“Hello,” he calls.
“Hi.”
“I’m the gardener and handle building maintenance,” he says quickly. “Sorry about the dog. I work for… oh, what is it nowadays? GreenTech Maintenance.”
“Ah,” I reply. “You must be Jeff Peters.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
I lower the ward just enough to let him through. The magic peels back like a curtain, obedient to my will, and Jeff steps across with visible relief. Frank zooms past us, nose to the ground, tail a blur. Jeff comes forward and shakes my hand.
He is human, early sixties, with weathered dark skin and rough palms, his grip warm and firm.
“Harper,” I say. “I will be staying for a while.”
“A pleasure, Harper,” he says. “I’ve worked here the past thirty-seven years.”
“Then you’re the one who keeps everything so beautiful. The biodiversity is stunning.”
He brightens, pride softening the lines of his face. “It is, isn’t it? We’ve wild garlic in the woods. But the roses”—he presses a hand to his chest—“they’re my pride and joy.”
“They are gorgeous,” I say.
“It’s a labour of love. I feel very lucky.”
We walk towards the chapel while Frank circles us, stopping now and then to sniff with great purpose, as if he is inspecting the world for flaws.
“This place has had the odd occupant,” Jeff muses. “I remember, thirty-five years ago, a fellow named Jonathan. Nice bloke. Shame what happened to his family.” He shakes his head; the weight of old grief settles between us like mist. “Shifters,” he mutters. “They can be violent.”
He tells the tale—still local legend—of a rogue pack that attacked Jonathan’s family during an early border dispute in the north. Jonathan survived, badly injured.
What Jeff does not know is that I helped him, and he stayed here until the trial. The Alpha Prime—head of the shifters—ensured such violence never recurred, though rogue elements remain. This is one reason the shifter border controls are so tight.
A beat of silence follows.
“If you need anything, I’m up the road, the house with the green door,” Jeff says.
It is roughly three miles away. Time and the sector border have left the chapel utterly remote. Once, a thriving village clustered around it, but those same changes scattered its people, leaving the sanctuary abandoned.
“Thank you.”
He rubs his palms together. “Well, I’d best get on. Grass doesn’t stop growing.”
“Lovely to meet you, Jeff. I have adjusted the ward, so you have your full access again.”
He nods warmly and heads off, Frank trotting at his heels.
Back inside, I order the essentials—food and clothes—then curl up on the sofa in the living room. Light filters through the stained-glass windows, casting soft colours across the floor and far wall: pale blues and bruised reds, shifting as the sun moves. The house is quiet around me.
I let my thoughts drift.
I need to check on the Ministry and the paper mages to make sure Knox is not about to do something reckless. My first impression of him is that he is a good man, but you can never be too careful. People lie. They lie all the time, and often they lie most convincingly when they think they are being kind.
I expect using magic again to feel difficult—different from when I was House—but I am surprised to find the very same filaments still there, waiting.
They prickle at the edges of my senses like fine threads. I also realise I have been using technomancer magic without thinking. Everything I learnt as House is intact. My magic is not as wild or boundless, yet it is mine—still present, still powerful. I frown, very powerful. The ley line and sleep must have really given me a boost.
I focus on the Ministry first. Lander has been busy dealing with Fred, but she and Baylor are safe for now, so I let her go. I do what I always do: I distance myself emotionally, knowing people are only ever temporary.
