What You Can Carry

"The best-laid plans are just elaborate ways of discovering what the universe had in mind all along."

The day was already slipping through my fingers, a realisation that weighed on me as heavily as the morning dew still clinging to the grass along Nial Triffett's driveway. The visit to his home had taken longer than anticipated—an unfortunate reminder of the unforeseen complications that seemed to multiply with each step I took deeper into this tangled web of my own making.

I had naively expected to find his address plastered all over the internet. Business listings, social media, the usual digital breadcrumbs that people scattered behind them without thinking. But Nial, it turned out, valued his privacy more than most tradespeople. His business website listed only a phone number and email. His social media presence was minimal—a few photos of completed jobs, nothing personal, certainly nothing with an address attached.

Reality, as it often does, had different plans than my optimistic assumptions.

An old invoice became my unexpected saviour. Buried in a drawer of paperwork I'd been meaning to sort for years, the fine print held the key—quite literally—to his whereabouts. His business address, which I assumed would also be his home address given what he'd said about a home office, was a treasure buried at the bottom of the document. A breadcrumb I'd almost overlooked in my initial frustration.

Parking discreetly a few doors down, I now found myself striding with forced confidence down the driveway, keys to Nial's home and office clutched in my hand like talismans. The plan, in theory, was straightforward: let myself in and transport Nial's entire office to Clivilius. No need for covert break-ins when you had the actual keys. With Nial's office relocated, he could assist in ordering supplies to fortify the settlement with much-needed fencing. He'd have access to his accounts, his supplier relationships, his professional network—all of it redirected toward the settlement's needs.

The practicalities of executing such a plan, however, danced at the edges of my consciousness. The moral implications I'd already buried. The logistical ones were proving harder to suppress.

After a series of knocks to confirm the absence of occupants—firm, authoritative knocks that would have been answered if anyone were home—the first key I tried slid into the front door, turning with a reassuring clunk. The sound brought a rare smile to my face, a welcome departure from the complications that seemed to haunt every Guardian task.

The last time I had ventured into someone's home under such circumstances was to collect clothing for Glenda, Kain, and Joel—a task that should have been simple but proved otherwise. Louise had nearly caught me at Kain's place. The memory served as a poignant reminder that nothing about being a Guardian was straightforward. Each step taken, each decision made, seemed to unravel in unexpected ways.

As I stepped into Nial's home, the air heavy with the particular silence of an empty house, I couldn't entirely shake the feeling of intrusion. A violation of privacy that my conscience—weakened though it was—still registered as wrong. Family photos lined the hallway. A woman's cardigan draped over a chair. Evidence of lives being lived, routines being kept, a normality I was about to shatter.

Yet the urgency of our situation in Clivilius, the lives depending on these actions, propelled me forward. Henri's face flashed through my mind. Duke's still form. Jamie's hatred.

I closed the front door behind me.

A deep growl pierced the air, shattering the silence with its menacing promise.

I spun to face a lanky Dalmatian, teeth bared in a warning that left little room for misunderstanding. The dog had emerged from somewhere deeper in the house—a living room, perhaps, or a back bedroom—and now stood before me. Its spotted coat rippled over tense muscles, every line of its body broadcasting hostile intent.

My heart leaped into my throat. For one terrible moment, Duke's face superimposed itself over this dog's, and grief threatened to swamp me entirely.

Not now. Focus.

Swallowing an initial surge of panic, I addressed the Dalmatian with what I hoped sounded like calm authority. "Sit," I instructed, my voice steady, projecting a confidence I scarcely felt. Dogs responded to tone more than words. Conviction mattered more than content.

To my surprise, the dog obeyed. Its haunches lowered to the floor, though its eyes never left my face and the growl continued as a low, threatening rumble in its chest.

"Stay," I commanded, my voice imbued with a hope that its training would grant me passage through this unexpected obstacle. Nial struck me as the type to properly train his animals. Responsible. Consistent. The kind of man who did things right.

The kind of man I'd kidnapped and stranded in another dimension.

My gaze shifted to the closed door off the hallway, which I assumed led to Nial's home office. Carefully, I slid another key into the lock, my attention divided between the task at hand and the watchful eyes of the Dalmatian. The key turned. The door swung open.

The dog darted past me into the office, apparently deciding that investigating this new development was more important than maintaining its guard post. I followed.

A sudden chiming from my phone caused me to startle, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet of the house. I fumbled it from my pocket, heart hammering, half-expecting to see a message from Nial's wife asking why there was a strange car parked down the street.

14:17 Jane Lahey: Luke, Thelma is with me. We need the key back that she gave you.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath. Thelma's key—the one from Jeffries Manor, the one that had led to William in that hidden room, the one that connected to mysteries I still didn't understand. Jane and Thelma wanted it back, and the timing couldn't have been worse.

"They'll just have to wait," I whispered to the dog at my feet, trying to convince myself more than the animal. The Dalmatian had settled somewhat, its earlier aggression fading into wary curiosity as it sniffed around the office.

My gaze settled on what I presumed to be Nial's work desk. The mahogany surface, polished to a warm sheen, spoke of craftsmanship that could only be Nial's own handiwork—a testament to his attention to detail, his skill with his hands. The desk of a man who took pride in his work. A man who didn't deserve what I'd done to him.

I pushed the thought aside and focused on practicalities.

My fingers traced the smooth surface, inadvertently displacing several papers that drifted to the floor in a gentle cascade. The dog emitted a quick bark as the papers fell, a sound that seemed more curious than threatening now. Invoices, by the look of them. Supplier catalogues. The administrative detritus of running a small business.

A closed laptop occupied a central position on the desk, its presence a beacon of hope amidst the clutter. With that laptop, Nial could access his accounts, his email, his supplier portals. He could order materials from Clivilius as easily as from his living room. Finally, the universe is on my side, I thought, a rare flicker of optimism surfacing.

My phone chimed again.

14:23 Jane Lahey: It's urgent. Come now.

"For fuck's sake," I hissed under my breath, frustration mounting. The words on the screen felt like a tether, pulling me toward responsibilities I couldn't ignore but desperately wanted to postpone. Torn between aiding my newfound grandmother and bolstering the settlement's security, I found myself at a crossroads.

A few more hours' delay won't make any difference, I reasoned with myself. They can't order materials and build a fence in that time anyway. My mind sought solace in the logic of my own argument, even as I knew I was simply prioritising one crisis over another.

Jane and Thelma would have to wait. The laptop was right here. The opportunity was now.

"Nial, are you home?" a woman's voice echoed from the direction of the front door.

My heart stopped.

The Dalmatian, previously my reluctant ally in this invasion, trotted out of the office toward the voice, its claws clicking against the hardwood floors. Betraying my presence with every step. The loyalty of pets, it seemed, was not to be underestimated—and certainly not to be counted upon by intruders.

The pounding of my heart felt as if it might burst through my chest. Each beat was a thunderous reminder of how badly this could go. Nial's wife—it had to be his wife—was home early. Or perhaps not early at all. Perhaps I'd simply miscalculated, assumed too much, planned too poorly.

The decision had been made for me.

I seized the laptop, the device that had been so central to my plans now feeling inadequate in my hands. I'd wanted the whole office—desk, files, equipment, everything. Instead I was fleeing with a single piece of technology and the desperate hope that it would be enough.

With no time to spare, I activated the Portal on the side of a tall filing cabinet, the swirling colours erupting into existence with their familiar impossible beauty. The transition between worlds, normally a moment that still carried traces of wonder, now felt like nothing more than a desperate escape. A leap into the unknown driven by necessity rather than choice.

As the familiar yet always unsettling sensation of crossing through the Portal enveloped me, I clutched the laptop to my chest and threw myself forward.

The last thing I heard before Clivilius swallowed me whole was the woman's voice calling out again: "Nial? Is someone there?"

And then I was gone, leaving behind only questions she would never be able to answer.