Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The police arrive, summoned from the Magic Sector.
Lander grips my wrist, keeping me at his side as if I am both evidence and liability.
Snack Thief perches hidden in the nearest tree.
I cannot meet the bird’s black eyes. It is not his fault, yet I feel betrayed—absurd, really, because he is only a raven obeying a powerful mage.
With the last paperweight safely locked in the case, I feel my filaments burn as I snap the catches shut. The box already bears layered spells to prevent the paperweight’s magic from leaking, and I add two more wards—one to reinforce the seal, another as a failsafe.
If I had time, I would encase the whole thing in lead and seal it again, but I cannot with Lander here, watching.
When—if—I get a moment, I will come back and destroy it.
Somehow, I doubt I will have the chance.
One officer debriefs Lander in low tones. Lander explains that the raid is unsanctioned, that the intruders acted without authorisation, then adds—almost casually—that they have their reasons.
That I am wanted for questioning.
He protects Meredith.
Something in me clicks shut.
An anti-magic cuff snaps onto my wrist, cold and heavy. Someone confiscates the wand—never truly mine. Snack Thief brought it, so Lander gave it to me. I do not want to see it again.
They may keep it.
A spell softens the papier-maché. It sloughs away, and one by one the encased coven members stumble free—pale, shaking—into the care of waiting healers.
“Is she all right?” a familiar female voice asks, stepping closer.
“She’s fine, Jennifer,” Lander replies, dismissively.
“May I check your vitals?” she persists. When I do not respond, she does so anyway, efficient hands at my wrist, my neck. “She’s exhausted. Magically drained.”
Lander tilts his head, studying me. I know he is wondering why I am depleted; no doubt he has already deduced it was the paperweights. I would not be surprised if he slips a few into my pockets later, just to see what happens.
I ignore him. I cannot look at him.
“She has sustained fire damage to her upper right arm.” Jennifer gently prods the wound, cuts away the torn fabric, and heals my arm. Cool magic knits flesh with a soft pull I feel all the way down to my bones. “All fixed.”
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“Thanks, Jennifer,” Lander adds, as if I were a child he is speaking for.
“You’re welcome,” she says, then her gaze sharpens at him. “She doesn’t need any more stress, Lander.”
She hurries off to help a witch—only just freed from her papier-maché shell—who looks as though she is about to be sick.
It takes a while to clear the graveyard. Voices fade. The healers move on. Cars depart. Eventually, it is only Lander and me standing in the quiet, surrounded by stones and trampled grass and the lingering stink of scorched earth.
I expect him to shove me into his car and haul me off to the Ministry’s grim black-stone building for interrogation. Instead, he removes the anti-magic cuff, slips it into his pocket, and guides me to the chapel doors.
“Let me through the ward,” he says.
I hesitate, then grant him temporary access. His hand stays on my wrist—as though I might bolt—while he opens the door and guides me to the living room sofa. Of course he knows the layout; he has viewed it through Snack Thief’s eyes countless times.
A moment later, a blanket settles over my shoulders. I am trembling with fatigue, the aftermath shuddering through me now that the threat is gone. I have not slept, and I am running on willpower alone.
He returns with a cup of tea. I cradle it in both hands, staring into its dark depths as though the answers might rise with the steam.
I have no idea what is happening—no idea why we are still here.
Should he not be marching me to the Ministry for interrogation, handing me over to Meredith?
He sinks into the chair opposite and leans forward.
“Are you going to start from the beginning?”
The beginning.
No. I am not starting from the beginning.
“What?” I ask, deliberately obtuse. “From this morning?”
He gives me a look that says, Do you think I was born yesterday?
“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 begged me not 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.
“They killed him anyway. Then they killed me. Ritually.”
My grip on the cup tightens until the ceramic bites.
“They used my soul and my magic to create a sentient house.” I swallow.
“I twisted the spell so I would remember everything and so I would have some semblance of control. It took years for my memories to return fully, but they did, and I was trapped. I was the house.”
I look at him, daring him to flinch.
He does not.
His eyes gleam with unanswered questions, yet he seems to realise that if I pause, I won’t be able to go on.
“I hunted them down and killed them. All of them.” I exhale slowly, the confession leaving my chest hollow. “Before I reached their families, I helped a girl, then someone else, and realised I did not have to exist on rage alone. I could become something else: a sanctuary.”
My voice wavers, but I press on. “I sheltered the abused, the downtrodden, those no one else would protect.”
I stare into my tea as if it can hold me together.
“I watched the Ministry grow from an idea into what it is now. Helping people put me in its sights, and honestly…” I shrug, brittle. “If it destroyed me, I would not have fought too hard. Living forever while everyone you love dies… that is its own kind of hell.”
My voice cracks.
“Then you attacked me. I folded—that’s the word I use to describe how I shift location magically. A year later, Meredith came with her coven; you attacked again, and I folded once more. Exhausted, I fell straight into a ley line. I did not plan it. I did not even know it was there.”
I shudder at the memory, the raw, tearing sensation of it.
“Then… this happened.” I glance down at myself. Human limbs. Human skin. “I do not know why or how the ley line did it, but I am alive, and I have this strange body. I am struggling, and I am trying—truly trying—to be a good person.”
I meet his eyes.
“I wanted to be left alone long enough to understand what I have become. I left the Ministry and came here. My family lies just over there.” My voice softens, despite myself. “This is home. I never harmed an innocent person, and when I killed, it was because they were dangerous.”
Silence stretches between us.
“So if you are going to kill me,” I say quietly, exhaustion pressing in, “please, do it quickly. Do not take me back to the Ministry. I know you have authorisation. Please, Lander, do not draw this out any longer. Make it quick.” My throat tightens.
“I’m just… so tired. Everything is new, yet somehow it is all the same.
I am sick of making the same mistakes over and over again. ”
He moves at last.
Lander kneels before me and gently cups my face in his large hands, his thumbs brushing away my tears. Then he folds me into his arms. I snivel against his shoulder while he strokes the back of my head and murmurs soft reassurances that I am safe.
I am not. I have never been safe.
But still he holds me.
When I finally stop crying—and it takes a while—he pulls back and takes my hands, holding them lightly, as if he is afraid of squeezing too hard.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “Your friend Fred spoke at length about trusting you, about the sort of person you are—that nothing is ever simply black and white.”
She did?
He pauses, studying me. “I’ve been watching. You’re not the enemy. You’re a victim.”
I have no idea what to say.
“I won’t share your story,” he says. “To everyone else, you’re a talented paper mage. There’s nothing—nothing—that links you to the house. Even if there were…” His mouth quirks. “Do you really think your friends would testify against you?”
I say nothing.
“There’s no one to dob you in,” he adds gently. “So please, don’t worry.” Then, more briskly, because softness clearly unnerves him, “I do, however, have many—many—questions. But first, I’m going to help you.”
“You are going to help me?” My voice is hoarse, disbelieving.
“Yes.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Oh, you fascinate me, Harper House. Through all that adversity you’ve remained a good person.” His gaze sharpens. “I disapprove of your methods; your use of magic is dangerous. But the people you’ve helped have hidden it remarkably well.”
His thumbs trace gentle circles over my knuckles. “You have powerful allies—far more than you realise. People who love you.”
I blink, thrown by the certainty in his tone.
“So perhaps we can agree,” he continues, “no twisting magic unless it’s an emergency. No attempts at world domination. While you adjust to being human again, let me keep you safe.”
“…Okay,” I say, because I have nothing else.
“Right then.” He grins, sudden and boyish. “I’m going to order us some food; you haven’t eaten all day.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Forgive me for lying. We all have our secrets, and I had to see for myself.”
He stands, pulls out his phone, and scrolls for a takeaway.
“People lie all the time,” he adds, glancing back at me. “They pretend to be virtuous when they’re not—or to be villains when they aren’t.”
I nod. He gives me one last smile before turning away to place the order.
Wow. That was… different.
Do I trust him? I do not know.
When I thought he had tricked me, it felt as though what remained of my heart had been ground to dust. And now… now I have hope again.
But is hope enough?
I always tell myself to be brave, yet bravery without caution is mere folly, and I refuse to be foolish again. I cannot blindly trust him, however much I wish to, so I do the sensible thing: play along with his plan and see whether he truly keeps me safe, all the while searching for alternatives.
Perhaps it is time to join the paper mages. Everything I have discovered suggests they are decent people, yet an island full of paper mages—even if it is only Knox—makes a tempting target. Power always attracts attention.
Time and again I have learnt that magic alone is insufficient; even the strongest mage needs someone watching their back. If I call for Beryl, she will come, but she has her own battles, her own scars. I will not drag her into mine.
What I need now is food, sleep, and space to think. By tomorrow, matters may be clearer.
And I really, really do not want to be wrong about him.
One thing is certain: Lander Kane may be watching me, but I am watching him, too.