Page 44 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

She smiled at the compliment. Merritt hunkered down against the cold. He was so tired of feeling this way. He was always angry nowadays. It made his head pound and his stomach hurt. At least this, right now, was a different flavor of angry.

“I’m worried,” Hulda said after a minute, as they passed the light of a lighthouse and Blaugdone Island came into view, “that I’ll be disqualified from the director position, if not let go from BIKER entirely. I hate to think of what that might mean for me ... and for Myra.”

Frowning, Merritt scooted forward as much as the little boat would let him and reached for Hulda’s hand. She’d been smart enough to wear gloves. “That won’t happen.”

They neared the coast, forcing Merritt to reach over to the kinetic seal and slow the craft down.

“They might transfer me,” she said.

Merritt hesitated, the possibility reverberating through him like someone had used his bones for a bell. He guided the boat toward the sandy place where he always docked it. If Hulda was transferred, they’d be separated. And she could be sent anywhere—the West, Canada, Britain ... Would he even be able to follow her if that happened? Would Owein? Baptiste?

He shook off the question as best he could. “We’ll worry about that if and when it happens. You’re the best candidate for the position. And if what happened tonight is marked against your character, the LIKER lot are utter morons.”

He stepped out, helped Hulda do the same, then hauled the craft up the bank enough that the sea wouldn’t reclaim it. They took the worn path to the house, where Owein greeted them excitedly, his tail whipping about hard enough to be a weapon. Baptiste was sipping coffee in the dining room. Merritt led the way to the smaller breakfast room, where he and Hulda doffed their coats, though Merritt kept on the colorful scarf his sister had made him. Habit.

To his surprise, Baptiste brought out a cured-meat board, plates, mugs of cider, and some cheese, setting everything down silently. “Bless you,” Merritt said. Neither of them had eaten, and he’d told Baptiste not to prepare anything.

The chef nodded and left them to their privacy. Whatever the man had done in France to earn two years’ jail time ... Merritt mentally exonerated him.

“The next question is”—he forked a piece of salted duck—“how much trouble am I in?”

Hulda considered for a moment, sipping on cider. A thin piece of hair had come down from its pin and fallen across her temple. It curled at the end. Rather becoming, he thought. She answered, “American magic laws are rather lax. It’s not illegal to use magic, but it is illegal to use magic to do illegal things.”

“Is it illegal to stick someone to the wall with a wardship spell?” While he didn’t want to damage Hulda’s reputation, hewaspleased with that—because it must have been humiliating to the lawyer, and also because he’d done iton purpose. Maybe Gifford’s lessons were paying off after all.

“Assault is.” She frowned.

“It was defense,” he countered. Chewed. “He’s fine.”

“He is, but ... I don’t know. It’s up to him whether he wants to press charges.”

“If he does, then we press them back.”

She chewed and swallowed a bit of cracker and cheese before answering. “I’ve reported him once, but Mr.Walker—everyone there—seems to believe him incapable of such exertions.Ifhe’s the responsible party, he’s somehow convinced his colleagues he doesn’t have the ability to wield his magic in such a way. But I will file another complaint. Threaten to take it to the courts. Perhaps it will be enough to stay his hand.”

He stared at some olives. “Perhaps you shouldn’t work there.”

She shrugged. “It’s my job. I could take a brief leave, but ...” She wound her fingers together. Unwound them.

“But you still want the director position.”

She nodded. “I woulddespiseseeing BIKER in the hands of Alastair Baillie.”

Merritt stabbed an olive. “This is a joke. All of it.”

Rolling her lips together, Hulda pushed her plate away and met his eyes. “Let’s talk about something else. How was Mr.Gifford?”

Merritt leaned back in his chair. He knew Hulda hated that, but it was comfortable. “Good enough. He had me try an array of chaocracy tests, and I failed every single one.” He shrugged. “The genes skipped Sutcliffe entirely, and according to him, none of his other biological children have them ... unless they’re like me and unable to tap into them. More likely, the chaocracy genes skipped me, too. Magic adds on magic, right? The only magic markers on my mother’s side of the family were back in the 1300s, according to the records.”

Tapping her nails on the table, Hulda said, “And you’re sure Mr.Hogwood said you had it?”

“Yes, but howsanewas the guy, really?” He glanced over, looking for Owein, but the terrier was elsewhere. He whined whenever Silas Hogwood’s name came up, and for good reason. “Maybe he just sensed it in the house.”

She held her mug of hot cider in her hands but didn’t drink it. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps, perhaps.” Merritt looked over the cured-meat board, but nothing on it was currently appetizing. “Maybe there’s a journalism opportunity in all of this. Not about the genetics of magic ... there are so many scholarly works onthatsubject that Gifford will never stop reading them to me. But something else.”

“I would advise against detailing what happened with Silas Hogwood.”

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