So I make him one, then another, and another. I keep them coming as he installs the cameras and attends to his gardening duties, moving with easy competence from drill to rose shears. I order him a better thermos—a replacement for the one that makes everything taste dreadful—because there is no reason for a good man to suffer bad coffee.
While I dismantle the large outer ward, I watch the raven preening his feathers in a nearby tree. He looks glossyin the morning light, black on black, as if he has stolen the shine from oil. In the ward’s place, I cast targeted protections: warding the roses, the family plot, significant trees, and every gravestone. No rogue magic will harm them. Battles can get messy, and I refuse to let this place pay for other people’s stupidity.
Throughout all the warding and preparation, the raven watches. Sometimes he perches on a gravestone; at other times in a tree or on the chapel roof. Always watching.
I speak to him. I offer flaxseed, sunflower seeds—whatever treats I can find that seem suitable. Once, he even lands on my shoulder while I am working a particularly difficult spell, talons light through the fabric, his weight oddly comforting.
I chat to him as I work.
“I was in the Magic Sector, at the Ministry building,” I tell him, tracing a line of power along the stone border. The magic hums as it settles. “They made me prove my magic, so I used a child’s game—a mix of simple spells I could cast when I was a girl.”
I glance up at him.
“You should have seen their faces. It was as though I had walked on water. Whoever oversees education needs to be taken to task if that impressed them.” I snort softly. “I left with the paper mages but did not stay with them. They are good people, just…” I hesitate, then shrug. “I am used to being alone.”
The raven clicks his beak once, as if he approves of that.
“I have a touch of technomancer magic. Mixed with paper magic, it lets me access words anywhere—from computers and phones to handwritten records. Yesterday Ilearnt that Meredith Jackson and her associate, Samuel, plan to come here the day after tomorrow with her coven”—most likely the same group that attacked me as House—“to take me against my will. They said they were going to ‘collect’ me, as though I were a runaway dog.”
The raven caws and bobs his head.
“I know, right? How dare they?” I shake my head. “I had a feeling when I was in that blasted Ministry building. I knew it would come to this—me fighting so I do not end up locked in a basement somewhere.” My mouth twists. “It’s depressing to be proven right.”
I glance up at him again. He is still watching, utterly intent.
“It is not fair to assume solitude equals weakness,” I say, my voice quieter now. “But I am no one’s victim. They are going to have a fight on their hands.”
He squawks and ruffles his feathers in agreement.
“They will be in for quite a shock,” I mutter, tightening the final knot of a protection spell. “If they thought ‘Ring-a-ring o’ roses’ was some kind of incredible magic, they do not want to see me angry.” The air prickles as the ward seals. “I do not want to hurt anyone, but I will protect myself and show everyone how wrong they are. I have no regrets about ruining lives and careers; I hate bullies.”
Once the last ward is complete, the raven lifts into the sky.
I really must give him a name.
I let Jeff know what I have done with the wards—not why, because he does not need to know—and grant him passage through so his work will not be interrupted. Henods, grateful, and carries on, humming along with whatever is still playing in his pocket.
He casually mentions that the old border ward for the Magic Sector has vanished from the corner of the property. He is thinking of planting apple and pear trees there in October.
“The blossom will be beautiful in spring,” he says, as if the disappearance of a sector ward is as normal as a change in weather, and then returns to checking a camera angle like nothing in the world has shifted.
I suspect he knows this chapel belongs to me, that I did something to the sector ward, though he never says so outright. He knows I am a magic user, but it does not trouble him. There is a steadiness to Jeff that feels rare—no gawking, no fear, no hungry curiosity. Just a man who tends his patch of earth and lets other people be complicated.
Later, as I mentally review the spells at my disposal, we sit in the garden with our drinks. A light breeze carries the briny scent of the sea and keeps the temperature pleasant, tugging at the lavender and making the roses nod. Frank sprawls beneath the bench, paws twitching in sleep, and the conversation turns to Jeff’s life.
“My wife, Melanie, died three years ago,” he tells me, studying the sky. His voice is steady, but his thumb rubs at the rim of his mug as if the ceramic can anchor him. “Even though I’m paid to work here, I come more often than I need to. It’s a comfort. I miss her so much. I can’t smell her in the house any more; it’s overwhelming.” He swallows. “Our grown-up kids want me to date, to findsomeone new… but how do you meet someone after you’ve known true love?”
He sighs, a deep, exhausted sound.
I remain silent, offering what comfort I can. He is not asking for my opinion; he only wants someone to listen. I can do that. Listening is one of the few things I am reliably good at.
“I know Melanie would have wanted me to be happy,” he continues. “She’d have meant it, too.” He sips his coffee, eyes following a billowy cloud overhead. “But I can’t. There’s no one else. She was it for me. I had great love, and that’s more than enough.”
His smile softens as he glances at a peach-coloured rose he clearly cherishes, as if it is a private signal between him and memory. “I’m content with my life, and whenever my time comes… I’ll see her again.”
I nod, throat thick.
He smiles at me properly then. “You’re a good person, Harper. Thank you for listening to an old man.”
