Instead of immediately activating the paperweights, Meredith opts for drama. Her magically amplified voice booms, “Harper House, come out with your hands up. You are under arrest.”
Oh, we are playing voice games now, are we? How exciting.
I do not even need my wand. I cast a spell, throwing my voice so it drifts lazily through the closed door.
“Who did you say you were?” I ask, soft and sweet.
“I am Councillor Meredith Jackson,” she snaps, “and by order of the Ministry of Magic, you are under arrest.”
“What am I under arrest for?”
“Crimes against the Magic Sector.”
“Could this not wait for a more civilised hour?” I yawn theatrically, letting the sound carry. “Perhaps when my solicitor is available?”
“If you don’t come out now, we’re coming in.”
“You are welcome to try,” I call back. “But do bear in mind—this chapel is a listed building. Any damage and you will have more than me to answer to.”
“The chapel is surrounded, and we can deaden your magic. We will activate the spells. Come out now, or when your wards fail, we will come in.”
While Meredith quarrels with ‘chapel Harper,’ I deal with the team skirting the back of the building. From my vantage point, I see the rear, the side, and the front of the property; they have no idea they are being watched.
A mage with a shaved head and a nose ring checks the line of paperweights, her fingers moving with the practised precision of a spellcrafter. A younger wizard—barely more than a boy—shifts from foot to foot, clutching his weight in both hands as though it might explode.
“This isn’t what we signed up for,” he whispers. “She’s a paper mage; we spent an entire session on the treaty. Does no one else think this is wrong?”
“Eyes up, Toby,” says the older man beside him—Richard, if I am recalling the personnel files correctly. His shoulders sag with the sort of weariness that does not come from lack of sleep. “We do the job, we go home. That’s how we stay alive.”
“Assuming Meredith lets anyone go home,” someone else mutters.
Everyone has a paperweight now, leaving the empty case discarded. Even though the paperweights are not activated, I can feel them leeching my magic; simply having so many on the grounds is draining, a constant drag at the edges of my power.
Moving them will hurt, but if I get the chance, I will snatch them back.
With a little push of magic, I send the case to the underground bunker.
Mine to keep.
Let’s see if I can fill it.
One man—a familiar face with glasses—strolls past the bucket I left out, placed so casually it could be mistaken for rainwater forgotten after a storm. I even tucked it beside the drainpipe.
The human brain is a marvellous thing; it makes connections where it should not and ignores the ones that matter.
Samuel. Meredith’s pet ritualist. He adjusts his glasses with one hand, paperweight dangling loosely from the other, too busy muttering a spell under his breath to pay attention to his surroundings.
I give my wand a flick, barely a whisper of magic behind it.
The bucket quivers.
Then—slap!—a sheet of sodden paper smacks the back of his neck.
Samuel squeaks and reaches up, but he is too slow; another sheet seals his mouth.
The solution drenches Samuel in seconds, enchanted paper creeping over his robes, clinging and hardening. The more he struggles, the faster it sets, until he is rigid from head to toe in magical papier-mâché.
“Sam?” Richard turns, frowning. “What are you?—”
