Page 87 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

“I may not even have the same spells—” His throat itched.

Owein ignored him.First, if you want to make something move that doesn’t move, you have to see it in your head. Imagine that rock is growing legs and getting up to walk ...

The meeting place they set was an overly large intersection about three-quarters of a mile from Baptiste’s dock hovel, a place where it would be easy to scan for passersby. One-quarter of it cut through a patch of forest, which loomed dark and foreboding in the night, though the light of a nearby streetlamp glimmered off frost forming on the branches of the closest trees, which Merritt had to admit was eerily beautiful. A money-changer’s shop, shadowed and closed until morning, was just past the intersection to the west. A lot for parking carts and wagons stretched to the east, and a wide, diverging street looped southward. The cobblestones were slick but not icy, and Merritt lingered across from the streetlight, just off the road, his hands in his pockets to keep himself warm, his breath clouding on the air. A fisherman’s jacket he’d nabbed on his way here yesterday—he was going to return it eventually—stretched over his shoulders, and his hair was tucked up under its accompanying cap.

This was his second night of lingering at the intersection at the designated time—a quarter after eleven. He didn’t want Beth doing so—cold or not, it wasn’t so late that any drunkards had turned in for the night, which was also the excuse he’d used with Hulda. An unnecessary one, possibly, because Hulda, ever practical, had pointed out that both she and Baptiste had more distinguishing features, leaving Merritt the obvious choice for watching for Myra.

He didn’t know how to feel about the lack-of-distinguishing-features bit. Minus the hair, he supposed it was true. But at least he hadn’t noticed any Wanted signs posted around with his or Hulda’s faces plastered on them.

Owein sniffed at a dead weed. He’d brought him along, just in case, but had forbidden any unnecessary instruction along the way.IfMyra showed, Merritt needed to be able to speak with her. That, and he wasn’t making any progress, besides. But it was eleven thirty already, which meant this was another cold and fruitless night. Time to head back.

Closing his eyes, Merritt listened. Not to the sleeping sounds of the city, but to the creatures hidden within it. There weren’t many—he imagined that would change come spring—but there was an owl not far off, mice speckled throughout the area, a smattering of ... he shuddered.Cockroaches.He’d rather not know about those. Still, he pressed,Do you see her? A woman?

Search. Search. Listen.The owl.

Hide. Hide. Mate. Hide.Mice.

Food,hissed the roaches.

His sigh coalesced in the cold air. A couple more nights. He could do this a couple more nights. Then they’d have to figure out something better.Anythingbetter. Their situation wasn’t sustainable.

“Fortunately,” came a soft, feminine voice from the shadows of the money-changer’s shop, “you won’t need to wait much longer.”

Merritt whirled around; beside him, Owein perked, ears up. He searched the intersection but didn’t see anyone until a silhouette, carefully checking the street, crossed, shoes tapping softly on the stone.

Relief practically bludgeoned him over the head. “MissHaigh,” he spoke quietly. “Lovely meeting you again.”

She stopped about a pace from him, close enough to keep their volume down, not close enough to appear intimate.

“Glad you’re alive,” he added.

Her head tilted. “As am I.”

Keep an eye out,he told Owein, who turned and scanned the intersection. To Myra, he said, “Which message reached you?”

Her lips twisted, like she didn’t want to answer. “Telegram to Agatha. She’s a friend of mine who agreed to forward any messages I might receive.” She pulled her coat tighter. “I left an unassuming letter from her on my nightside table in case an ally came looking for me. Or an enemy.”

Hulda had mentioned finding letters at Myra’s house. She’d be relieved to learn it had paid off.

Reaching inside her coat, the ex–BIKER director pulled out a newspaper. “You’ve been busy.”

Merritt took the paper and tilted it toward the oil lamp, though he could make out only the headline:Two Wizardly Fugitives Escape Suffolk County Penitentiary. Merritt grumbled low in his throat.

“Are you dangerous, Mr.Fernsby?” Her voice carried a hint of mirth, yet sounded wholly serious at the same time.

Merritt shifted his weight to one leg. “I think we can agree that I’m the least dangerous person here.” He didn’t want to say anything about the facility in Ohio. He wasn’t supposed to know. Casting the thought from his mind, he focused on the uneven lines of the street’s cobblestones in case Myra decided to skim his brain.

She paused, looking toward Owein. “Indeed.”

The dog looked back.

Before Merritt could ask, Myra said, “I can hear his thoughts, and I’ve not a lick of communion in me. There’s a human soul in there. Is he the same from Mr.Hogwood’s ...?”

Merritt nodded. “That dog used to be my house.”

“Fascinating.” She crouched down, and Owein quickly came to her, tail wagging, likely excited that someone else could understand him.

“And while we could have a very long conversation about it,” Merritt pressed. “There is the issue of themurder charges.”

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