Page 36 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

The most frustrating part was that he wasn’t entirely sure why he was crying.

Chapter 9

November 8, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

After going to church with Danielle and spending the day traveling by carriage, kinetic tram, and boat to Blaugdone Island, Hulda found herself doing something she always insisted was not in her job title: cooking for a client. Then again, she was not presently housekeeper at Whimbrel House, and Merritt was much more than a client, so in the end, it was simply her putting her receipt books to good use to make a gesture to a man she deeply cared for.

Hulda left the oven door open to keep the meat pie warm without burning it. She’d managed to bully Baptiste out of the kitchen for the second time that day—she’d made a late lunch, too, just in case Merritt came home early. He hadn’t. So she’d cooked dinner, his favorite, in hopes he’d return tonight. If he didn’t, she’d be back for dinner tomorrow.

Setting the table, she felt strange about not leaving a place for MissTaylor. With both her and Merritt gone, the house was rather quiet, minus Owein loudly chewing on a bone in the corner of the kitchen. She imagined that, having gone centuries without enjoying food, he loved every morsel he could get. She’d spent the day reviewing the alphabet chart with him so he could communicate with people other than Merritt. He was doing decently well with his literacy—she’d instructed him for nearly an hour that afternoon, until he got so fed up with her he’d hidden under Merritt’s bed.

Owein’s head popped up, one ear lifted. He dropped the bone and ran to the front door before Hulda even heard footsteps, pressing his nose to the seam and sniffing loudly. When it opened, Hulda’s pulse set to hammering.

“Hey, old boy,” Merritt said softly as Owein stood on his hind legs, his front paws propped on Merritt’s thighs. It was hard to believe there was a boy in there when he acted so much like a dog, but then again, perhaps Silas Hogwood hadn’t removed the dog’s spirit before shoving Owein into the same body. Perhaps he couldn’t—there were different necromantic spells for humans and animals. Merritt rubbed Owein’s ears and scratched under his chin.

Hulda dared to step to the edge of the dining room, though she didn’t make herself known. She’d worn her yellow dress today, the one that the dressmaker had fumbled by giving it a round collar. Although she didn’t care for the cut, Merritt seemed to like this one, and she figured it might help her return to his good graces.

She clasped oddly clammy hands in front of her and waited silently, trying to sort out what to say and feeling silly about all of it, when Owein finally jumped down and Merritt lifted his head. He paused when he saw her.

Goodness, he looked sotired. Had the travel been hard? Had the visit not gone well?

She cleared her throat. “I thought I’d make dinner,” she tried, which had not been on her list of first things to say. “It’s meat pie, your favorite. I just need to fetch it out of the oven.”

Merritt took a couple of steps forward and glanced into the dining room, where three places were set—two for them and one for Baptiste, though Hulda had a feeling he’d eat privately tonight. She’d lit a few extra candles for better light. Brought them herself so as not to waste his.

When he didn’t respond, she licked her lips and asked, “Itisstill your favorite, isn’t it?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He crossed the room to her, moving on legs that belonged to an old man, and plopped his forehead on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Something about the words, about the weariness to his voice, made her eyes sting. She wrapped her arms around him. “It was no trouble.” She leaned her cheek against his head. “Do you want to eat ...?”

“In a moment.” His arms loosely encircled her. He didn’t lift his head. “In just ... a moment.”

Hulda nodded. Squeezed a little tighter.

They stayed like that for a long time.

“He seemed ... fine,” Merritt explained after dinner. He and Hulda sat in the living room on the faded maroon sofa across from the faded emerald settee—Hulda still disliked the color scheme of the space, but she hardly had the right to update it now. Though, if Owein was willing, perhaps he could simplychangea few things for her. Not the wainscoting—that was quite ornate if a tad bizarre, and it gave the space character. She’d have to speak with him later, though until he mastered his spelling, she wouldn’t understand his replies.

Merritt sat at the end of the sofa, elbows on his knees, staring at the patterns in the carpet. He was talking about Nelson Sutcliffe, his biological father. “Just fine,” he continued.

“At least he’s in good health,” Hulda commented. If she scooted a little closer, she could rub his back ... but was that too intimate a gesture?

“Not just in good health. He was justfine.” Merritt straightened, removing the opportunity. “Like,Oh, here he is, my son whom I haven’t seen in thirteen years, and oh yes, I did have an affair with your mother, ta-ta, isn’t that unfortunate. Be a good lad and don’t tell anyone.”

Hulda slouched. “I see. Was he so patronizing?”

“Not patronizing.” Merritt shook his head, causing locks of half-wavy hair to fall over his shoulders. He pushed them back again. “Not really. Just ... I don’t know. If it were me, I think I’d be more ... invested. But I suppose he disconnected himself from the situation a long time ago. Either way, there are no communionists to help me.”

She nodded, though he didn’t seem to notice. “At least there’s the house.”

A sigh. “At least there’s the house.” He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, which had once opened up to drop cobweb nooses and dead rats on them. “I think I’d trade it in for someone who cares.”

A little worm niggled in Hulda’s belly. She thought again of what MissTaylor had said to her but sought optimism. “We wouldn’t have met, if not for that.”

A small tipping of his lips. “True.” The almost smile faded. “And I never did go home.”

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