Then I remember that I am now temporary, too.
I glance at my human hands and smile, flexing my fingers as if to reassure myself they are real.
Beryl will return when she is ready; I do not reach out—not yet.Surprise: I’m no longer a house; I am human.I need time to make sense of everything that has happenedbefore I try to explain it to anyone else. Besides, she has a mission; she does not need my interference.
Truthfully, I do not want anyone to care for me right now. Rescuing people has been my unofficial pastime, my purpose, but at the moment I need to be alone—selfish, quiet, unobserved.
The Ministry’s activity is steady. Nothing urgent, yet one name unsettles me: Samuel, the man with the glasses, one of Meredith’s cronies. He has been discussing me in his correspondence, describing my display of magic with far too much interest.
I make a note to watch him. Nothing dangerous yet, but it is always the quiet ones who keep their knives sharp.
Next, the paper mages. I locate their island; it is warded, well defended. Their protections impress me. It takes fifteen minutes to thread my way through their magical defences—delicate, precise, beautifully made, like lace spun from intent—but not a problem.
I scan their correspondence. My filaments divide effortlessly, gliding through their systems. I can no longer split myself from this body and travel with them as I once did, yet the magic remains effective.
They have begun investigating my past, but they have not got far. You would need to dig back almost two centuries to find anything. Good luck with that. Still, there is nothing concerning; so far, my instincts seem correct—they appear to be good people.
On impulse, I send Knox a quick magic note to say I am safe and well. Opening a line of communication seems prudent.
Then I head to the reading nook and pull a book fromthe shelf. Real paper pages—no scanning, no magical database in my mind—just ink and paper. I breathe in the scent of the pages as I sink into a chair and read all afternoon, losing myself in someone else’s problems for a few blessed hours.
Later, my ward pings.
The deliveries.
I collect the bags, tip the driver generously, unpack, cook a simple dinner, and return to my book.
Afterwards, I shower instead of bathing. The water is the perfect temperature. No Harper lobster. I am growing used to this body. Tomorrow, I promise, I will exercise again.
Before bed, I check on Samuel one last time.
He knows I did not go to the paper mages’ island. Meredith’s people have eyes on them, and when I failed to step out of the car, they combed the surveillance footage. They traced my journey through the Magic Sector, straight to the chapel.
They plan to collect me. Not tomorrow or the next day, but in two and a half days. The coven is still exhausted from fighting me; they will need those extra days to recover.
That gives me a solid sixty hours to prepare.
How thoughtful of them.
I will need evidence to prove I am simply an innocent party defending myself, because I will not go quietly.
I have been avoiding—even fleeing—the Ministry of Magic for one hundred and ten years, and I will not let it dictate my life now that I am human and have rights. I watched those very rights take shape over decades, foughtfor in committees and courtrooms and quiet rebellions. I will use them to protect myself.
I immediately order high-quality cameras to be installed around the grounds, capable of recording magical activity. I will ensure everything is in place: the cameras rolling, the wards ready, the angles covered. If Meredith wants to bring a raid to my doorstep, they can do it under excellent lighting.
If a battle breaks out, we might as well capture it in full high definition.
If I am careful, Meredith is the one who will end up in a cell, locked away in some maximum-security prison, and so will Samuel and anyone else who helps her.
Is it wrong that part of me is excited? My fingers itch, hungry for sigils, runes and ink.
At last, I get to stretch my magic.
Chapter Twenty
Jeff receivedthe work order and arrives bright and early with the cameras in hand. Music blares from his pocket as he works, and he bobs to the beat like the garden itself has permitted him to be cheerful. He waves, and I ask whether he would like a drink.
“I won’t say no to coffee,” he replies. “The thermos I bring always makes everything taste a little plasticky.”
