Page 101 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

“In my own house,” Peter growled, but he retreated, not wanting to be slammed by the wardship spell again. Merritt followed, keeping the shield between them, until he could access the door.

Still, to be safe, he added, “You lay a finger on her, and I’ll beat you into a bloody mass, do you understand?” Red-faced, Peter stepped right up to the shield, but before he could speak, Merritt added, “Do you think I couldn’t do it?”

The man hesitated, which was all the answer Merritt needed.

But he paused as he reached for the doorknob. Turned toward his mother—his beautiful mother. Emotion thickened his words. “Where are my sisters?” He knew the cities, but they were big cities, and he didn’t have addresses—

“Don’t you dare tell him.” Peter fumed. Hard eyes locked on Merritt, he added, “Donotreturn to my house. Donotwrite. I will push every legal right I have. You areno longer part of this family.”

Merritt pressed his lips together, then felt himself, strangely, relax. His shield came down, but Peter Fernsby did not approach him.

“Then why are you so afraid of me?” he asked, and to that, his father had no answer.

Opening the door, Merritt stepped out into the cold afternoon.

And it was enough.

Chapter 22

December 9, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

“This is about as far as I can take you,” Gifford said as he collected his papers from Merritt’s desk. The walls were freshly painted as of two days ago and still bore the faintest scent of it. Owein dozed in the corner. Although he’d insisted on participating, he’d lost interest rather quickly for a boy who was supposed to be twelve and some odd centuries. Merritt stood from his chair, surprised—he’d expected their discussion to last another hour.

“That’s it? That’s the end?” he asked. While, admittedly, Gifford was a droll fellow, Merritt had begun to grow fond of him. While his lessons hadn’t directly solved his issues, his theory of magic being connected to his personality—wardship to his protective instincts, communion to communication, and chaocracy to anger—had helped him understand himself a little better. That, and Merritt was a sociable person, and there weren’t a lot of people in the Narragansett Bay.

He checked the time on his pocket watch—hisniceone, which had been returned from the Suffolk County Penitentiary, along with his other belongings, earlier that week. Hulda had nearly sobbed over the sight of her trusted and beloved black bag. Were it large enough to step into, she’d live in it.

Gifford smiled. “The end ofmytutelage, yes. I am no wizard, if you remember. Only an appreciator of magic.” He opened his briefcase, carefully placed the papers inside, then pulled out one more. “Though Idothink you might find this of interest. I hope you don’t mind the, uh, personal accounting of your genealogy.”

He handed over the paper, written up with straight lines and his flawless handwriting. The lines branched together and ended in numbers.

“What’s this?” Easier to ask than to decipher it himself.

“My estimation as to your active spell percentages,” he explained, then stepped around to view the paper as well, pointing as he explained. “In total, I believe you are sixteen percent wizard.”

Merritt lowered the paper. “Sixteen, eh?” Hulda was eight, and Beth only four. Still, for such a small number, it was phenomenal he could do so much.

“A very good percentage for this day and age! And my guesswork at your spells,” he went on.

Merritt brought the paper back to his face and scanned it until he found a short list in the bottom left corner. It read,

Wardship: Shield

Communion: Talk with animals

Communion: Talk with plants

Chaocracy: Restore order

Chaocracy: Random subterfuge

Chaocracy: Discordant movement (weak)

Chaocracy: Animate object(weak)

Merritt blinked at it. “This is what I can do?”

Gifford waved a flat hand back and forth. “It’s an estimation, based on what I’ve seen you do and your account of the island mishap.” Merritt had seen Gifford shortly after Baillie’s arrest, and explained asbest as he could remember—Hulda had filled in the gaps—what had happened when his deeply buried chaocracy had ... well, exploded. Gifford went on, “You definitely do have chaocracy in your family line, though I would have, admittedly, dubbed it lost on you if not for this occurrence. I so regret not having witnessed it myself.”

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