Page 85 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

She barely noticed it at first, but it barked again, then again, until the head guard bellowed, “Get that mutt out of here!”

Hulda looked back over her shoulder.Owein.Stepping out of Baptiste’s shadow.

The entire penitentiary began to quake.

Stone tremored around her, raining little pieces of mortar into her hair. A large section of the wall to her right burst free in a cloud of dust and rammed forward, smashing hard enough into her captor to make the both of them fall. The man lost his grip on her, and she tumbled free.

Huldaknewthis spell. She’d seen it several times when it possessed Whimbrel House. Blood racing, she picked herself up off the trembling cobbles and nearly fell again as pieces of cobblestone jerked from the floor and flew like snowballs at the guards—no killing blows, but hunks of stone hit stomachs and thighs hard enough to leave deep bruises.

The doorway was collapsing. The left wall came loose and inched inward.

A hand grasped her forearm—not Merritt’s, but Baptiste’s. He said nothing—one glance into his glimmering eyes told Hulda all she needed to know.

If she returned to that prison cell, they would never let her back out. So when the Frenchman pulled her toward the door and out into a growing storm, she didn’t hesitate to follow.

Something in the prison creaked loudly, like the entire structure was about to collapse in on itself.

Her wits came to her. “Don’t kill them!” she cried, and almost immediately the quaking stopped as MissTaylor—followed by Merritt carrying a limp terrier—and Mr.Sutcliffe rushed for the doorway.

“Go!” Merritt shouted, and Hulda pulled free of Baptiste and ran, grabbing fistfuls of her skirt and lifting it out of her way. Baptiste sprinted beside her. Merritt quickly caught up, and ... and ...

She hadseenthis. In the living room of Whimbrel House, after Merritt returned from Cattlecorn. She’d seen them running through Boston, just like this.

There was no comfort in the thought, and no time to dwell on it. They had to flee before the guards caught up with them. Before they signaled for help.

So Hulda ran, and ran, and ran.

And never looked back.

Chapter 19

November 23, 1846, Boston, Massachusetts

Merritt would think he was used to living on the water, but this little hovel of Baptiste’s was ... not exactly quaint.

The Frenchman had taken over their escape and led them to one of many docks in Boston, a smaller one used by hobbyist fishermen and the like. The hovel’s entrance was tucked away on the north side, underneath a set of stone stairs leading down to the water, the space dug out of the earth—a forgotten storage area, perhaps, used by early settlers or the natives before them. It was a tight fit for the five of them, yet Merritt couldn’t complain. It was certainly more comfortable than the prison cell had been. Apparently Baptiste had discovered this hideout along with a few others after first arriving in America, about two months before Merritt met him. It was cold and poorly lit, but, as Baptiste had shrugged and said, “Worst case, take boat and sail.”

Merritt wasn’t exactly in love with the idea of adding theft to his growing list of criminal acts, but his chef had a point. Although Owein had made a little raft Baptiste had tied to the little kinetic boat Merritt had inherited with Whimbrel House, both conveyances were docked in Rhode Island.

Readjusting, Merritt leaned back against an empty, split barrel lying on its side and stretched his legs out in front of him, letting the blood flow back to his feet. Of all the things his imagination could conjure up,he never expected his life to take this sort of turn. He thought, if he ever managed to clear his name, it would make an interesting climax in a novel.

He caught a faintSwim? Food?from a fish in the nearby water, but managed to tune it out. Hulda sat across from him on an intact barrel, the only other one in the vicinity, trying to clean her glasses on a skirt made filthy from prison, running, and dock gallivanting. She’d managed to rearrange her hair without a brush or mirror, and still sat like she was a woman in power, ready to dismiss anyone who came into her office with the wrong attitude or skewed cravat knot. Merritt knew she was simmering with worry beneath the surface, both for their current situation and for Owein, who, after a sleepy recovery from his chaocracy spells, had been sent out earlier that morning to sniff out supplies for writing missives. Hopefully he hadn’t gone too far.

Beth, the only one of them not technically wanted by the judiciary, was near the entrance of the place, putting together breakfast for the lot of them, having purchased a loaf of bread and a fried fish just after the break of dawn. Baptiste loomed nearby, his thick arms folded over his thick chest, standing sentry by their little fire, though he appeared to doze while on his feet, an accomplishment Merritt found rather impressive.

Nelson Sutcliffe had not come with them. If he had, Merritt would have sent him right back. No—he had run from the collapsing building as any sane man would, and no farther. He had done nothing wrong, and he needn’t take the blame for this mess. Especially not after the wildly generous sum he’d given over to get Merritt and Hulda out of jail, even if only for a few minutes. If their sudden ineligibility for bail didn’t result in the money returned, Merritt would be taking out a portion of his own earnings for the next ten years to pay Sutcliffe back ... if there was even a shred of normalcy in his future. He was still waiting for Hulda’s augury to tell him whether or not he’d be a convict the rest of his days.

He shook his head and stared at the low, moldy ceiling above him.Murder.Of all things for them to be accused of! Had he fallen into a novel unawares?

His mind wandered back to the prison. When that guard had seized them and read the absurd charge, he’d considered using magic. But those men were innocent. Fooled, and perhaps foolhardy, but innocent. He didn’t want to hurt them, nor indict himself by doing so. He might not have manipulated the workings of BIKER or killed Myra Haigh, but he certainly would be guilty of assault if he fought his way out. And he had such little control over his abilities, besides ... Who knows what horrors he might have unleashed.

A small smile touched his lips.Can’t arrest a dog.The good Lord must have been looking out for him there.Focus on the positive things.Otherwise he’d start thinking about how cold it was ... and the unlikelihood they’d find their way out of this mess.

He shoved his hands into his armpits to warm them.

Soft padding outside announced the arrival of a dog, and Owein popped in moments later, shaking sea spray from his coat.

“Not by the fire!” Beth hissed.

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