A Harmony of Ages, page 32
“How many more of these do you reckon we’ve got left?” Harrick asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“At least forty in the immediate vicinity. More if we count the entire quarter.”
“Bloody hell. We’ll be at this for months.”
“Years, probably.”
Harrick laughed, the sound echoing off the damaged buildings. “Well, at least we’ll have job security.”
Owen sat back on his heels and watched the convergence point settle into its new pattern. The three ley lines flowed in harmony now.
“Come on,” Harrick said, offering him a hand up. “Let’s head back before your witch worries you’ve collapsed somewhere.”
Owen accepted the help, his body protesting the movement. “She’s not ‘my witch.’”
“Right, and I’m the High Mage of the Limina.”
“She’s the High Witch of the Luminous Concordat.”
“And you’re in love with her, so what’s your point?”
Owen felt his face heat. “That’s not relevant to the work.”
“When’s the wedding?” Harrick clapped him on the shoulder.
“Give it a rest, will you?” he grumbled.
The older mage chuckled. “We’ll tackle the next convergence point tomorrow. Tonight, you go have dinner with Ember, and remember there’s more to life than fixing broken wards.”
They gathered their tools in silence. The sun was setting behind the broken city, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. Owen looked at the repaired convergence point one last time, then toward Thornhallow. Even though the manor wasn’t visible, he felt the pull of a certain witch calling to him.
“You’re smiling,” Harrick said.
“I’m thinking about the future.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t seem as impossible as it did a few weeks ago.”
Harrick grinned. “That’s the spirit. Now let’s get out of here before my leg gives out entirely.”
They walked toward Thornhallow together, two ward engineers limping through the ruins of a city that was slowly rebuilding itself. The road ahead was long and difficult, but Owen wasn’t walking it alone.
That made all the difference.
Chapter 38
Blair walked beside Aldrick through the western quarter where the damage had been less severe, where buildings still stood and people had begun rebuilding. The afternoon sun cut through gaps in the clouds, casting long shadows across cobblestones that had been cleared of rubbish over the past weeks.
A woman swept the steps of her shop, pausing to wave at them as they passed. Blair raised her hand in return, recognising the face though not the name. Three doors down, a man hammered new boards across a broken window whilst his daughter held the nails. The sound echoed down the street, joining the constant background noise of reconstruction that had become as familiar as breathing.
“It’s coming along faster than I expected,” Aldrick said.
“People are stubborn,” Blair replied. “They want their lives back.”
They turned onto a wider avenue where the real work was visible. Crews of mages and non-magical labourers worked side by side, hauling timber and stone, reinforcing foundations that had cracked during the magical surges. A witch directed the placement of wards around a newly repaired building, her voice carrying across the street as she explained the pattern to two younger mages taking notes.
Blair watched them work and felt something settle in her chest. This was what Praxis should have been doing from the beginning, what they could have been if corruption hadn’t twisted their purpose into something unrecognisable.
“How’s Rafe?” she asked, turning her attention back to Aldrick.
His jaw tightened for a moment before he answered. “Better. Edmund says his magical core has stabilised, though it’ll be months before he’s back to full strength.” He paused, watching a group of workers manoeuvre a heavy beam into place. “He pushed himself too hard during the battle with the titan. He burned out his core and nearly died doing it.”
Then he went looking for Vesper, which didn’t help, but if he hadn’t, Blair wasn’t sure the outcome would have been the same.
They walked in silence for a moment. Blair had seen Rafe once since the Spirefields, unconscious in Thornhallow’s infirmary with Vesper sitting beside him. The Resonant hadn’t looked up when Blair entered, her entire focus on the man in the bed, her hand wrapped around his.
“You raised him well,” Blair murmured.
Aldrick glanced at her, surprise flickering across his features before settling into something softer. “I did what I could. Rafe made himself into who he is, though I’d like to think I helped along the way.”
“You did more than help.”
They passed a square where children played amongst the rubble, their laughter rising above the sounds of construction. A makeshift market had sprung up along one side, vendors selling what they could salvage or had managed to get their hands on from outside the city.
“Cormac wants to reopen the College of Artifice,” Blair said. “He’s been reaching out to survivors from the faculty, past students, anyone who made it through. He thinks if we can get the college functioning again, it’ll signal that Nightreach is truly recovering.”
Aldrick nodded slowly. “Education as rebuilding. There’s wisdom in that.”
She thought of Theo then, of how he’d always been at odds with the faculty, pushing boundaries they were too cautious to cross. He’d conducted experiments they called dangerous, questioned methods they considered sacred. He would have loved the chaos of rebuilding, the chance to remake the college into something that encouraged progress rather than conformity.
Her grief rose sharp and sudden, catching her off guard the way it still did sometimes. Weeks had passed since Theo’s death, since she’d watched him turn to dust in Tenebrae’s ritual circle, and yet the loss felt fresh every time she stopped long enough to remember.
They turned down another street where the destruction was more visible. Buildings leaned against each other for support, their facades cracked and windows empty of glass. A group of Praxis agents worked alongside civilians, helping to clear rubble.
Blair recognised Reed amongst them, his coat discarded and sleeves rolled up as he hauled broken timber to a cart. He caught her eye and nodded, then returned to his work.
“That’s the change,” Blair said, more to herself than Aldrick. “We’re part of the city now, not separate from it. We help rather than command.”
“It’s working.”
“It has to.” She stopped walking, turning to face him. “If we go back to what we were, if we fall into those same patterns of control and secrecy, then none of this matters. Theo and Faith, and everyone we’ve lost along the way, would have died for nothing.”
Aldrick met her gaze. “You won’t let that happen.”
“I can’t do it alone.”
“You’re not alone. You have Reed, you have the agents who’ve chosen to stay and rebuild. You have Cormac once he’s strong enough to return properly.” He paused. “Though I should tell you that I won’t be here much longer.”
Blair knew this was coming. She’d seen it in the way Aldrick watched the horizon when he thought no one was looking, but hearing it spoken aloud made it real.
“You’re going back to Millbrook,” she said.
“Once Rafe is healed and things have stabilised further. Another few weeks, perhaps a month.” He resumed walking, and Blair fell into step beside him. “I came to Nightreach because Rafe was in danger and I couldn’t reach him. Now he’s safe and healing.” He sighed. “What happened here didn’t stay contained to Nightreach. The ley lines will be unsettled for a while until they find their new patterns. Millbrook needs help too, and I’ve been away too long.”
“We need you here.”
“You needed me here,” he corrected. “I’ve taught you what I can about scrying the ley lines, and about reading magical disturbances. Your agents are learning. What you’re building now doesn’t require an old battle mage who’d rather be home dealing with his own problems. My purpose in coming was to find Rafe and make sure he was alive. That’s done.”
Blair nodded slowly. Aldrick would go where he was needed, and Millbrook needed him now. “Thank you for staying as long as you did.”
They walked through the damaged quarter in silence, watching people work to reclaim their homes. Blair thought about all the ways Aldrick had helped over the past months, the knowledge he’d shared, the calm presence he’d provided when everything seemed on the verge of collapse.
“Thank you,” she said finally. “For everything you’ve done. For staying when you could’ve left.”
Aldrick’s expression softened. “You’re welcome. Though I suspect you would have managed without me.”
“Maybe, but it would have been harder.”
They emerged from the narrow street onto a wider road that led towards Thornhallow. The manor was visible in the distance, its grounds no longer hidden behind wards that had once kept it separate from the rest of Nightreach. The magic that had obscured it from view had dissolved weeks ago, leaving the building exposed and accessible in ways it hadn’t been for centuries.
“How’s Ember?” Aldrick asked.
“Recovering slowly. The separation from Fermata did more damage than Edmund initially thought. Her magic is unstable, fluctuating between too much and not enough.” She paused. “But she’s alive. That’s what matters.”
“And the Concordat?”
“Ember’s leading what’s left of it, though ‘leading’ might be too strong a word. Most of the coven died during Fermata’s rampage. The few who survived are helping with reconstruction efforts across the city.” Blair glanced at Thornhallow again, at the imposing structure that had once represented power and tradition. “She’s talking about opening the manor to anyone who needs shelter until their homes can be rebuilt. Making it a resource rather than a fortress.”
“Another shift from control to service.”
They passed a small park where the grass had begun growing back. Grass that had once grown magenta, but was now green.
“Owen’s helping too,” Blair added. “He and what remains of the Limina are working to rebuild the ward network. Proper wards this time.”
“That’s good work. Important work.”
“He’s talking about restructuring the Limina. Opening it to non-members and sharing knowledge with the College. There’s a lot of infrastructure that needs maintenance. So much of the old Nightreach was built over what was drawn through the Fold from London.”
The thought of the otherworld made her pause. She’d wanted to find a way home, back to her life in London and her career, but now…
“Are you going to pursue a way back?” Aldrick asked. “Cormac mentioned you were hoping…”
She thought for a moment, then said, “This is my home now, but there are people who were trapped when the Fold collapsed. It’s on the list… First order of business at the newly opened College of Artifice.”
They’d reached the southern edge of the western quarter now, where the streets began their descent towards the river. The Darkmese was visible in the distance, its dark waters reflecting the afternoon light as it flowed through the city.
“We’re going to make it work,” Blair said, more to herself than Aldrick. “All of it. The new Praxis structure, the collaboration with the Concordat and the Limina, the college reopening. We’re going to build something better than what we lost.”
“I believe you will.”
Blair stopped walking. “When you go back to Millbrook, write to us. Let us know how you are.”
“I will.”
“And if you ever need anything, if there’s trouble or…” She trailed off, not quite sure how to finish the sentence.
“I’ll let you know.”
They stood together at the edge of the quarter, the city’s stubborn recovery continuing around them. The sun had begun its descent towards evening, casting long shadows across streets that were slowly becoming whole again. In the distance, hammers still rang against stone and wood, the sound of people refusing to let devastation have the final word.
The future stretched ahead, uncertain and difficult. It would take work that would take years rather than weeks, but for the first time since the Arcana had awakened, Blair felt something close to hope.
They would rebuild. They would do better than before. They would create something worth all the lives lost.
And Blair allowed herself to believe that maybe, despite everything, they were going to be alright.
Chapter 39
The townhouse hadn’t changed.
Vesper stopped on the cobblestones and stared up at the brick facade. Three storeys of Georgian architecture rose before her. The narrow windows were dark behind their glass, and the black door with its brass knocker caught the late afternoon light.
Around them, Nightreach’s streets moved with their new rhythm. The Fold had been gone for months now, and the buildings no longer shifted and changed with the magical currents. The city had learnt to exist in one place, tethered to London through ordinary space rather than the magical threads that had once bound the two together, but the townhouse looked exactly the same as it always had.
A year. It had been a year since Selene died.
A year since the night when the police had knocked on her door in London, since she’d learnt her friend had been murdered. A year since she’d stolen the grimoire from the restricted section of the London Historical Library and somehow ended up in the Fold. A year since she’d first stood in front of this door, terrified and lost, with Rafe explaining that nothing about her life had been what she’d thought it was.
He stood beside her now, one hand shoved deep in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side. He was staring at the door too, his expression unreadable in the fading light.
“Well,” Vesper said. “Are we going in, or are we planning to stand out here until someone asks what we’re doing?”
His mouth twitched. “Just checking it’s still here.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Nightreach has a habit of rearranging itself.”
“Not anymore.” She gestured at the static street around them. “Everything stays where you left it now.”
Rafe climbed the steps. His hand went to his pocket and came out with the key. He slid it into the lock and the mechanism turned with a soft click. The door swung open beneath his palm.
The entrance hall greeted them in silence.
Vesper stepped inside and the air tasted of stillness and dust. Light fell through the doorway behind them, cutting a shaft of gold across wooden floorboards that creaked beneath their boots. The sitting room door stood ajar to her left. To her right, the stairs climbed into shadow.
Everything looked exactly the same. The coat hooks on the wall where Rafe’s jacket usually hung. The small table where he dropped his keys every time he came home. Even the faint scorch mark on the boards near the sitting room entrance from that first night when her magic had spiralled out of control.
Rafe closed the door behind them and the sound echoed through the quiet house.
She moved towards the stairs. Her fingers trailed along the bannister as she climbed, touching wood she’d touched a hundred times before.
Her room waited at the end of the hall.
The door swung open beneath her hand and the space looked exactly as she’d left it. The narrow bed with its rumpled duvet, still bearing the imprint of where she’d sat that last morning before they’d left for Millbrook. The window overlooking the street, curtains half-drawn. The small desk where she’d spent hours bent over magical texts, trying to understand what she was becoming. And there in the corner, untouched and waiting, sat the bag Rafe had packed for her. Someone must have brought it from Selene’s archive. That was the last place she remembered having it.
Vesper crossed to it and knelt on the floor. The canvas felt worn beneath her palms as she pulled the bag towards her and unzipped it.
She’d taken only what she needed when they’d left for Millbrook all those months ago. Three changes of clothes that actually fit. Her journal with its collection of sketched runes and frustrated observations. Her dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice that had seen her through multiple foster homes. Everything else had stayed behind here in her room, remnants of a life she’d almost forgotten was hers.
The postcards came first. Images printed on cheap cardstock, corners bent from being shuffled through too many times. Vesper spread them across the floor in front of her and studied each one. The Rosetta Stone with its three scripts carved into black granite. Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire with its ghost ship being towed to breaking. A medieval illuminated manuscript from the British Library, all gold leaf and impossible detail. Portraits from the National Gallery, faces of people long dead staring out with painted eyes.
She’d collected them over years, purchasing them from museum gift shops on her lunch breaks because they reminded her there was more to the world than her empty flat and the quiet routine of the library. Small pieces of beauty she could afford. Small windows into history and art that made her feel less alone.
She could remember buying each one, could remember the specific exhibitions she’d wandered through, but the woman who’d found such comfort in these cardboard rectangles felt like a stranger.
Vesper set the postcards aside and pulled out her journals. Three leather-bound notebooks filled with her careful handwriting. She’d always had neat handwriting, the product of years spent cataloguing and repairing manuscripts where precision mattered. Now she flipped through pages and read entries that documented her old obsessions, wondering who that woman was.
Notes on Roman Britain. Observations about Nordic languages and their relationship to Old English. Sketches of runes she’d been trying to decipher, copied from texts in the library’s collection. Questions about archaeological finds and their cultural context.
