Page 3 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

Merritt stifled a yawn—hehadmanaged to get back to sleep last night, giving him a solid four hours of rest—and turned to the window, hoping the sunlight would keep him alert. A few snow flurries brushed by the dining room window, which had recently been repaired by a magic mutt with an absurd amount of chaocracy spells stitched to his spirit. It was midmorning, but the cloud-choked skies made it look much later—or perhaps much earlier. Winter was settling in on the East Coast, barely giving autumn much of a chance to show up to the party. Yet their little island still seemed apart from it all, its lingering leaves brighter shades of red and richer hues of yellow, the house somehow untouched by the weather despite its lack of mystical wizardry. Sometimes Merritt forgot it wasn’t enchanted anymore—a little tidbit only those within its walls knew, plus one—and sometimes he suspected that maybe it still was.

Something clamored in the kitchen where Baptiste, their chef, was already preparing for lunch. Merritt wasn’t sure where Beth had gone.Likely making herself scarce. She had a knack for knowing when private conversations were underway, perhaps due to her gift of clairvoyancy. It was odd to have a private conversation in what was technically a public room, but if Hulda was so concerned about Merritt courting her in the house, she certainly wasn’t going to allow such a discussion in one of their bedrooms.

It was probably the lack of a shirt last night that had done it.

Something brushed his leg. Ah yes, Owein. Sometimes Merritt still forgot the house’s former haunt had his own body again. Owein was a terrible eavesdropper. Understandable—when his spirit had possessed the house, he could watch and listen to anything he wanted. Now he had to actually make the effort to pad into whatever area exchanges were happening in. Still, he was rather good at it. Perhaps Merritt shouldn’t have trimmed Owein’s nails. Perhaps a bell and a collar were in order.

“As forhousekeeper,” Merritt emphasized, “you’re not technically—”

“Yes, I know.” Hulda knit her fingers together. She sat at the head of the table, just around its corner from Merritt, her back to the window, her hair swept away from her face less severely than it used to be, albeit with every pin and curl precisely placed. Like she’d been carved out of marble by Michelangelo himself. She wore her most rigid dress, the olive one with a collar high enough to choke and sleeves to the palms of her hands, and Merritt guessed that had been intentional as well. Setting boundaries would have proven much more difficult if that delectable collarbone of hers were showing. “I may not even bear that title anymore.”

Her silver glasses had slipped down her nose. Reaching over, Merritt gingerly moved them back up. Her hazel eyes met his, and a lovely dusting of pink highlighted her cheeks.

Then she straightened, pulling from his reach.

Merritt sighed. “No word from BIKER?”

She shook her head. “Not since the resignation.” She meant that of Myra Haigh, the head of the Boston Institute for the Keeping ofEnchanted Rooms. Myra, who had helped clean up the mess with Silas Hogwood ... and who had started it in the first place. She’d resigned by letter only days after the incident in Marshfield, then vanished without an inkling of goodbye. Hulda had found out about it secondhand from Sadie Steverus, BIKER’s secretary, and Merritt had heard it from Hulda. No one knew where Myra had gone, something that had obviously been troubling Hulda. It might not be so bad, perhaps, if it was simply an early retirement, but outside that dark, dilapidated house, away from the mess and the watchmen, Myra had, in harsh, hushed tones, been very clear about one thing.

Say nothing of this to anyone until I tie up the loose ends. It won’t be long, but for the safety of us all, wait for my approval.

Said “approval” had never come, and Merritt had begun to worry it never would. Less skin off his back than Hulda’s. Just yesterday the woman had clipped her fingernails short to keep herself from gnawing at them.

Hulda had been back to BIKER only once since Merritt’s abduction, specifically to search for clues to Myra’s whereabouts, but she’d come back empty-handed. The two women had been close before the Hogwood ordeal, making the nonattendance that much stranger.

“Then I suppose you’re moving back to Bright Bay?” he asked. The Bright Bay Hotel was the front and headquarters for BIKER, with the institution’s offices located in the back.

She frowned. “I think it’s for the best. For now. But it’s—”

I don’t want Hulda to leave.

Merritt glanced between his legs, where the snout of a medium-sized mutt rested on the edge of his chair.

“Merritt?”

He glanced up, having missed what Hulda had said. “Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I still can’t manage two voices at once.”

She blinked, then scooted her chair back and glanced beneath the table. Clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“He wants you to stay.” Merritt shrugged, though in truth,hewanted Hulda to stay. He’d grown so used to her being around when he woke up, when he ate, when he worked ... “But Boston isn’t so far.” Not with a magicked boat and kinetic tram to hasten the journey. It was a two-hour trip, give or take.

Her shoulders relaxed. “Yes, it’s not far. And I, of course, will visit. I’m going to stop by Myra’s home—see if there’s anything of note there.” She glanced around the modestly sized dining room, which had once been haunted with shadows and violently swinging doors. Now it was simple and quaint and ...home, its walls a pale yellow, its trim newly stained cherry ... Though how much like home would it feel without Hulda ...?

Perhaps he was being a little melodramatic.

“I could build you a house on the island,” he offered, half-serious.

She raised an eyebrow. “In the winter? Single-handedly? There aren’t enough trees here for a second cottage.”

A smile pulled on his lips. “I’ll do it entirely with wardship spells.” Another recent revelation: Merritt could build invisible walls. Not that he had any sort of grasp on that unexpected bit of magical talent.

“That would hardly be private.”

He let his face go lax, feigning confusion. “Why would you need privacy?”

She swatted his arm, and he chuckled. “You are a rake, Mr.Fernsby.”

He caught her hand before she could withdraw it. “Surely that comment wasn’t bad enough to warrant chastisement via my surname.”

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