Page 98 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

“W-Wait!” Sutcliffe looked at Owein nervously. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

Merritt paused at the door. “Home,” he said.

He hesitated at the intersection again. The one where he’d turn to get to his house. Winter had dulled everything about it. Clouds snuffed sunlight, the trees reached barren fingers skyward, horse droppings spotted the road, mushy from a recent rain. He held his breath when he turned and walked with a measured pace, scanning the way for familiar faces. But no one was out and about this morning, almost like he was a storm they knew was coming, and they’d hidden, doors and windows bolted.

He slowed as he approached his house. Fourth from the end of the lane, with a hip-high fence made from twisted tree branches, constructed before he was born. The plum tree in the front yard held on to a few leaves, like a poker player gripping his hand, desperate to win one last game before he was ruined.

He had the thought to turn back. Instead, he slipped through the gate and approached the front door. It was nostalgic, in a strange way—heknewthis place but felt detached from it, almost like he’d read about it in a story rather than actually lived there. More dreamlike than nostalgia, perhaps.

There was a brass knocker on the door. That hadn’t been there when he’d left. Reaching for it, Merritt paused again. Contemplated. Lowered his hand and took the knob instead.

Unlocked. His ribs seemed to squeeze in as he depressed the lever with his thumb and opened the door.

Homesickness slapped him in the face.That smell.Like sweet potatoes and lemon tarts. His throat closed, smelling it. It smelled like his childhood.

Forcing a breath in, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him. Noted the furniture—some of it was new, some old, some reupholstered. Taking a few steps, he ran his hand along the couch. He’d broken its back leg jumping on it when he was ... ten? Eleven? And the grandmother clock hung in the same spot on the wall, its pendulum swinging gently. It would need winding soon.

A soft hum came from the kitchen. Stepping softly, Merritt passed through the corner of the dining room, which had new wallpaper, and peered through the open door of the kitchen.

His heart stopped.Mother.

She was there, wearing a maroon dress, an apron tied around her neck and waist. Her hair was pulled up in a familiar bun, but it was half-gray—it’d been a rich auburn, when he’d last seen her. She was a little plumper, too. Her back was to him, one arm around a mixing bowl, the other pumping as she whisked batter, her head tilted so she could read a recipe set out on the counter. She was humming “Scarborough Fair.” She used to sing that one, too, especially when she gardened.

Merritt pressed a hand to the doorjamb if only to keep himself upright as he took her in.Thirteen years.He hadn’t seen her for thirteen years. Suddenly he regressed more than that, and he was that ten-year-old boy who’d broken the couch, sobbing apologies into her breast, afraid his father would switch him. And his mother had held him tight, smelling just as the house did, assuring him it would be all right, they would fix it, and what was done was done.

He was so lost in memory he barely noticed the moment his mother turned around and gasped in fright, dropping the bowl—and then her eyes went wide and both her hands slapped over her mouth, and her whole body shook as she eked out,“M-Merritt?”

The sound of her voice nearly broke him.

Merritt smiled, so relieved he wouldn’t have to explain who he was. So happy that she still recognized him, after all this time. “Hi, Mom.”

She wailed and ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist, burying her face into his chest. “Oh, Merritt! My boy!My boy!”

Tears stung his eyes as he hugged her back. As concrete chipped and shattered inside him, statuesque pieces became flesh once more. Sorrow sharp as whiskey burned through him.How he’d missed her!The shock of it muted him. He’d never let himself miss her. He’d forced himself not to. Played pretend for over a decade. A drowning man who insisted he didn’t need to come up for air.

Tears ran down his cheeks. He pressed his face into her hair and slowly aged under her sobs, turning from ten to eleven, to twelve, to seventeen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty-one. All in an instant and yet it took an eternity, standing in that doorway, neither of them really standing on their own.

His mother pulled back first, and Merritt wiped wetness from his face. She put her hands on either side of his jaw. “Look how you’ve grown! You’ve filled out!” She patted him down like she had to assure herself he wasn’t a specter. Her hands came back to his face. “You can grow a beard now!”

Merritt laughed. Tried to swallow the sore lump in his throat.

“And this!” She grabbed fistfuls of his hair. “What is this mess? You always liked it short.”

He shrugged. “Got lazy, I guess.”

She released it. Smoothed it back. “I think I like it.”

He laughed again, and it felt so good, like taking off a heavy jacket midsummer. “You would be the first.”

She grabbed his hands, pulled him into the dining room, and made him sit, ignoring the batter on the kitchen floor. “I can’t believe you’re here ... oh, you’re here!” She wiped her eyes and let out a shuddering breath. “Let me get you something to eat—”

“I’m fine, really.” He grasped her hand. “I just ... I wanted to talk to you.” He sobered. “Where’s ...”Father?“Peter?”

Her face fell a fraction. “Not here. Not now.” She smiled and sat beside him, pulling her chair close. Her eyes lit up. “The house! Did you get Whimbrel House?”

He nodded. “I got the house. Living there now.”

“Oh good. Good.” She took his hands and squeezed them. “And work? You’re working?”

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