The town woke up wrong.

  Not screaming, not collapsing – just… alert.

  Doors opened at the same time. Curtains twitched in unison. Someone dropped a spoon three streets away and everyone heard it.

  I stood in my kitchen, wand in hand, staring at the kettle.

  It was vibrating.

  Not boiling.

  Vibrating.

  “That’s new,” I muttered.

  Lord Bastion Thistlewick sat on the counter, deliberately positioned directly on top of my spell notes.

  “They’re aware,” he said. “I told you this would happen.”

  “You tell me everything will happen,” I snapped. “You’re not allowed to be smug when you’re always right.”

  “I absolutely am,” he replied. “That’s the perk.”

  The kettle rattled harder.

  Then stopped.

  Then screamed.

  I jumped. “WHY is it screaming.”

  Bastion sniffed. “Oh good. The domestic objects are responding now.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “I just fixed the milk.”

  “And now you’ve graduated to appliances,” he said proudly. “Growth.”

  The front door rattled.

  Not a knock.

  A request.

  Low. Polite. Insistent.

  My stomach dropped. “That’s not human.”

  “No,” Bastion agreed. “Humans knock badly.”

  The walls shivered. The floor hummed. The ledger under the couch began vibrating like it was having a very small, very bureaucratic panic attack.

  Outside, someone shouted.

  Then another.

  Then the entire street went quiet in that very specific way that meant everyone was pretending not to be involved.

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  I opened the door.

  The air beyond it was… folded.

  Not torn like the anomalies before – layered, like two moments occupying the same space and politely trying not to touch.

  The street stood there and did not.

  I could see Mrs Calder’s house and also the memory of Mrs Calder’s house, slightly offset, as if reality couldn’t decide which version it preferred.

  “Oh,” I whispered. “That’s not good.”

  Bastion padded to my side and sat.

  “This,” he said, “is the threshold responding.”

  “To what?”

  “To me,” he said lightly. “And to you standing next to me.”

  The air rippled.

  Something vast leaned closer – not entering, not crossing, just… observing. A pressure built behind my eyes, ancient and patient and deeply unimpressed.

  My knees wobbled.

  Bastion, the absolute menace, yawned.

  “You’re late,” he said to the nothing. “And you’re crowding my witch.”

  The pressure paused.

  Actually paused.

  I stared at him. “Did you just tell reality to mind its manners.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s reality.”

  “And I am tired,” he replied. “Now hush.”

  The pressure eased – just a fraction – like something had leaned back in its chair.

  A voice spoke.

  Not aloud.

  Inside.

  Keeper.

  Bastion flicked his tail. “Observer.”

  You linger.

  “Retirement,” he said. “Very fashionable.”

  You disrupt balance.

  He shrugged. “Balance is overrated. It leads to stagnation.”

  The voice shifted.

  The witch is unshielded.

  I bristled. “I am right here.”

  Bastion’s fur bristled in response.

  “She is listening,” he said coldly. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

  The pressure surged.

  I staggered.

  Bastion moved.

  Not forward.

  Sideways.

  He stepped directly in front of me and sat down.

  Sat.

  Right there. Small. Solid. Unmoving.

  The pressure hit him and… stopped.

  Like a wave breaking against a rock that had no business being that smug.

  “Oh,” Bastion said mildly. “Careful. You’re leaking.”

  Silence.

  Then something extraordinary happened.

  The nothing laughed.

  A deep, distant sound – not kind, not cruel – amused.

  You always were insufferable.

  “Thank you,” Bastion said. “I work at it.”

  The pressure withdrew.

  The street snapped back into place.

  Reality exhaled.

  I collapsed onto the doorstep, shaking, laughing weakly, half from terror and half from relief.

  “That,” I gasped, “was not a milk problem.”

  “No,” Bastion agreed. “That was a jurisdictional inquiry.”

  I stared at him. “You stood between me and that.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t even hesitate.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at me, eyes sharp and unreadable.

  “Because,” he said, “you’re mine.”

  My heart did a very stupid thing.

  Before I could respond, he reached out and pushed the kettle off the counter.

  It shattered.

  I stared.

  “You absolute—”

  “It was still screaming,” he said reasonably. “I solved it.”

  I laughed.

  Actually laughed.

  A wild, slightly hysterical sound that startled the pigeons and made Bastion glance at me with something like approval.

  “Oh good,” he said. “You’re coping.”

  I wiped my eyes. “You nearly got me obliterated by a conceptual boundary.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And yet here you are. Very resilient.”

  I looked around. The town felt… steadier. Quieter. As if something had been acknowledged and decided to watch from further away.

  “Is it over?” I asked.

  “For now,” Bastion said. “They’re curious. Not hostile.”

  “And you?”

  He stretched, knocking my wand off the step.

  Deliberately.

  “I,” he said, “have confirmed that staying here will be interesting.”

  I groaned. “That’s not comforting.”

  “It’s flattering,” he replied. “Also inconvenient for several ancient powers.”

  He hopped onto my chest and sat.

  Squarely.

  Smugly.

  “I am going to die,” I muttered. “And it will be because my familiar is an arsehole.”

  He purred.

  “No,” he said. “You’ll live. You’ll learn. You’ll make tea under pressure.”

  He leaned closer, eyes bright.

  “And Elspeth?”

  “Yes?”

  “This town is officially a threshold now.”

  I stared. “What does that mean.”

  He smiled.

  “It means,” he said, “we are no longer hiding.”

  The ledger hummed.

  The street listened.

  And somewhere far away, something began to walk.