Page 79 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

“Ask for testimonials without Alastair Baillie in the room, for one,” Merritt tried. “And we’ll need to come clean about everything and anything, including our necromantic friend. Myra can take the fall for our secrecy—if anyone’s willing to believe the man was alive and came to America in the first place.” They’d need to use that card to bring in Mr.Adey as a witness, God let him be willing. “If nothing else, both Gifford and I have copies of my family tree, and living witnesses to it. The psychometry accusation will be refuted quickly.”

“Mr.Baillie has to know it will be. His argument lacks integrity. Oh, I wish I knew what he was thinking!” She sighed. “I’ll have to completely besmirch Myra’s character, besides. And ... she told me not to tell anyone about ... aboutOhio, not even you—”

“You don’t owe her any favors.” Arm around her shoulders, Merritt hugged her. “I don’t know. Hopefully it will be enough. Who knows how many pies Baillie—or Myra—have their fingers in.”

They sat there for a long while, leaning against each other, staring at rock and bars. Merritt unpicked his thoughts, trying to sort out the best means of getting them out of this mess ... but through it all kept his focus on Hulda. On keeping her chipper, reassuring her, but also on being present with her, because she was a balm to his anger and confusion, and while he knew incarceration likely hit her harder than it did him, he was grateful they were together.

Maybe, if he played his cards right, he’d never have to be alone again.

His fingers traced circles on her far shoulder. One of her hairpins was jabbing him, but he didn’t move to accommodate it. He’d thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she started examining her cuticles. “You know,” he spoke slowly, quietly, his heartbeat picking up, “once we get out of here ... if BIKER is off the table ... you could come back to Whimbrel House.”

She snorted softly, like she couldn’t bear to put effort into it. “I’m not sure you could afford me.”

“Not as a housekeeper.”

She paused for a moment, then lifted her head to meet his eyes.

He pulled his arm from her and dropped his hands in his lap. “I know we’ve only known each other a short while ... a couple months and some change ... but.” He paused. Perhaps he should have thought through the wording beforehand. That was a nice thing about writing—when someone read it, they had no idea how long the author had taken to compose it, or how many times he’d discarded something terrible and replaced it with the right phrase. They only saw the finished, polished product. “Well, I’m very fond of you, as you know. And we’re both already in our thirties ... past time to settle down, really. I’ll have another work published next year, get the rest of my advance, and Mr.McFarland wants a series, which is a good outlook, career-wise. I’d like to have you around ... I want to be close—”

Hulda was staring at him, blanched and wide eyed. He lost track of what he was about to say. His heart squelched a little, trying to read her expression—

She swallowed. “A-Are you proposing to me?”

He studied her for a second longer, determining to push forward. “I think this is a poor location for a proposal, don’t you think?” He chuckled, but Hulda didn’t follow suit. Sobering, he added, “I’m certainly putting it on the table, that is—”

Hulda pulled back, blinking, tears forming in her eyes.

Merritt’s stomach flopped into his pelvis. Pulse racing, he reached forward and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry, Hulda. I shouldn’t have brought it up, here of all places. Not with this thing with Walker hanging over our heads—”

“No, no.” She shook her head, blinking and straightening. Laughed softly. “No, it’s not that at all ... I just ...” She lifted her glasses and dabbed the corners of her eyes with her knuckles. “I just ... I never thought this would be an option for me. I never thought anyone would ever ...” She dabbed and laughed, sniffed, and Merritt’s stomach climbed back to its space below his diaphragm.

“Oh.” He tried not to smile but did a terrible job of it. “Well. I apologize that the men in your life have been muttonheads, but then again, I suppose I should thank them—”

This time he wasn’t able to finish the sentence because Hulda was kissing him. Not that it mattered—the subject at hand was quickly forgotten beneath the pressure of her lips, which Merritt quickly matched. Her hands worked into his hair, fingernails leaving shivering trails, and he nearly fell off the bench, trying to get a better angle, to explore her more thoroughly—

Banging on the bars startled them apart. One of the guards was running a cudgel over the iron bars. “No sparking, or I’ll see you whipped!”

Hulda, red as cooked lobster, retreated as much as she could without actually standing and walking away. Merritt laughed. It felt good to laugh, given their situation.

Once the guard was satisfied and stepped away, Merritt said, “I certainly hope that was because you like me, and not because I’m the first to ask.”

Hulda folded her arms tightly across her chest. “You are a rogue, Mr.Fernsby.”

Smiling, he stretched, wondering what time it was. Wondering when they were going to eat, and what sort of food wizardfolk prisoners received.

They didn’t get lunch, but they did get dinner, eventually. Crusty bread and a slop that could almost be called soup. It sobered both of them, and brought up the question neither wanted to voice aloud.

What if they couldn’t prove their innocence?

Then there would be no books, no Whimbrel House, and no Hulda in his future, period.

Chapter 18

November 20, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Owein was tired. He’d barked until his throat was raw, then run laps around the island until his legs and ribs hurt. Merritt hadn’t come back. Hulda hadn’t come back. Beth hadn’t come back. They were all being taken away, one by one. Soon he’d be alone again. He’d rot away in these walls until his dog body died; then he’d haunt the house again ... or maybe just move on. Maybe he’d leave, too. See if his family still remembered him, on the other side.

He’d taken up residence at the bottom of the stairs, in sight of the front door, which remained closed. He dozed on and off, his exhausted body at war with his racing mind.Still have Baptiste,he reminded himself. Baptiste, who had spouted obscenities in all volumes and punched the woodpile and now read a paper in the living room. At least he still had Baptiste.

---