Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Morning arrives quickly. I had forgotten how restorative sleep can be—how it rinses the mind clean, how it invites dreams to the surface like shy things coaxed into light. I have not dreamed in forever; perhaps being here provoked last night’s vision of my family.
In my dreams they were alive, and I entertained my brothers and sister with flying paper darts, each one snapping through the air with wicked precision. It was lovely and sad at the same time.
I stand before the wardrobe and struggle to decide what to wear.
It offers plenty of practical options—activewear, jeans, jogging bottoms—but trousers feel strange, as though I were parading around in my winter wool pantalets.
I understand their usefulness. Still, the very idea of them sitting on my hips feels oddly wrong. Indecent.
I can almost hear Mother’s voice in my head, urging me to dress more appropriately. I know I must adapt to this modern world, and I will—even when it makes me uncomfortable in the most ridiculous way.
In the end, I slip into the same dress I wore yesterday. It is far more comfortable. I really must master my magic and see whether I can conjure something more suitable.
First things first: this body needs to move. Its magic depends on health and strength, on lungs that pull deep and muscles that remember what they are for. So I walk the perimeter of the property, confirming everything is in order.
It is. The maintenance staff deserve a bonus.
The graveyard covers two acres of peaceful gardens.
The grounds are alive with colour: foxgloves, oxeye daisies, and forget-me-nots bloom between weathered headstones.
Lavender borders the paths, and bees hum lazily in the late June heat, fat with pollen and contentment.
A small pond glimmers in the shade, edged with irises and water mint, the surface dimpled now and then by an unseen insect.
At the centre lies the family plot—my family plot—enclosed by black railings.
The grass is neatly cut, and roses climb the fence in silent tribute, their scent sweet and almost too much. Ancient yew trees stand sentinel along the boundary, dark and solemn. Everything here is deliberate, each plant chosen to evoke remembrance, peace, or eternal life.
The gate opens without a squeak.
Dozens of stones crowd the plot now. Seven generations. Many names are unfamiliar, because tracking them hurts too much, and every new marker is a fresh reminder that time does not pause simply because I wish it would.
Father named us after the ancients, convinced that the right name shapes the soul: Lucian for light, Octavian for history, Callista for beauty, and me, Hestia, keeper of the hearth.
Standing here, reading those names carved in stone, I wonder what shape he thought mine would take—and what he would make of the thing I became instead.
I head for my sister’s grave first. I trace the smooth marble, cool beneath my fingertips. Beside it, a pink rosebush thrives.
I kneel before her stone. Callista’s soul is long gone. When you die as I did—when you witness souls depart or, worse, become trapped—you start to believe in more. Yet a part of me hopes this peaceful place is a conduit to my family, that what I say here somehow reaches them.
I can only hope.
“I have missed you, dear sister,” I whisper.
My throat tightens around the words. “Look what I have become. I am human. Can you believe it?” I recount the recent chaos—this unfamiliar body, the shock of sensation, the precise shade of Lander Kane’s eyes.
Gossip, just as we once shared, as if she might roll her eyes and tease me for getting distracted by a man even now.
I move on to my parents’ and brothers’ graves. Each receives my full attention and whispered words of love. I speak until my throat hurts, until my voice thins to a rasp, until the breeze steals half my sentences and carries them away.
Then I halt.
Two more stones stand ahead.
My heart pounds, heavy and clumsy, and nausea rises. My vision blurs, and tears spill, hot and sudden.
This is beyond anything I have known. I shuffle forward, and deliberately I ignore the grave beneath the yew and sit by the other. I cannot lift my eyes to read the inscription; it will make this all too real.
I scrub my cheeks with my sleeve.
Be brave, Harper.
With shaky fingers, I trace the gold lettering.
The grave has my old name. Hestia Howard.
My former body has lain beneath this soil for a hundred and sixty-two years. The unreality of it steals my breath. Sitting above my own remains is surreal.
Beside it stands William’s grave.
I want to kick it. Scream and pound it with my fists until my knuckles split. After all this time, anger still simmers—at him, at myself.
If I had just been strong enough. If I had been less na?ve. Less egotistical. Less stupid.
“I am so sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the edge of a sob.
The pain in my chest is almost too much, sharp as a blade and just as unkind.
I rise. Lingering is unwise, yet this is why I cherish the chapel.
I worshipped here with my family every Sunday for forty-three years.
It is where I married William. Weddings, funerals—the whole of my life’s big moments happened here.
The old and the new converge beneath the chapel’s roof, and I stand in the middle of it like a stitch holding two eras together.
The manor house where I grew up lies only two and a half miles away, now in the Magic Sector. It was converted into a block of flats about ten years ago. The street where I lived as House is barely four miles distant, in the Human Sector.
I have come home.
I turn to William, close my eyes, and let the words fall like ash from my tongue.
“I forgive you. I forgive you.” I repeat it and mean it.
I can still be angry, can still hate him, yet I can also grant forgiveness. Not for his sake, but for mine. He is gone. I am the one who has to live with what remains.
He was frightened and chose wrongly; we both did that day. We failed each other. If I refuse to forgive, the bitterness will gnaw at my soul, and I have carried enough gnawing things for one lifetime.
With the words spoken, I feel lighter—almost at peace, if peace is possible for someone like me.
A soft caw breaks the silence.
A raven perches overhead, glossy feathers catching the sun through the yew branches. It ruffles itself, then stills, watching me with bright, knowing eyes.
The bird from the woods? Surely not.
“Hello,” I say, my voice gentler than I expect. “Are you the same bird?”
It caws again—softer, curious.
Are you a familiar? Mine, perhaps? I wonder, but I do not voice the thought.
Familiars are rare; in fact, the last mention I recall dates back to my childhood.
Magic users guard their secrets, and a familiar offers a considerable boost in power, so I see why the subject is seldom discussed.
I frown, realising it is scarcely written about either.
The raven hops onto my grave, tilts its head at the inscription, and croaks, almost sympathetically.
“Oh, yes, that’s m—” I stop. Better not admit it, even to a bird.
I brush myself down and return to the chapel for a simple breakfast. The raven follows me, wingbeats whispering overhead before it drops into view again as if it has every right. I think about what in the pantry might suit as a raven snack. I am not opposed to bribing a potential familiar.
When I return with a plateful, the bird appears out of nowhere; its wings beat so closely they almost brush my face, stirring my hair. It swoops down, scoops up a beakful of the fruity, nutty mixture, and darts away.
“Hey, snack thief!” I shout at its retreating feathers. “Those were for you. You did not have to snatch them.”
For a moment, I consider carrying the plate back into the kitchen, but I do not. I set it on the bench and walk away, my face feeling odd as I smile. I really do like cheeky creatures.
A bark cuts through the quiet.
A scruffy terrier hurtles towards me, all wiry hair and enthusiasm. It skids to a halt at my feet, rolls straight onto its back, and presents its belly—tail wagging so hard it shakes its whole body.
“Hello, you,” I say, obliging with a gentle tummy rub. “Where did you come from?” He squirms with joy, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.
“Frank!” a man shouts. “Frank! Blasted ward—where did this come from? How did you get through?”
Frank springs to his feet and dashes towards the voice. Intrigued, I follow.
A man stands by the boundary, scowling up at my ward as if it has personally insulted him. When he notices me, he clears his throat.
“Hello,” he calls.
“Hi.”
“I’m the gardener and handle building maintenance,” he says quickly. “Sorry about the dog. I work for… oh, what is it nowadays? GreenTech Maintenance.”
“Ah,” I reply. “You must be Jeff Peters.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
I lower the ward just enough to let him through. The magic peels back like a curtain, obedient to my will, and Jeff steps across with visible relief. Frank zooms past us, nose to the ground, tail a blur. Jeff comes forward and shakes my hand.
He is human, early sixties, with weathered dark skin and rough palms, his grip warm and firm.
“Harper,” I say. “I will be staying for a while.”
“A pleasure, Harper,” he says. “I’ve worked here the past thirty-seven years.”
“Then you’re the one who keeps everything so beautiful. The biodiversity is stunning.”
He brightens, pride softening the lines of his face. “It is, isn’t it? We’ve wild garlic in the woods. But the roses”—he presses a hand to his chest—“they’re my pride and joy.”
“They are gorgeous,” I say.
“It’s a labour of love. I feel very lucky.”
We walk towards the chapel while Frank circles us, stopping now and then to sniff with great purpose, as if he is inspecting the world for flaws.