Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
I spend the next day practising my magic, preparing for their attack. I know the perfect place to test my compatibility with the wand: a former fortification bunker. A hidden underground storeroom, long forgotten by chapel records and isolated beneath the quiet grounds.
The bunker is beautifully—stubbornly—old. Built long before the chapel by craftsmen who prize legacy over recognition, it remains a hidden magic sanctum, sealed away beneath soil and time.
Its brick floor is laid in precise geometric patterns.
Broad, hand-carved stone columns support the ceiling; each curves at the top, the arches sweeping inward in elegant lines that meet perfectly at the centre, drawing the eye to an engraved circle on the floor—a design feature, not merely a structural one.
The air holds the cool damp of buried stone.
Behind me, in what is no longer a dusty alcove, rest my magical objects and prepared spells. Easily transferred from storage—another impossibility in my human form that I now take in stride. I should not be able to do that magic either.
I draw a containment ward around the main chamber, activate the permanent circle etched into the floor, and step inside, wand poised.
I close my eyes and thread my magic into the wood. Filaments peel from my fingertips and burrow into its core. I hold my breath, half expecting an explosion, but after a few seconds, nothing happens.
Relief washes through me. The wand is strong enough for me to use.
I decide to conjure a simple ball of light—nothing more dramatic than the kind Lander used in the woods. I channel my intention and flick my wrist.
A brilliant flash fills the bunker.
I am flung backwards, landing hard on my backside, blinded by the glare even behind my squeezed-shut eyes.
“Good gracious,” I mutter, blinking spots, “perhaps a little too much energy.”
I try again, halving my power, yet the chamber still blazes like midday sun behind closed lids.
Frustration coils in my chest. Perhaps using a focus is foolish.
Perhaps I am the problem. I have not wielded a new wand since training, though every magic user is taught focus work and duelling; our parents insisted we learnt to protect ourselves.
I used to be very good.
Maybe I simply possess too much magic.
On the bright side, the building has not exploded.
With careful restraint, I finally shape a perfect luminous sphere.
It hangs above my palm, steady. I send it to the ceiling, then create three more in succession, sending them to every corner and banishing every shadow.
Satisfied, I roll my shoulders, tighten my grip on the wand, and turn to combat practice.
I must decide precisely how to neutralise Meredith’s people: kill, maim, or merely subdue?
Preferably not kill—if I can avoid it.
Electricity is too lethal; I discard it. Instead, I practise a secure, non-fatal binding spell, then drill several counters to fire and water—the lazy choices against a paper mage. I refresh my command of air and earth as well; the magic snaps into place with the surety of old muscle memory.
I have plenty of tricks up my sleeve—spells I could not cast while I was House, because my mission then was to keep my existence secret and everything quiet. That is no longer the case. I need not stay silent, nor must I shrink myself so that others can feel better about themselves.
Before Jeff left for the weekend, he showed me the camera system: off-site storage, external monitoring.
Indelible footage—no one can claim it doctored.
If a fight erupts, the service will alert the authorities and preserve evidence.
It will not guarantee my safety, but accountability is sometimes the only weapon that matters.
I spend the day and well into the night preparing spells for every eventuality. Quick-access charms will catch them off guard. Let them come in blind.
Meanwhile, I monitor Ministry personnel. No one expects a paper mage to monitor technology. Even so, true over-caution would have kept their written correspondence as sparse as Lander’s.
Lander.
Lander is silent—no traceable messages, which troubles me, yet tomorrow’s strike does not fit his style.
I do not trust the Magic Hunter, but I still want to see him. Ridiculous, really, when all this began with his quest to destroy me. Yet a foolish, girlish part of me still finds him irresistible, even though I am two hundred and five years old and far too old to be swayed by appearances.
I leave the bunker and, turning the corner, walk down the path to the chapel’s front door. In the small car park, a police car waits.
I am glad I removed the outer wards so people can reach the property; otherwise I would now be explaining my protective enchantments to an officer in the dark.
As soon as I appear, the policeman climbs out of the marked car. He is a large man, wearing no uniform—only an ill-fitting brown suit. He tugs at his sleeves as he waddles towards me. The sun is setting; it is after ten.
Why is he here so late? Late visits from authority rarely bode well.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice low and measured.
I nod, fixing my gaze just past the tip of his nose so he feels I am making eye contact. “Good evening, officer—”
“Detective,” he sneers. “Detective Wallace. And who might you be?”
“My name is Harper.”
“Harper what?”
“Harper… House.” The words escape before I can think. Why did I choose that? I could have picked anything. Yet it feels right—odd for a surname, but fitting. I have spent the last few days trying to shed my past, yet ‘House’ is who I am, and who I will always be.
“House,” he repeats, arching an eyebrow. He flicks open a small notebook, finds a blank page, licks the tip of his pencil, and writes down my name. “And what reason have you got to be here, Miss House?”
“I live here. I own the property.”
“You do, do you?” His eyebrows climb higher with disbelief.
“Yes. I inherited it… along with the family business.”
“A family business, eh? And what’s that called?”
“GreenTech Maintenance.”
“Maintenance, eh? Criminals?”
“No, Detective Wallace. We pay our taxes like everyone else.”
He lets out an impatient huff. “I’ll be checking this information.”
I nod. While he is distracted with his pencil, I weave my magic—filaments of intent slipping into the Human Sector company-registration systems. Moments later, GreenTech Maintenance lists me as managing director, complete with bank details stretching back years, everything consistent with my new legal age.
The lie slides into place so smoothly it might as well be the truth.
“Have you got any identification?” he asks.
“Of course.” With a flick of magic, I create and present a Sector ID for the magic user jurisdiction. The photograph is deliberately unflattering but unmistakably me. “The property is mixed-sector residency. I am allowed to be here.”
He scowls and taps the card against his palm. “I’ll go and check this. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Of course, Detective Wallace.”
He strides back to his car, shuts the door, and calls through my details—name, date of birth, company credentials—then messages the same information to…
Meredith.
A human detective in her pocket. Yet another layer in her network of spies.
I realise then that I have forgotten to warn Knox about the watcher on his island, so I send a quick note while Detective Wallace remains on the line.
After five minutes, there is a soft buzz, and I pluck a crisp scrap of parchment from the air. Proof that someone outside the Ministry’s web can hear me and answer.
Harper,
I’m relieved you’re safe. I didn’t even know paper magic could do this.
I had to consult the old books in our library to learn how to reply.
When you said ‘send a note,’ I thought you meant a phone message, not an actual paper missive.
I’ve loved experimenting with this, and I’m glad I can finally respond.
Thank you, too, for the intelligence on the watcher. I’ll leave them in place for now, but at least I can take steps to protect my people.
Please call on me if you need anything.
—Knox
How delightful that I helped Knox rediscover this enchantment.
In an age of instant emails and messages, traditional magic like notes must be going extinct.
I did not even realise until now, and the thought leaves a small, unexpected ache.
To me, sending notes feels wonderfully tactile, and it is untraceable—paper and intent, slipping through the world without leaving fingerprints.
I tuck the paper into my dress pocket just as Detective Wallace emerges from his car.
He strides over, returns my ID, and surveys me, the chapel, and the grounds, as though he expects to find wrongdoing clinging to the hedges.
“Anything else I can help you with, Detective?”
He grunts. “People reported strange lights coming from here. They were concerned.”
“Of course.” I keep my voice mild, pleasant. “I hope speaking to me will put their minds at ease.”
He nods curtly. “I don’t want to be back. Mind yourself, Miss House—stay on the right side of the law.”
“Always, Detective Wallace.”
He huffs, gives me a try-me look, then storms back to his car. As he accelerates out of the drive, pebbles scatter, pinging against the tarmac.
“Not exactly the speed limit, Detective,” I mutter.
Snack Thief settles on my shoulder, nudging beneath my chin, warm and insistent. I kiss the top of his head, feathers silky against my lips.
“The detective was updating Meredith with my details,” I tell him. “Tomorrow is going to be interesting.”
“Bad,” Snack Thief croaks in his peculiar raven voice.
“Yes. He is.”