Chapter 1: Charity's Arrival

The knock at my door was the kind that made me pause, beer halfway to my lips. It wasn't the usual "We need you, Dresden!" pounding, nor was it the "I swear to God, pay your overdue bill" sort. No, this was different. A precise, controlled rhythm—like someone who didn't knock on doors often but, when they did, expected to be let in.

That alone was enough to put me on edge.

I set the bottle down and ran a hand through my perpetually disheveled hair, making my way to the door. I opened it, and there she was—Charity Carpenter, standing in the hallway of my building like a misplaced Valkyrie.

I ran a hand through my perpetually disheveled hair, feeling the roughness of my unshaven jaw. My duster hung open over a worn Led Zeppelin tee, the fabric wrinkled from a day of chasing bad leads. I probably looked like I'd just rolled out of a fight. Which, to be fair, wasn't that different from my usual state.

She wasn't armored—well, not literally—but she didn't need steel to be imposing. Charity was tall, taller than most women, with a sculpted, warrior's frame that even her modest clothes couldn't hide. She wore a plain blouse and a deep green skirt, the kind of practical attire that made her seem like she had just stepped out of a well-kept home rather than into my mess of a life. Her blonde hair, streaked now with traces of silver, was pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense braid, emphasizing the sharp, noble angles of her face.

Her piercing green eyes, usually filled with quiet judgment when directed at me, were… off. They lacked their usual steel, their usual certainty. Instead, there was something raw behind them—something fragile beneath the unyielding surface.

I felt my stomach tighten.

Charity Carpenter did not come to me unless something was truly, dangerously wrong. And right now, she looked like she'd rather be facing down a Red Court warlord than standing on my doorstep.

"Harry," she said, her voice even. Too even.

"Charity." I leaned against the doorframe, forcing a smirk I didn't feel. "Not often I get visits from Lady Carpenter herself. Can I offer you a beer? Coffee? Something stronger?"

She didn't smile. She didn't even roll her eyes. That was the first real warning sign.

"No," she said simply. And then, as if realizing how abrupt that was, she added, "Thank you."

Okay, this was officially terrifying.

I stepped back, motioning her inside. "Come on in. If we're going to do this, I'd rather not provide a free show for the neighbors."

She hesitated. For half a second, her hand clenched at the strap of the purse she carried. Then, with a slow inhale, she crossed the threshold into my home.

Charity sat stiffly on my couch, back ramrod straight, hands folded tightly in her lap. She looked absurdly out of place here, surrounded by my mess—half-finished case files, an old pizza box that probably qualified as its own ecosystem, and my ever-present stack of battered books. She was all discipline and control, a woman used to order, sitting in the living space of a man whose life was the opposite.

I took the armchair across from her, resting my elbows on my knees. "Alright," I said, voice lighter than I felt. "Hit me."

She took a long moment, staring at her hands before speaking. When she finally did, her voice was quieter than I'd ever heard it.

"I wouldn't be here if… if it wasn't necessary."

Her fingers gripped each other harder. Her entire body was rigid, as if whatever she was about to say would break something inside her. And yet, beneath that, I could see the determination. Charity Carpenter never moved without purpose. She was here, in my home, because something had forced her hand.

I didn't speak. I let her take her time.

Finally, she exhaled sharply, lifting her chin. Steel over vulnerability.

"Michael's injuries… they've taken something from him," she said, each word measured and deliberate. "Something important."

My stomach clenched.

She didn't have to say it. I knew what she meant.

Michael Carpenter—Knight of the Cross, warrior of faith, my friend—had nearly died because of me. He had saved me, protected me, and in return, he had been broken. The memory of him lying in a hospital bed, struggling to recover from wounds meant to be fatal, was one I tried not to think about.

It was clear now that the wounds hadn't just been physical.

Charity swallowed, the movement tight and deliberate. Her hands were trembling. Just barely.

"He hasn't… we haven't…" She cut herself off, shutting her eyes for a second before continuing, voice taut with mortification. "It's putting a strain on us. On everything."

I stared at her.

Oh.

I'd been expecting something dire—some magical catastrophe, some supernatural entity knocking on their door. But this? This was personal in a way that made me, for the first time in a long time, completely speechless.

She couldn't meet my eyes. Her jaw was tight, her posture so tense it might snap.

Charity Carpenter, the strongest woman I knew, was sitting in my apartment, struggling to ask me for help about the most private aspect of her marriage. And I could tell, just from the way she forced herself to stay there, that this was eating her alive.

I cleared my throat, struggling for words. "Charity, I—"

"This stays between us." Her voice cut through the tension, sharp and unwavering. "Molly cannot know."

That, at least, I could understand. I gave a firm nod. "Of course."

She exhaled, long and slow, tension barely easing from her shoulders. Her fingers unclenched slightly.

For a few moments, neither of us spoke. The silence sat between us, heavy and uncertain. Finally, I leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees.

"I'll help," I said simply.

Her gaze snapped to mine. Not in surprise—Charity wasn't the type to doubt a promise once given—but with something more fragile. A quiet, weary relief.

"Whatever I can do," I continued, voice softer now, "I will."

She nodded, just once. Then she straightened, squared her shoulders, and the moment of vulnerability disappeared behind steel again.

"Thank you," she said.

–

The silence stretched between us again, but this time, Charity hesitated in a way that made my instincts hum. Like she had more to say—but wasn't sure if she should.

When she finally spoke, her voice was carefully measured. "By keeping Molly uninvolved… I realize that I may be depriving you of your apprentice."

I blinked. That wasn't what I'd expected.

Charity's jaw tightened slightly, as if forcing the words out. "You may need assistance researching this. And if Molly cannot help, then…" She exhaled through her nose, bracing herself. "Then I will."

I stared at her. Charity Carpenter. Offering to help me with research.

That was a thought I'd never expected to entertain.

She hated magic. Hated the world I lived in. And yet here she was, willing to step into that world—however reluctantly—for the sake of her husband.

If I had a nickel for every time something completely unprecedented happened, I'd be able to afford an apartment with central heating.

I studied her for a moment before leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms. "So let me get this straight. You, Charity Carpenter, are offering to help me research magic?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I am offering to help you find an answer," she corrected, voice clipped. "I won't pretend to understand the things you deal with, but if this is the only way, then I'll do what I must."

But… looking at her—at the determination in her eyes, at the way she was forcing herself past every instinct to ask for my help—I couldn't refuse her.

I exhaled, scratching the back of my neck.

There was no way this wasn't going to be weird as hell.

I nodded. "Alright," I said. "You're in."

A flicker of something—maybe surprise—crossed her expression before she gave a curt nod.

"Good."

I sighed. "This is gonna be so awkward."

Her gaze sharpened. "Then don't make it any worse than it has to be, Dresden."

I smirked despite myself. "No promises."

For the first time that night, I saw the ghost of a smirk tug at the corner of her lips. It was gone in an instant, but it had been there.