Page 57 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

Hulda nodded.

But Merritt stared hard at Baillie. The Brit met his eyes. Neither blinked.

“If I disappear after this,” Baillie spoke quietly, “you’ll know why.”

“If his hold has loosened,” Merritt ground out, “then you should run.”

Baillie shook his head. “It’s not so simple.”

Merritt wondered at that. Why on earth not? If Merritt had been mentally enslaved by a wizard, he’d run at the first lick of freedom. The wonder of it coiled and thickened ... but was that him? Baillie was a hysterian. He’d witness that firsthand. Though Baillie’s manipulation of his emotions in the BIKER office had felt more intrusive. This was more ... subtle. Natural or artificial?

Merritt cursed inwardly. If only his wardship allowed him to make walls that kept out magic rather than things, he’d be able to tell.

“We have to do something about it.” Hulda turned toward him. “Merritt—”

“How quickly did you sympathize with him?” Merritt asked, gaze glued to Baillie.

Hulda pulled back. “What?”

“He’s a hysterian, Hulda.”

She bit her bottom lip, considering.

Baillie shrunk. “My touch is ... not subtle, and only works on occasion. I can demonstrate—”

“No,” Merritt growled, and the embers reignited. “You willget the hell out of my house.”

Baillie’s mouth worked over a few silent half words before spilling, “O-Of course. I understand.” He started for the exit.

“Drop the bag.”

He hesitated. Baptiste took a step forward and folded his thick arms over his barrel chest. One glance at him and Baillie set the bag down, leaving the communion stones in a heap on the floor. Merritt didn’t move aside, so Baillie had to awkwardly push past him to reach the hallway.

“Follow him,” Merritt said to no one in particular. Baptiste and Owein both heeded the order.

Merritt stood there for a long time, blood getting hotter, pressing and pulsing against his skin. Hulda seemed torn between staying with him and following the retreating Baillie. She started, “Do you really think—”

But when Merritt moved toward the bag, her words caught. Crouching, he opened it. Seven more communion stones inside. Eight chunks of pale selenite, including the one Hulda held. Maybe more—he’d have to ask Owein. These stones were expensive. How could Baillie afford so many? Had they really been funded by Walker, and therefore LIKER?

Who, or what, was he supposed to believe?

Whimbrel House was his safe haven. His space away from the world. His light in the dark.

Could he not have peace even in hisown home?

Exhaling, he half expected flames to come out of his nostrils. He heard the front door shut. Palming one of the communion stones, he strode toward the window and watched Baillie retreat nearly at a run, Owein nipping at his heels, Baptiste striding behind. He hadn’t even noticed another boat. Where had the man docked?

His hand tightened around the selenite. He could almost feel it melting under his writing calluses. But when he looked down, it was just a stone.

And he envied it.

He’d been a stone. As close to a stone as he could get, and he’d been happy—most of the time. Then everything had been upturned. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t organize the mess back into any kind of order.

He wished he’d never seen Ebba’s name on that poster.

Wished he’d never sought her out.

Wished he’d never spoken to Sutcliffe.

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