Page 11 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

“Well.” Merritt cleared his throat when his voice caught. Much more communion without a break would steal his voice entirely. Again. He’d be the one in need of the chart. “I don’t know. This—your—body might only be a year old. Or it might be ten years, though you look rather spry. Perhaps three or four—”

Owein stepped to the chart and pawed the question mark in its lower corner.

Merritt held out his hands, palms up, unsure. “Dogs live about six, seven years ... Perhaps a little longer, with good care.”

His ears drooped.

“I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news.” Merritt’s voice softened, but this time it wasn’t an effect of magic. “But I want you to understand you’re mortal now. It’s a trade. The immortality of being a house for the liberation of being a dog.”

Owein looked out the window again, just for a few seconds.I didn’t choose this.

Oh, how deeply those words echoed.I didn’t, either. None of it.But he simply nodded. “Would you have, if given the chance?”

Owein thought about it only a moment.Yes. I like feeling. I like being around you. Even when you’re gone, it’s less ... lonely, like this. My heartbeat keeps me company.

Merritt stilled at the answer.Lonely.Owein had been alone for a long time. Merritt recalled keenly the moodiness of Whimbrel House when he’d first moved in. The rats falling from the ceiling and the bathroom walls that had tried to skewer him—very much the acts of an adolescent acting out. And yet, Owein no longer seemedbotheredby his decades of solitude.

Maybe he hides it, just like you do.

Merritt disregarded the errant thought. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, he asked, “How do you handle it so well?”

Owein’s golden eyes met his, and the dog made a grumbledHmm?sound.

“The darkness,” he murmured, then shook himself. “That is ... you were obviously upset, when Hulda and I found you. You seem rather chipper now. Like everything is all right.”

Owein blinked. He took a moment to answer. Looked away.Why should I be sad when so much is good?

Merritt slouched. “Why, indeed.” He could point out that Owein, ahuman, was trapped in the body of a dog. That his family was long dead. That he’d been hurt by a psychotic necromancer. That he was illiterate and couldn’t speak to anyone but Merritt directly. But it seemed cruel to do so.

Why should I be sad when so much is good?Such a simple answer, and one Merritt wanted to cling to. Thingsweregood. He was a homeowner. He had friends. He had Hulda. He had a new book coming out next year!

And he needed to go to Cattlecorn.

His stomach pinched, and he put a hand over it. He wasn’t getting another ulcer, was he?

A knock on the door broke through his thoughts. The door was open, so he didn’t need to invite Beth inside. She held a duster. “Mind if I tidy up?” she asked, her eyes instantly going to the dishes Merritt had left on his desk.

“Oh. Not at all.” He swiveled around and collected the papers on the desk, which he’d accumulated in Boston after seeing Hulda to BIKER yesterday. Now that he was between projects, he figured he’d take up journalism again. Write a few articles to sell to local papers. So he’d gathered the contact information for the editors, along with pay rates and topics of interests.

But magic practice!Owein said.

“I need to head to Boston anyway,” he replied, a decent response to both parties listening. Turning to Owein, he asked, “Do you want to come?”

To his surprise, the dog cowed. Shook his head no before saying,I need to relieve myself.

Merritt didn’t need to translate, for MissTaylor responded, “I know that look.” Shoving the duster under her arm, she said, “I’ll let you out, but goon the grassthis time! I’ll whap your backside if you track mud into the house again.”

Owein whined and gallivanted into the hallway.

“Thank you.” Merritt grabbed the carrier bag beside the desk. “I should be back before dark.”

“I’ll let Mr.Babineaux know.” The maid offered him a smile. Picked up a mug and paused. “Do you want me to mail this letter?”

Merritt hesitated, his joints suddenly ninety years old. “I ...”

She picked it up and turned it over. The address was already there. “You could take it on your way.”

Owein poked his head back into the room, huffing his impatience.

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