“A family business, eh? And what’s that called?”
“GreenTech Maintenance.”
“Maintenance, eh? Criminals?”
“No, Detective Wallace. We pay our taxes like everyone else.”
He lets out an impatient huff. “I’ll be checking this information.”
I nod. While he is distracted with his pencil, I weave my magic—filaments of intent slipping into the Human Sector company-registration systems. Moments later, GreenTech Maintenance lists me as managing director, complete with bank details stretching back years, everything consistent with my new legal age. The lie slides into place so smoothly it might as well be the truth.
“Have you got any identification?” he asks.
“Of course.” With a flick of magic, I create and present a Sector ID for the magic user jurisdiction. The photograph is deliberately unflattering but unmistakably me. “The property is mixed-sector residency. I am allowed to be here.”
He scowls and taps the card against his palm. “I’ll go and check this. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Of course, Detective Wallace.”
He strides back to his car, shuts the door, and calls through my details—name, date of birth, company credentials—then messages the same information to…
Meredith.
A human detective in her pocket. Yet another layer in her network of spies.
I realise then that I have forgotten to warn Knox about the watcher on his island, so I send a quick note while Detective Wallace remains on the line.
After five minutes, there is a soft buzz, and I pluck a crisp scrap of parchment from the air. Proof that someone outside the Ministry’s web can hear me and answer.
Harper,
I’m relieved you’re safe. I didn’t even know paper magic could do this. I had to consult the old books in our library to learn how to reply. When you said ‘send a note,’ I thought you meant a phone message, not an actual paper missive. I’ve loved experimenting with this, and I’m glad I can finally respond.
Thank you, too, for the intelligence on the watcher. I’ll leave them in place for now, but at least I can take steps to protect my people.
Please call on me if you need anything.
—Knox
How delightful that I helped Knox rediscover this enchantment. In an age of instant emails and messages, traditional magic like notes must be going extinct. I did not even realise until now, and the thought leaves a small,unexpected ache. To me, sending notes feels wonderfully tactile, and it is untraceable—paper and intent, slipping through the world without leaving fingerprints.
I tuck the paper into my dress pocket just as Detective Wallace emerges from his car.
He strides over, returns my ID, and surveys me, the chapel, and the grounds, as though he expects to find wrongdoing clinging to the hedges.
“Anything else I can help you with, Detective?”
He grunts. “People reported strange lights coming from here. They were concerned.”
“Of course.” I keep my voice mild, pleasant. “I hope speaking to me will put their minds at ease.”
He nods curtly. “I don’t want to be back. Mind yourself, Miss House—stay on the right side of the law.”
“Always, Detective Wallace.”
He huffs, gives me a try-me look, then storms back to his car. As he accelerates out of the drive, pebbles scatter, pinging against the tarmac.
“Not exactly the speed limit, Detective,” I mutter.
