17. Sanctuary #3
Gabriel blinked. “You? ”
“The logic is… sound, strictly speaking,” Velma said, sounding offended that the logic was sound. “I defended its right to consent during the reading. I operate within strict frameworks. I do not deviate from established rules. It finds me…comforting.”
Gabriel understood immediately. Madaze had no rules one could follow to ensure his good graces.
Rules changed on a whim. Safety was granted and snatched away for the fun of it.
Velma was the opposite. Velma was a contract written in stone.
To a creature traumatized by unpredictability, Velma’s obsession with rules must feel like a warm bath.
“I, however, do not feel this position suits me,” Velma said, reaching to gather the cards and stow them in their box. “I am a future-management consultant, not a landlord.”
The gaslights dimmed slowly, sadly.
“Why not ask the cards?” Genna gestured to the deck. “See if it’s a viable path for you.”
Velma’s hand froze. “I would prefer not to.”
“Why not?” Gabriel asked. “You trust them, don’t you?”
“My contract with the deck is explicit,” Velma said. “I deliver truth to clients, and they may choose to ignore it. But if I query the deck for my own path… I am contractually obligated to follow the result. It ceases to be advice and becomes a directive. Or the contract is broken.”
Gabriel knew that feeling, the terror of not having the right to say no . “Then don’t ask,” he said. “Choice is the whole point of this exercise. Though I urge you to reconsider your first impulse to turn Rookgate down. Please.”
“What do you mean, contract with your cards ?” Miles asked, his curiosity piqued. “I’ve never encountered such a thing in divination practice.”
Velma snapped the deck box shut. “The specifics are between myself and my cards, Mr. Beauchamp. It is not your concern.”
“But theoretically—”
“I take my contracts seriously,” Velma said, her tone flattening into something immovable. “That is all you need to know.”
Miles opened his mouth to argue, but Gabriel caught his wrist. Some mysteries weren’t worth excavating. Especially when the woman holding them was the linchpin in their plans for Rookgate and hadn’t agreed to anything yet .
“Rookgate is large enough for a storefront and the sanctuary,” Genna pointed out, her tone pragmatic. “You could oversee the sanctuary, keep the house from accidentally eating the guests, and run your consultancy rent-free.”
Velma looked at the cards, then at the expectant gaslights. “It would require paperwork. Extensive paperwork.”
“Naturally,” Miles said. “We wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Velma stared at the boxed deck. Her face remained a smooth, blank surface for a long, silent moment before she finally raised her steel-gray eyes to Gabriel.
“One year, probationary term. Two contracts. One between myself and the entity known as Rookgate Manor, defining the scope of stewardship, and a separate tenancy agreement with you, Lord Fairfield.” She leveled a stern look at Gabriel.
“We must structure the agreement so that Averdon cannot object to the repurposing of Rookgate, which likely means you will be required to maintain quarters here. The city must believe you maintain Rookgate as your official seat, or they will challenge the usage of a noble seat as a halfway house.”
“I have to have a room,” Gabriel said, the words tasting sour.
“You don’t have to sleep in it,” Velma assured him. “It merely needs to exist on the floor plan. A bureaucratic fiction.”
A fiction. Gabriel could do fiction. He’d been living one for years. He met Miles’s eyes, who nodded.
“Done,” Gabriel said. “Draw up the papers, Velma. Let’s give the old girl a job.”
“A sanctuary requires more than just walls,” Genna said, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. “Beds. Food. Medical supplies. Staff. Those refugees at Gardmore’s will need clothes that don’t smell like Vellast’s basement, and some kind of job training or schooling. That costs coin.”
Gabriel opened his mouth to argue logistics later, but before he could speak, the house moved .
The sealed hallway rippled back into existence, plaster flowing away like receding water. The opening gaped dark for half a breath before three massive ironbound chests slid across the floorboards, propelled by nothing visible. They arranged themselves in a neat row at Velma’s feet.
The lids popped open in unison.
Gold gleamed in the gaslight. Heaps of it.
“Well,” Miles said. “I was right. ”
Gabriel stared at the fortune Madaze had hoarded and hidden, the wealth earned through misery and blood. The house had been sitting on it this whole time, waiting for someone to ask the right question. Or perhaps waiting for a master who wouldn’t hoard it for cruelty.
“That’ll cover startup costs and then some,” Genna admitted, her tone grudging. “Rookgate can remodel itself, so we save on that. With this, you can buy furnishings, supplies, and salaries for staff. The best of everything.”
“The Rookgate holdings generate income as well.” Miles was already slipping into planning mode. “The shipyards, the ships themselves. Responsibly managed, they could sustain the sanctuary long-term without depleting the reserve—”
“No.” Gabriel held up a hand, cutting off the ledger forming behind Miles’s eyes. “Not now. I can’t—” He gestured vaguely at the gold, the house, the entire situation. “Look, it’s been one hell of a week, Miles. Let’s save the business empire for tomorrow.”
Miles opened his mouth, likely to argue the virtues of forward planning, but something in Gabriel’s expression made him stop. He nodded instead, tucking the lecture away for later.
Gabriel looked at the chests, at the house humming contentedly around them. Madaze’s monument to suffering, filled with Madaze’s blood money, now funding a refuge for the people Madaze had helped destroy.
The symmetry was almost beautiful.
If only it hadn’t cost him so much.
But there was a chance to win free, and he and Miles would take it. For now, this would be enough.
“Alright then, Rookgate,” Gabriel said. “We’ll go fetch your new tenants. Try not to eat anyone.”