel steadier, less like I might drift out of my own skin.
The driver heads out of the city toward the coast. He asks twice if I am certain of the destination; when I confirm, he falls silent. Soft music hums from the radio, a low thrum beneath the engine, while I watch the sun bleed into the horizon and the night roll over the landscape like a slow tide.
The road climbs steadily. Hedgerows tighten, then fall away. At the summit, it appears.
The chapel.
It is painted white, its walls catching what little light remains, with long arched windows flanking the solid front door. Above that are three smaller curved windows.
I bought the building thirty-eight years ago. It straddles the border between the Magic and Human Sectors, sittingsquarely in the middle when the lines were drawn. Listed status and some clever interference from me saved it from demolition, and rerouting the border would have meant flattening the nearest village. No one wanted that.
As a house of worship, it was granted a dispensation. Yet parishioners grew uneasy as half the building and part of its graveyard rested in the Magic Sector. They stopped coming, unease turning into superstition.
The parish split—half migrating deeper into the Human Sector, the rest into the Magic—and the chapel went for a song at auction. I bought it, used a little magic to finalise the purchase and secure residential status, and turned it into a home.
Small for a chapel, it is palatial as a three-bedroomed house. It overlooks sea and rolling hills, wrapped in peace and sky.
The graveyard remains, and I hired a gardener to keep it neat. Most stones are more than a century old, their names softened by weather and lichen, but I like knowing they are cared for. There is a kind of quiet decency in it.
Situated within both sectors, the chapel has one road that runs into the Human Sector and another into the Magic—no visa required. It is the perfect spot if I need a swift escape.
The car stops at the gate with a soft crunch of gravel. I thank the driver, add a generous tip to the account with a thought, and watch him go. His tail-lights vanish over the rise, swallowed by dark.
Darkness folds around me. There are no streetlights out here. No light pollution, no smear of distant city. Only a sky blanketed in stars and a full moon hanging above thehills, bright enough to throw pale silver on the stone walls. I draw a deep breath. The night is so crisp I can almost taste the ocean, salt with a hint of damp earth and cut grass.
A solid padlock hangs on the gate—the key will be inside—so, without touching the lock, I scramble over the fence. My shoes find purchase on stone and iron, skirt catching for a whisper of a moment before I tug it free. I land on the other side with a muted thud.
I follow the stone path, black gravestones casting long shadows to left and right.
From the planter, I retrieve the hidden key, unlock the chapel, step in, and switch on the lights.
Warmth blooms, chasing back the dark.
Inside, honey-coloured wood and a small entrance hall hold a utility room and a toilet tucked off to the right. To the left lies the reception hall. A central staircase rises to an open glass mezzanine; thick timber beams arch overhead, old and strong. The lighting and kitchen are modern—granite worktops, cream units, a dining table for six.
The place smells faintly of polish and clean linen, the kind of neutral freshness that means the cleaners have been.
Beneath the mezzanine sits a cosy living room. To the left is a ground-floor bedroom with an en-suite. Upstairs, the mezzanine forms a second sitting area, with two further bedrooms and their own bathrooms.
The palette is soft off-white, bright and airy, peppered with clever touches: a reading nook and a breakfast snug built from old pews, the ancient and the new woven together.
I run the kitchen tap and brew a cup of tea, the kettle clicking off with a decisive snap. My safe houses arealways stocked with essentials; some guests preferred distance when I was House. That is why my properties are scattered nationwide—places to hide, to heal, to vanish if people have to.
This chapel is my favourite. I modernised it again three years ago, and my building management firm handles the maintenance. Cleaners keep it fresh. Everything ticks over.
Tea in hand, I enter the downstairs bedroom and set the mug on the bedside table, then make the bed. Exhaustion tugs, yet one task remains. The ward marking the sector border slices through the garden and the building. I nudge it back—technically a violation, but I doubt anyone will notice or complain.
The ward shifts with a soft resistance, like moving a stubborn piece of furniture across carpet. I overlay it with my own—stronger, tighter, more intricate. Animals may roam; uninvited humans will find it troublesome.
Work finished, I swap the dress for an extra-large soft T-shirt, loosen my hair, and crawl beneath the duvet. The sheets are crisp and cool against my skin. I prop myself against the pillows, tea cooling beside me.
So much awaits, but morning will do. This body needs care and sleep. I have been awake more than twenty-four hours. I drain the mug, set it back, and snuggle into the clean, sharp scent of fresh laundry.
For the first time in a long while, I feel at ease—within myself, within these walls, within the decision to come here.
I only hope my friends are safe.
And I only hope Lander isn’t too angry.
