“Please. I can’t do this now.” My voice cracks.
I hug the blanket tighter and rock slightly. In one short morning I have been broken again. I need time to understand what has happened. My gumption will return—I know it will—but right now all I want is to crawl into bed, clothes and all, pull the covers over my head, and let the world disappear for a while.
“You must think I’m stupid,” I say, tilting my face so the steam drifts across my cheeks. It is warm outside, yet inside I am freezing.
“No, I don’t think you’re stupid,” he says softly. “You don’t need to start with this morning. I was here. I saw everything.” He pauses, then adds, almost gently, “I want to know how you became a sentient house… and how you became human again.”
I raise my eyes from the tea and meet his pale gaze. He is not angry or demanding; he is simply asking.
I cannot do this.
“I heard you.”
What?
“I heard you,” Lander repeats, his voice low. “That day we attacked—when Fred ran out and started hurling your tiles at me—I heard you beg.”
I blink at him, my throat tightening.
“You weren’t begging for yourself. You beggedmenot to hurt them—Fred and the dog.” He shakes his head and rubs his face. “You can’t fake that, not in the state you were in. You were falling apart—you literally lost your chimney—yet your only thought was protecting them.”
He looks away, jaw tight, as if the memory sits poorly in him.
“That’s why I dropped my magic,” he says. “Fred broke my wand, but honestly, I let her. It gave me an excuse to stop. And when you disappeared…” He swallows. “I was glad.”
He shrugs, weary.
He let me go.
“I talked myself out of caring,” he continues, “telling myself, ‘Why worry about a sentient house?’ Then Fred asked me to give you a chance. So I did. I watched you through Arthur’s eyes—security work, not stalking—and noted how you behaved when no one was looking.” His eyes flick back to mine. “Gradually, I realised things weren’t as they seemed.”
He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs.
“I’ve made mistakes—been a bit of a dick, if I’m honest. I nearly got Lark killed; one less ‘abomination,’ right?” His mouth twists with self-disgust. “Then I thought: what if it were my sister or my nieces? Wouldn’t I want someone to stop and listen?”
His voice softens, earnest.
“For the first time in my life, I listened. Really listened.” He pauses. “People see me as the bogeyman of magic. Humans don’t know the whole story; that’s how I infiltrate extremist groups like Human First—because they think I’m corrupt.”
He takes a breath, steadies himself.
“But I try to hold myself to a higher standard. I’ve failed more than once.” His gaze returns to me, unwavering. “Harper, I don’t want to be your villain.”
He does not want to be my villain.
His words slip beneath my skin like magic. The little pieces of my heart—the ones I was certain had shattered for good—begin to knit themselves together again: slowly, cautiously, but they do.
I say nothing. I cannot. My throat is tight, and I am afraid that if I speak, everything will come out wrong.
So I sit there, letting the weight of his words settle between us.
The jig is up. I can’t lie my way out of this, and worse—I do not want to.
He waits, patient, giving me space.
“My name was Hestia Howard.” The word feels strange in my mouth: old, heavy, like a key that no longer fits the lock. “One hundred and sixty-two years ago, my husband, William, struck a bargain with a group of criminals—my life for his. He thought he was saving himself.”
A bitter laugh escapes me.
