Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Time, at last, to adjust.
I survey the room: no cameras, at least none I can spot. I miss my magic, the ability to analyse every detail, but perhaps the loss is a blessing. I need to master this body first.
I take my time examining the anti-magic cuff. Spells are layered into it, written in runes etched deeply into the silver.
After a few minutes of staring, I realise it does not block my magical recovery—only my access.
While the cuff remains on, I will have no magic to wield, yet I will avoid any ill effects.
With luck, when it is removed, I will be at decent strength.
If I can manage a few basic tricks, I should persuade the paper mage faction that I am one of them.
They should not expect fireworks, just proof, and proof I can provide.
The courtyard doors are locked, so I cross to the centre of the room and sink to the floor, legs folded.
Closing my eyes, I turn inward, returning to the meditation that has kept me sane for centuries.
I start at the crown of my head, ease my hair from the collar of Fred’s jumper, and draw a long breath—the relief is immediate.
Shoulders rise and fall, lungs expand, ribs shift, the diaphragm contracts. When my hips and thighs ache, I lie down and stretch out on the cool stone, morning light warming my face through the glass.
Now I understand why Beryl enjoys basking. It is unexpectedly pleasant.
The main door unlocks and clicks open behind me. Heels tap softly into the kitchen, followed by lighter, faster footsteps. Children. I open my eyes. Three small faces peer down at me.
“Is she dead?” asks the smallest girl, hands on her hips, nose wrinkled.
“No, she was just sleeping,” says an older girl. All three are in pyjamas.
A pretty red-haired woman stops beside me, smiling kindly.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Dayna, Lander’s sister. These are my daughters”—she points to each girl—“Philis, Elizabeth, and Cathy.”
“Hi!” the girls chorus, waving.
I flutter a hand in response. “Hi.” I could attempt a smile. I remember the healer’s reaction and keep my mouth still.
The youngest, Cathy, tilts her head. “What’s wrong with your face?”
“Yeah, it’s like you’re a doll,” Elizabeth blurts.
“Elizabeth,” Dayna says sharply. “Cathy, that’s rude. I’m so sorry, Harper.”
Philis frowns at her sisters. “Maybe that’s just her face. Some people don’t show much.”
Cathy nods solemnly. “So you’re special?”
“She must be a bad special,” Elizabeth whispers, pointing at the anti-magic cuff on my wrist. “Only bad people wear those.”
“That’s not quite true,” Dayna says, horrified.
Dropping her voice to a harsh whisper, she shepherds the three girls to the sofa.
“Sit here and behave. When we get home, we will have another talk about being mean.” Louder, she adds, “I hope you don’t mind us popping in; the girls were excited to meet you. ”
“I don’t mind,” I reply, standing—my legs wobbling in protest.
“I’ve brought some shopping.”
“Thank you.”
I notice grocery bags on the kitchen counter and follow her, taking in the sleek, unfamiliar appliances.
With magic, boiling a kettle or heating food was instantaneous. Now, for a while, I will have to learn everything from scratch. Buttons instead of spells. Timers instead of will.
The girls whisper and giggle on the sofa, elbowing one another.
“Would you like something to eat?” Dayna asks softly. “I could make you breakfast.”
I do not want breakfast with a stranger. I am unsure how this body will cope with food—swallowing, digesting, sitting at a table, and pretending to be normal.
“No, thank you.” I begin unpacking the bags instead.
She has bought an impressive variety, something to suit every palate—bread, fruit, yoghurt, cereal, even biscuits. I appreciate the thought, yet caution prevails: I do not know this woman.
Dayna watches for a moment, then leans on the worktop, chin cradled in her hands.
“Tell me about yourself,” she says.
Her eyes are sharp and curious. I recall that she, too, is a councillor. I have followed their careers; Dayna would not hold her post without being dangerously clever.
When Lander said I could stay with him, he neglected to mention that ‘with him’ meant in this building. I did not neglect to notice that the children are wearing pyjamas.
I was always going to end up here. He is manipulative—accustomed to charming women with that handsome face and affable persona, feigning kindness until he snaps on the anti-magic cuff. In truth, he orchestrated everything, and I should not have forgotten it.
Dayna smiles at me. I try to soften my features, but I am beyond smiling right now. I will need to practise. She is trying hard to be kind, and it is difficult to fight kindness—hard to argue with someone soft-spoken and polite.
The trap works both ways, though.
She is also using her children to soften me up, and I am polite and kind in return, which makes it harder for her to pick me apart, to find a weakness.
Keeping your cool is a different sort of power. People forget being polite, kind, and unbothered does not make you weak; it keeps the power where it belongs—with you.
I shall not react to their threats, nor to their false friendliness.
They are playing games.
I am not playing at all.
“My daughter is right,” she murmurs. “I can’t read you.”
Before I can answer, the main door opens with a soft click.
“Uncle Lander!” three voices shriek at once.
The girls explode off the sofa in a tangle of limbs and flying hair. Dayna startles, then relaxes; a fond smile tugs at her mouth.
Heavy footsteps, a low laugh, and then Lander appears in the kitchen. One girl has attached herself to his right leg, another to his left, and the smallest, Cathy, has somehow scrambled up his back like a determined squirrel, arms looped around his neck.
He is still in his combat gear—sans weapons—sleeves pushed up, hair rumpled. The famous Magic Hunter, ambushed by children.
“You lot,” he groans, stagger-dragging them into the kitchen as the girls giggle. “I am under attack. Dayna, help. They’re feral.”
Philis clings tighter. “We are shifters, thank you very much,” she declares.
“Shifters don’t climb people like monkeys,” he says, reaching back to hook an arm under Cathy before she slides off. She squeals, delighted, and wraps her legs around his waist.
“You were supposed to wait until I called you,” Dayna scolds mildly. “Let your uncle breathe.”
“But you said he was coming,” Elizabeth protests, peering up at him. “And you said we had to sit on the sofa because we were mean. We waited ages.”
“How long is ‘ages’?” Lander asks gravely.
“Ten minutes,” Dayna says.
“An eternity,” he agrees. He shifts Cathy with practised ease, keeping her balanced in his arms as if she weighs nothing at all.
His gaze finds me at the counter. For a moment the warmth cools, the professional mask flickering back into place—then he remembers the child in his arms and the two still plastered to his legs, and the edges soften again.
“Harper,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“I am all right, thank you. Dayna has been shopping.”
I take in the scene: his nieces hanging off him without fear, Dayna watching with clear affection. This, then, is the man they know. Not the predator who stood in my garden and threatened me.
“Girls,” Dayna says, “please don’t overwhelm Harper. We need to use our inside voices.”
“We’re not overwhelming,” Elizabeth insists. “We’re welcoming.”
Lander laughs under his breath. “That you are.” He gently peels Philis from his leg. “Why don’t you three go and get dressed properly? I’ll make pancakes before I go to work.”
“Chocolate chips?” Cathy asks, eyes shining.
“If your mother approves,” he says.
Dayna sighs. “Fine. But you do not have to deal with them climbing the walls afterwards.”
“They’re already climbing the walls,” he points out.
The girls thunder off—out the door and down the corridor—arguing about who gets the bathroom first. Their voices fade.
Dayna pushes off the counter. “I had better help them,” she says with a rueful smile. “Harper, if you need anything, just let Lander know.”
“Thank you.” To give my shaking hands something to do, I eye the single-serve bottle of orange juice on the worktop. I pick it up; the glass is cool in my hand. I raise the bottle in acknowledgement. “And thank you for the food and the drink. It was very kind.”
“You are welcome.” She squeezes Lander’s arm as she passes. “Be nice,” she mouths at him.
“I’m always nice,” he mutters, but there is humour in it.
For a few seconds, the kitchen is quiet. He stands there, hands braced on the back of a barstool, watching me with those pale, assessing eyes.
A moment ago he was all uncle and pancakes; now I see again the man who spent a year hunting me.
The contrast makes my skin prickle.
He stares.
I make myself stare back.
“The paper mages are coming,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “They—” He cuts himself off.
I say nothing.
It is impressive they received my note so quickly; it has been only three hours, and they have already made contact.
“I don’t know what you did. But if you’re not a paper mage, they will kill you. Whatever you’re trying to do, admit you were with the house, and we’ll mark you as a victim. Nobody’s blaming you, Harper.” He leans forward. “Drop this nonsense. Help me keep you safe.”
I continue to stare.
“So you’re not going to do anything?” he snaps. “You’ll just let them come, let them take you, let them kill you when they discover you’re not a paper mage?”
He exhales, exasperated. “Please, Harper, I know the house did some strange things, turned humans into shifters and vampires. But changing a mage’s designation?
That doesn’t happen.” His tone softens. “Admit you’re a low-powered witch.
Say you were staying at the house and were thrown clear when it was destroyed.
Then I can help you. I can get that cuff off. ” His eyes plead with me.
There is genuine fear in his gaze. And yet, I do not believe a word he says.
Centuries of knowledge lie within me; I see people—and the world—far more clearly than he imagines. He assumes that a handsome face and a few rehearsed phrases will sway me.
“So, Mr Kane, you want me to lie?”
His jaw tightens.
“If I lie, will you remove this cuff, will you let me go?”
“I want you to tell the truth.”
“No, you don’t.” My voice stays calm. “You want me to repeat your version of events, to confirm your narrative. I am not going to parrot your lies, Mr Kane—”
“Lander,” he cuts in. “Call me Lander.”
“Lander.” I incline my head. “I cannot give you what you want. Still, thank you for rescuing me in the forest and for bringing me somewhere safe; I do appreciate it.” I fold my hands.
“But I would prefer to wait for the paper mages. They will know how to handle this. The situation is beyond me, and I would rather not say or do anything we might all regret. For now, we have nothing more to discuss.”
“You have no idea what they do to people.”
I almost laugh. I know exactly what paper mages can do. We are ruthless.
With my full power, the Ministry and the entire Magic Sector could be mine. I could crown myself queen.
But I do not want power, rule, or command. I crave neither fame nor fortune nor recognition. I simply wish to be left alone. A mere footnote in history, preferably omitted altogether. I want only to keep the people I love safe and to stay alive.
They have already tested my health; Jennifer pronounced me ‘extremely healthy.’ Yet magic is unpredictable. It could turn on me, erase me.
A small part of me wants to adopt Lander’s perfect lie, say I had been staying in the house and was thrown clear when it crashed. It is tidy, believable. The Magic Hunter is right: it would be the easiest path forward.
But I do not trust him.
I do not trust any of them.
Even if I played along and sent the paper mages away satisfied, I could still vanish into a basement cell, never to be seen again. It happens far more often than people admit. I have seen the worst of humanity; I have watched history rewritten in real time.
I watch him now. His head bows, shoulders tight. Genuine, or a performance? Honestly, I do not care. I have no further interest in analysing him. I have studied him since he appeared in the Enterprise Zone and threatened me.
A man capable of horrible acts who walks away unscathed is not someone I wish to linger near.
“When will they arrive?” I ask. “And could I have a change of clothes? I would rather greet them without mud and grime.”
When I move, the jumper and trousers shed flecks of dried dirt.
“I’ll ask Dayna to bring you something. They will be here at seven,” he says, rising. He hesitates. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
He leaves.
I head to the bathroom and turn on the tap. Hot water gushes out, steaming the mirror.
A bath.
Perhaps I have earned that much.