Page 17 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

“You need to confront this.” Fletcher had the decency to keep his voice low. “Get it done. Your father has been a shadow over you all your life, and now you finally know why. We’ve talked about this.”

Fletcher was the only person outside of Whimbrel House Merritt had confided in; the Portsmouth postmaster had likely grown weary from the number of letters passed between them.

Merritt just kept shaking his head.

“Might as well keep to our plans and go tomorrow,” Fletcher pressed. “I came all the way down here.”

Merritt sunk until his forehead hit the table. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Fletcher sighed. “Don’t be sorry, Merritt. I get it—”

“Do you?”

He hesitated. “Maybe not. I want to go with you. Support you. But I’m a working man. I can’t just come at your beck and call.”

“I know.” Merritt’s breath fogged, trapped in the space between the table and his arms. He forced his head up, and the dining room suddenly seemed too bright. “I know. I’ll work it out. I just ... I can’t go. Not yet. Just started this nonsense with Gifford.”

The excuse sounded hollow. His stomach tightened to a grain of sand. He winced.

Fletcher leaned back in his chair. “What a mess.”

Merritt didn’t respond.

“I should have brought some whiskey.”

A small chuckle escaped Merritt’s mouth. “Maybe. But I’m more in a bourbon mood.” Though he hadn’t had a drink in ... he couldn’t actually remember. He’d gone through such a perfectionist phase after moving out on his own, determined to prove his father wrong and also to ensure no one else had a reason to cast him away.

Straightening his spine, Merritt added, “Of course stay the night. But I might have to cross the bay if Hulda insists on heading out. I don’t want her floating it alone.”

Fletcher nodded. “If she’ll wait until morning, I’ll gladly escort her.”

“Thank you.” Merritt let out a long breath and traced the grain of the table, trying to sort through his thoughts, yet finding himself able to process only the pattern of the woodgrain. “Thank you.”

Hulda exited the spare room to see MissTaylor waiting for her, leaning up against a wall, absently petting the top of Owein’s head. The dog noticed her first and whined, which brought up MissTaylor’s attention.

MissTaylor addressed the dog first. “Bed time. Go on.”

A low growl sounded in Owein’s throat.

MissTaylor planted fists on her hips. “Do you really want to try me,little boy?”

The growling cut off. Tail between his legs, Owein sulked downstairs. Hulda had set up a little bed in the corner of the living room before moving out, though he often came upstairs during the day and jumped on the foot of Merritt’s bed, getting fur all over the duvet.

MissTaylor glanced in the direction of the stairs. “Anything new on MissHaigh?”

Hulda repressed a sigh. “I would tell you if I knew.”

The maid shook her head. “If only I’d been there when all this happened. I could have sensed it. Maybe talked her down before she did anything rash.”

“Who would blame you? You were recovering from injuries and on assignment, Beth.” Hulda rarely used MissTaylor’s first name, but they were hardly in a formal setting. “And who knows if what she didwasrash?”

Hulda still carried that telegram in her pocket. She’d stopped reading it. There wasn’t anything more to study on the crinkled piece of paper.

MissTaylor waited a beat before speaking. “Thought I should tell you. That is, I usually keep these things to myself, because it’s none of my business what goes on with others. It’s just ... the magic has a mind of its own.” She twirled her hand in the general direction of her head. Like Myra, Beth Taylor had talent in the school of psychometry, though her ability was weaker. Still, clairvoyance, even feeble clairvoyance, had definite uses.

Hulda paused, worry flickering like a lightning bug in her chest. “Merritt,” she guessed.

The maid nodded.

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