Page 16 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

Hulda perked. “Your services?”

He nodded. “I’ve not a lick of magic myself, but I’ve researched it all my life. It’s how I got the job here. I’m familiar with the methods ofall eleven disciplines—studied at Oxford when I was a younger man.” He glanced to Merritt. “That is, if you’re not particular.”

“Not at all.” Anything to get this mess under control. Communion was truly all Merritt cared about, but it would probably do everyone around him good if he didn’t accidentally put up invisible barriers or, say, melt the couch they were sitting on. “You’re hired. My schedule is wide open.”

Gifford grinned. “Excellent. Let me retrieve mine.” He pulled open a drawer in the desk and fetched a ledger. Hulda touched the back of Merritt’s arm and smiled at him—a smile he couldn’t help but return.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be too bad, after all.

While Hulda deemed it improper to live at Whimbrel House, given their romantic situation, Merritt invited her to dinner, and she accepted. The sun was setting, lighthouse keepers lighting their towers, as Merritt and Hulda took his little kinetic boat back to Blaugdone Island. It was a two-hour trip back to BIKER, but if it came down to the wire, Hulda could stay in her old room, or perhaps a boarding house on Rhode Island, if she was adamant about it. Merritt didn’t mind escorting her back himself, but the issue of propriety of a man and woman alone in the dark might arise. Mayhap the entire household would have to accompany them.

The shades of orange, pink, and violet painting the sky made him forgive the cold wind whipping by them as they traveled. Perhaps if Merritt’s novel somehow did remarkably well, he’d see to purchasing a covered craft.

He held Hulda’s hand as she stepped off the boat, then wrapped her arm through his as they followed the well-worn path to the house, which was crusted with newly forming frost. The animal life had grown quiet around them, the vegetation shrinking down for winter, the treesa little more bare. But Whimbrel House glowed warmly, and Merritt smelled baked bread before reaching the house. As Owein had said, so much was good.

Beth must have seen them approaching, for she opened the door. “Good evening! You made good time. Baptiste just set out the roast.”

“How wonderful.” Hulda leaned in to him, and Merritt absorbed her warmth. “One of my favorites.”

“One of Mr.Portendorfer’s, too.” Beth motioned them into the dining room.

Confused, Merritt asked, “Mr.Portendorfer?”

Entering the dining room, he saw his childhood friend sitting at the table, napkin already on his lap.

“Fletcher?” Merritt asked, and as his friend turned, Merritt’s stomach sank.

Was it the third of November already?

“Criminy,” he muttered. He’d forgotten he’d invited Fletcher to stay the night so they could set sail first thing in the morning.

Because Fletcher was escorting him to Cattlecorn.

It was time for Merritt to go home.

Chapter 4

November 3, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt’s stomach shriveled to the size of a pea, making it impossible to put more than a bite of dinner into it. He tried to keep up with the conversation—how things were going with Fletcher’s work as an accountant for a wholesaler, news about BIKER and Hulda’s opportunity there, the turn of the weather, childhood anecdotes. Merritt thought he was doing a fine enough job of it, but both Fletcher and Hulda kept side-eyeing him and his still-full plate, which Baptiste, his chef, routinely frowned at.

Though Hulda was no longer working at Whimbrel House in any official capacity, she departed early to ready Fletcher’s room, ignoring Merritt’s insistence that they could manage. She was awfully stringent about her method of tucking sheets. Beth took the dishes to the kitchen and invited Baptiste to join her in a manner a little too obvious to be casual; she clearly intended to give Merritt and Fletcher a moment of privacy. And thus Merritt found himself alone with his best friend, who pulled up a chair beside him and stuck his elbows on the table.

“You’re not sick, are you?” Fletcher asked.

Merritt ran a hand down his face. Rubbed his eyes. Mussed his hair. Considered saying yes and going straight to bed. “No.”

“You didn’t eat—”

“Let’s postpone.”

The men stared at one another for a couple of seconds before Fletcher repeated, “Postpone?”

Merritt shook his head before cradling it in his palms. “Just for a few weeks.” His stomach squelched around what few morsels he’d stuffed into it. “I found a bloke who’s willing to train me, so I don’t need Sutcliffe after all—”

“But your family,” Fletcher retorted, cutting him off.

Merritt dug a knuckle into his temple. “I know. I know, it’s just ... I can’t ... I’m not ...”

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