The first problem was the bus.

  It arrived.

  Then it didn’t leave.

  Not broken. Not stalled. Just sitting there, engine idling, as though it were waiting for permission.

  The driver stood beside it, scratching his head, while the mirrors slowly angled themselves towards my house like a polite but pointed accusation.

  I watched from the front window.

  “That’s new,” I said.

  Lord Bastion Thistlewick was perched on the back of the sofa, carefully unpicking a cushion seam with the air of someone performing delicate surgery.

  “Yes,” he replied. “You’re radiating.”

  “I am absolutely not.”

  “You are,” he said. “Threshold towns do that. They attract.”

  “Attract what.”

  “Everything,” he said lightly. “Lost things. Old things. Things with opinions.”

  The cushion surrendered. Fluff drifted to the floor.

  I turned. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why.”

  “I dislike symmetry,” he said. “Also, it was looking at me.”

  The knock came then.

  Firm. Polite. Patient.

  I opened the door.

  A man stood there holding a parcel, his eyes unfocused, his expression serene in a way that made my stomach drop straight through the floor.

  “I think this is for you,” he said.

  The parcel was addressed to The One Who Is Listening.

  “I didn’t order anything,” I said.

  He smiled faintly. “Nobody ever does.”

  Behind me, Bastion hopped down and circled the parcel, sniffing.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Oh,” he murmured. “That’s not good.”

  “That isn’t your usual delivery of doom,” I said. “You normally sound pleased.”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “This one isn’t amusing.”

  The parcel ticked.

  I stepped back. “What is it.”

  “Human,” Bastion said.

  The man blinked. “I—”

  Bastion flicked his tail.

  The parcel vanished.

  Just gone.

  The man swayed, colour draining from his face. “Where am I.”

  “You’re on Maple Street,” I said quickly. “Sit down.”

  He did, heavily, clutching his head.

  I rounded on Bastion. “You just removed something human.”

  “I removed pressure,” he said sharply. “The parcel was using him.”

  “You said you don’t interfere.”

  “I don’t,” he snapped. “I correct imbalance.”

  I folded my arms. “What was in it.”

  He hesitated.

  That alone was alarming.

  “A request,” he said at last. “Sent through him.”

  My mouth went dry. “From what.”

  “Something that’s noticed your town waking up,” he said. “And wants permission.”

  “For what.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Outside, the bus horn blared. Every mirror tilted at once.

  Mrs Pemberton’s rosebush bloomed, withered, then bloomed again in the space of a breath.

  “Bastion,” I said quietly. “This isn’t funny.”

  He looked at me properly then.

  Not at the town. Not at the door. At me.

  “I know,” he said.

  That landed harder than panic ever could.

  I drew a steady breath. “Then we do this properly.”

  His ears twitched. “Define properly.”

  “No hiding. No sabotage. No lessons disguised as terror.”

  He opened his mouth.

  I raised a finger. “No arguing.”

  He shut it again.

  Outside, the man groaned. “I just wanted to deliver parcels.”

  “I know,” I said softly.

  I turned back to Bastion. “This is a human problem. He doesn’t get to be used.”

  “You cannot fix this with magic,” Bastion said.

  “I know.”

  “You cannot frighten it away.”

  “I know.”

  “You cannot dominate it.”

  I smiled, thin and determined. “I know.”

  He frowned. “Then what are you doing.”

  I reached for the ledger.

  He stiffened. “Don’t.”

  “I’m not commanding,” I said. “I’m inviting.”

  He went very still.

  I opened the ledger and spoke clearly, without pushing, without magic sharpening my words.

  “Whoever sent that request,” I said, “you don’t get to use people as post.”

  The air thickened.

  The bus mirrors cracked.

  Something vast shifted its attention.

  “And,” I continued, heart hammering, “this town does not grant access lightly. If you want it, you follow human rules.”

  Silence pressed back.

  Curious. Measuring.

  Bastion stared at me.

  “You are negotiating,” he said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “With things that don’t negotiate.”

  “They do,” I said. “They just don’t expect us to know.”

  The pressure withdrew.

  Not gone. Thinking.

  The bus doors hissed open. The engine revved.

  The driver blinked. “Right,” he said. “That was strange.”

  The roses settled.

  The street exhaled.

  I sagged against the counter.

  Bastion turned to me slowly.

  “That,” he said, “was profoundly irritating.”

  I smiled weakly. “I learned from you.”

  “I never say please.”

  “No,” I said. “You prefer fear.”

  He knocked the sugar bowl off the counter.

  It shattered.

  “I feel improved,” he said.

  I laughed then, shaky and real. “You were worried.”

  He froze.

  “I was not.”

  “You blinked.”

  “I had dust in my eye.”

  “You don’t have—”

  He pushed the teapot off next.

  “Stop talking.”

  I grinned. “I pulled one over on you.”

  He studied me for a long moment.

  “Yes,” he said. “You did.”

  Then, quietly, “Do not make a habit of it.”

  “Or what.”

  He smiled, sharp and fond and dangerous all at once.

  “Or I will be forced to admit I chose well.”

  The ledger hummed.

  Somewhere distant, something took a step closer.

  And for the first time, I wasn’t sure whether Bastion was protecting the town from what was coming…

  …or protecting what was coming from me.