12. Velma Doomweaver #6
“Excellent,” Miles interrupted gently. He could feel Gabriel trembling again. “The house seems quite capable of assisting you with your curiosity.”
The lights brightened once in agreement.
“You see?” Miles addressed the house. “Gabriel isn’t abandoning you. He needs rest to process what’s happening. We’ll return when he’s more himself.”
The doors between the corridor and the entry hall, which had begun to slowly creep closed again, halted and then swung back open again.
“And you will have time to consider what you want,” he added, keeping his voice remarkably level despite his growing concern for Gabriel. Long silences from him were never a good sign. “Not just a master to serve, but perhaps a purpose beyond what Madaze designed you for.”
The house seemed to consider this, and the temperature in the entry hall normalized.
Genna stepped forward but kept her eyes averted from Gabriel’s face. “We’ll handle things here. Take him back to the Mourning Lark.”
Nikka nodded vigorously. “Don’t worry about a thing!”
With a grateful nod to them both, Miles guided Gabriel toward the front doors, which now swung fully open.
Miles paused at the threshold. He turned back toward the flickering sconces.
“One more question. That first night, when we burned Madaze’s remains in the kitchen hearth, did you ignite those flames?”
Gabriel lifted his head from Miles’s shoulder, his face wet with tears. His red-rimmed eyes widened with sudden interest, the question cutting through his spiral.
The lights blinked once. Yes.
Gabriel let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You wanted him gone too.”
The house’s answer came as a warm gust of air that swept past them both.
“We will return,” Miles promised the house as he nodded one more time at Genna and Nikka before they crossed the threshold .
Gabriel said nothing as they descended the steps, his usual sharp wit and flamboyant demeanor absent. Miles held him close as they made their way toward the relative sanctuary of the inn.
Gabriel remained unnervingly quiet. The soft sounds of their footsteps against cobblestone and distant tavern songs were the only things breaking the silence between them as they reached the Bent.
Guilt tasted sour on Miles’s tongue. When the house had answered his question—whether it wanted Gabriel to stay—Miles had felt an immediate surge of relief at Gabriel’s dismay. That reaction now filled him with shame.
He had asked the question partly out of curiosity, yes, but also out of fear.
Fear that the connection between Gabriel and Rookgate Manor might mean their plans for marriage would never materialize.
That the ring box hidden in his trunk, waiting for the perfect moment, might remain unopened forever.
The relief he had felt watching Gabriel reject the house’s desires was uncomfortable to acknowledge.
He wanted to believe he was better than that, that he would support Gabriel in whatever path brought him healing.
But there had been that moment of pure gladness when it seemed their life together remained the plan.
Am I truly so selfish? Miles wondered, guiding Gabriel around a corner. To prioritize the future I’ve imagined over what might truly help him heal?
He wanted to ask questions, to probe deeper into Gabriel’s thoughts about the house. Did Gabriel feel any connection to it at all? Was there any part of him that might consider a different arrangement than simply selling it off? How deeply did the trauma of that place run?
But now wasn’t the time for interrogations. Gabriel was in no state to analyze his feelings or elaborate on his visceral rejection of the house. His shoulders remained hunched, his posture so unlike his usual proud bearing that it made Miles’s heart ache.
Later, Miles promised himself. When he’s had time to process, when he isn’t drowning in memories, then we’ll talk.
For now, all he could do was hold Gabriel close as they walked, offering silent support while his own thoughts warred between guilt and relief, between self-recrimination and hope for their future together.
Later that night, Miles sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, with Gabriel curled against him beneath layers of enchanted fabric.
The warmth of the weighted blanket had been activated to counteract the shock that had made Gabriel’s skin entirely too cool to the touch.
Miles had added his own extra heating charm for good measure, cocooning Gabriel in both magical and physical comfort.
His tears had mostly subsided, leaving behind red-rimmed eyes and an occasional, almost imperceptible shudder. Miles continued to stroke Gabriel’s hair, finding comfort in the familiar texture between his fingers.
“Do I have to stay?” Gabriel whispered, breaking the long silence between them. His voice was hoarse, barely audible even in the quiet room.
“What?” Miles asked softly, though he’d heard perfectly well.
“Do I have to stay there?” Gabriel clarified, his fingers clutching at the blanket. “Do I have to be some responsible person and help the damn house? Why can’t I just leave?”
The question pierced through him like a blade. The selfish part of him—the part that wanted nothing more than to return to their life in Briarleigh, to propose as he’d planned, to build their future far from Averdon—urged him to say no, of course not, they could abandon this bizarre situation.
But the truth was more complex.
Miles took a deep breath and forced himself to answer with complete honesty.
“It is your choice, Gabriel. Once the legal matters are settled—which must happen if you don’t want your freedom curtailed by a prison sentence—I will be damned if anyone or anything tells you that you have to do anything again. ”
Gabriel shifted against him, looking up with those striking gray-blue eyes. “You mean that?”
“Absolutely,” Miles said firmly. “If that means signing the house over to someone else, that’s your choice to make. Your freedom—the freedom we fought so hard for—means nothing if you’re immediately trapped by new obligations.”
Gabriel’s expression crumpled again. “But if the house is a person... shouldn’t it have some kind of choice who owns it? Since apparently the whole bound-to-its-owner thing isn’t under our control.”
Miles paused, his hand stilling in Gabriel’s hair. He’d been so focused on Gabriel’s agency, on protecting him from new forms of bondage, that he hadn’t fully considered the ethical implications for the house itself.
“I... hadn’t thought that far through it,” Miles admitted, feeling a flush of embarrassment.
He, who prided himself on his intellectual thoroughness, had overlooked something so fundamental.
“You’re right. If the house truly is sapient, then forcing it into the ownership of someone it doesn’t choose would be. ..”
“Another form of slavery,” Gabriel finished quietly.
Miles straightened, a flash of inspiration hitting him. “Wait—I’ve been approaching this all wrong,” he said, sitting up straighter against the headboard. “We’re dealing with a sapient magical entity, not some bureaucratic obstacle or demon that needs exorcising.”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Your point?”
“My point is that reasonable beings can negotiate. The house appears neither stupid nor unreasonable. We’ve already made one deal with it.” Miles paused, then added, “It is, perhaps, a bit emotional...”
Gabriel glared at him, clearly recognizing the comparison Miles was making between the house’s temperament and his own.
“...but surely a compromise can be reached,” Miles finished delicately. “What we need is to establish your requirements versus your desires versus your absolute deal breakers.”
Gabriel sat up abruptly, the weighted blanket falling to his waist. “I have a deal breaker right now. I will never—never—sleep another night in that place. No matter how pretty it makes itself. Never. Again.”
His voice was steel, and Miles nodded in immediate acceptance.
“That’s perfectly valid,” Miles assured him. “Even if…even if you must retain the title, there’s no law that you have to live in your Averdon estate. We could go to the district. We could keep a town home here for visits. So, residence can be completely off the table.”
Gabriel sank back against Miles’s chest with a nod.
Over the next few hours, they cuddled and talked through possibilities.
The house itself presented a complex problem.
Leaving it alone and uninhabited seemed cruel if it were truly conscious, but finding it a suitable owner who wouldn’t abuse its capabilities wasn’t straightforward.
And even a “nice master” was hardly ideal, although freeing it entirely was a magical problem Miles had no idea how to approach.
Miles smoothed his hand up and down Gabriel’s back as they fell into a thoughtful silence.
The burden of his unspoken fear lifted. He wouldn’t have to choose between Gabriel and the future they’d planned.
The fantasy he’d constructed—their cottage home, simple life, quiet evenings reading by lamplight—remained intact. .. or at least on the table.
He was ashamed of his selfishness but couldn’t deny the profound relief.
Miles had spent his whole life searching for someone who understood him, who could match his intellect and challenge him, who saw beyond the mage to the man beneath.
The thought of losing that future to a sapient mansion with a possessive streak had terrified him more than he cared to admit.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Gabriel murmured against his chest.
“Just thinking about solutions,” Miles said, grateful Gabriel couldn’t see his face. He’d always been terrible at hiding his feelings. “Perhaps we could establish a caretaker role. Someone who would live there and manage the estate while reporting to you as needed until we work out the legal bits.”
Gabriel yawned, nestling closer. “Not the worst idea. We’d just need to find someone the house doesn’t hate. And, of course, the heir.”
“Indeed.”
“A tall order.” Gabriel’s voice grew heavier with exhaustion. “Maybe Velma would do another reading just about that, violence surcharge notwithstanding.”
Then Gabriel shifted against Miles’s chest, his body tense with a sudden, sharp inhalation. He propped himself up on one elbow.
“Miles,” Gabriel whispered, the panic creeping back into his voice. “The walls. The floor. The way I made them change.”
Miles blinked, his hand pausing its soothing rhythm through Gabriel’s hair. “Yes?”
“I commanded magic,” Gabriel hissed. “Does that count as practicing? If I’m controlling a magical construct of that magnitude, doesn’t that violate the Separation Decrees?
All this planning, the name change, the inventory.
..it’s moot if the Bureau of Noble Appellations decides I’m a practitioner and strips the title anyway. Right?”
“Ah.” Miles adjusted his position, his mind instantly shifting from comfort mode to legal analysis. “No. That’s a misconception regarding Article Four, Section Two.”
Gabriel stared at him, waiting.
“The Separation Decrees prohibit a noble from possessing magical aptitude sufficient to earn a Guild rating,” Miles explained, unable to keep the didactic cadence out of his voice even while half-naked in bed.
“It does not forbid the use of magical objects. Lordlings use enchanted warming pans, cold lights, and self-cleaning chamber pots every day. Using a tool does not make one a mechanic, nor does using an enchanted item make one a mage.”
“But the house isn’t a chamber pot, Miles. It’s... it perceives.”
“That is where the legal definitions become murky.” Miles frowned at the ceiling above them.
“The law doesn’t account for sapient architecture.
The Crown Offices would likely view Rookgate as a very large, very complex object should its nature come into question.
If it is an object, your interaction with it is legally identical to using a Whisperstone.
You aren’t casting spells; you are operating a device. ”
“And if it’s legally a person?”
“Then there is no precedent for the Guild issuing a competency rating to a house,” Miles said dryly.
“The crime was in the creation, Gabriel. Madaze violated the statutes by practicing the high-level Crafting required to bind a consciousness to stone and mortar. But you aren’t the creator.
You’re simply the... user, however wrong that feels. ”
Gabriel flopped back onto the pillows with a groan. “So, I’m not a criminal for controlling it. I’m just morally compromised for owning a thinking being that the law probably considers an object.”
“Unfortunately.” Miles pulled the blanket back up over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Legally, you are in the clear. The Bureau can’t disqualify you for authority over an asset you inherited.”
“I don’t know if that’s better or worse,” Gabriel muttered into the dark and then curled against Miles again.
“Neither do I,” Miles confessed.
Miles resumed his gentle back-stroking, feeling Gabriel relax against him. The events of the day had taken their toll; between the revelation of the house’s nature, the emotional confrontation, and Gabriel’s breakdown, they were both nearing their limits.
As Gabriel’s breathing slowed, Miles found his thoughts drifting to Velma’s final words before they’d left.
What had she meant about transformation rather than abandonment?
The fortune teller had specifically said that Gabriel’s “productive fate” was somehow tied to transforming the house.
Or had it been the house’s fate? He couldn’t remember; perhaps Nikka or Genna would .
Regardless, what transformation? The house had already demonstrated its ability to change its physical appearance. Was there some deeper metamorphosis that needed to occur? And how might that affect their plans, their future together?
Miles closed his eyes as Gabriel’s weight against him became more substantial, his beloved finally surrendering to exhaustion.
These questions would have to wait until morning.
For now, he allowed himself to sink into the comfort of holding Gabriel, the immediate crisis averted, even as uncertainty about Velma’s prediction lingered in his mind as he drifted toward sleep.