Page 78 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

Owein whined a little louder with each foot of distance put between them. The watchmen shoved Merritt onto the boat and activated a kinetic rune to send them back to the mainland. Owein barked after them, a loud, high-pitched sound that mimicked a howling winter wind.

Merritt must have lost his touch if Owein had detected his lie so easily.

It was not yet noon when Merritt—who had been manhandled enough to earn several bruises—was shoved into the Suffolk County Penitentiary—a smaller prison north of Boston that had a cell especially built to hold criminals with spells in their blood. It was about the size of Whimbrel House and as charming as the place had been when Owein was still darkly brooding inside its walls. The entire prison was made of cold stone overly mortared. Merritt didn’t get to see much of it on histour, especially since the guards escorting him kept a hand on the back of his head, forcing him to focus on his feet.

His eyes fell immediately to the woman sitting across the room, and his heart squelched like a soggy boot in mud.

“Oh, Merritt!” Hulda cried as he lost his balance and came down on his knees—they’d unbound his hands, but hadn’t given him any time to let the blood wash back into his fingers. Hulda grasped his elbows and hauled him back up; he managed an awkward side embrace as the gate slammed shut behind him.

There were tears in Hulda’s eyes as she looked him over and rambled over what had happened on her end of things—a story that made him want to sink his fist into Walker’s stomach and rip free the testicles from between Baillie’s legs.

The guards had no qualms against conversation, at least, allowing them to exchange stories as the blood worked back into Merritt’s hands. The cell they were in was about the size of his sitting room. There was no furniture, only a stone outcropping that ran along the far wall, just wide enough for an average man to lie down and long enough for four of them to fit head to toe. No windows, mayhap to dissuade any elementists with air spells from enacting their magic. Or, just as likely, simply to be cruel.

As for the gate, it was wrought iron and heavy, activated by a kinetic spell via a special rod one of the guards wore on his belt. Merritt hadn’t noticed which of them had activated it, but the shimmer of a wardship shield—the same spell he possessed—coated the bars, ensuring no escape. Merritt wasn’t sure if he could deactivate other wardship shields or just his own, but even if he could, it wouldn’t get him any closer to freedom—not even a child would fit between those bars, and not even Baptiste could bend them. Besides, he and Hulda were innocent ... Surely there’d be a way to prove that. At the very minimum, they could attest that he hadn’t a lick of psychometry in him.

Why go to the risk of trying to escape?

As for their trial, the watchmen and guards had both failed to mention when that might be. Soon, he prayed.

Turning from the door, Merritt noticed one other prisoner in the space, sitting in the far south corner—an older man who had seen better days, blatantly ignoring the newcomers. He wondered, briefly, what sort of magic he had. Perhaps he was a necromancer who’d killed a beloved tree in a park with a sneeze or, like MissRichards, an augurist who found it all too easy to cheat at cards. Hulda, meanwhile, walked to the stone bench, hugging herself, her spine about as straight as an overcooked spaghetti noodle.

He clasped Hulda’s elbow. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head, expression tight, tears brimming but not falling. “Not physically, no. But.” She worked her hands. “This is terrible.” She took off her glasses and wiped her hand across her eyes. “All of it. We’ve been completely stultified. I don’t even know where to start.”

Letting out a long breath, Merritt dropped beside her. “I’m afraid you’re correct.”

“I should have listened to you.”

“About what?”

“Baillie.” She played with the arms of her glasses, folding them in and out. “He doesn’t even deserve thatmister. He played us.”

“We weren’t sure,” Merritt tried. “We were trying to be sure.”

“The vision!” She huffed, getting a little life back into her. “I saw him, like he was scared. Like he was running. Like his story wastrue.”

Merritt placed his hand on her knee. “Maybe it was something else. Maybe Walker orchestrated it.” Doubt laced his every word.

Hulda shook her head. “He said, ‘Just as you said, Baillie.’ Baillie was caught, and he concocted his story about Walker so we would hesitate. He accomplished this to get us out of the way. Now”—she leaned close, her next words all air and no voice—“he’ll locate this facility, find Silas Hogwood’s body, if that’s what he’s after, and he’ll run BIKER into the ground, one way or another.” She pushed the glasses back onto herface. Frowned and removed them, then cleaned the lenses with her skirt. “But that vision of Baillie, Merritt! What could it mean? Why did I see it? It felt ... It felt like I wasthere. He seemed terrified.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, trying to think of something reassuring. The best he could come up with was “Time will tell.”

She returned her glasses to her nose and shook her head. “The director position is utterly ruined now. I’ve no chance at it, if I ever did.” She blinked rapidly. “I failed her.”

Squeezing her knee, Merritt asked, “Who? Myra?”

Hulda nodded.

“Didn’t she fail you first?”

Hulda sucked in a deep breath and never really let it out. “I’ve gone over it time and time again. What would I have done, were I in Myra’s position? Sick, failing, desperate ... she didn’t know what would come of her decision, hiring ...him... but she knew she was playing with fire! Sheknewabout my history with Mr.Hogwood, though not my involvement with you.” She shrugged. “Or your abilities, obviously. And this”—she eyed the guards and the other prisoner, ensuring she wasn’t overheard—“facility. But she was—is—my closest friend. I still love and respect her, but it’s all been shaken, and I can’t contact her and get any closure.”

Merritt moved his hand from her knee to her back, rubbing her shoulder blades. She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.” He looked around the cell; the other fellow appeared to be dozing. “We’ll get a trial and lay everything straight.”

“But how do we prove we weren’t involved without her testimony?” she asked. “She can disprove at least two of the accusations. We had nothing to do with the siphoned funds, nor with the bespelling of houses to keep BIKER afloat.” Her body grew heavy against him. “Heaven help me, what if they disassemble BIKER completely?”

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