Page 102 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

Merritt was rather glad Gifford hadn’t witnessed it.

“And so that’s from where I pullrestore orderandrandom subterfuge.”

Nodding slowly, Merritt asked, “And what is ‘random subterfuge’?”

“Ah.” Gifford looked pained. “It’s hard to say. Chaocracy is ... messy. The messiest of magic, unless you count necromancy.” He chuckled, but it took Merritt a second to understand the joke. The morbidity of it surprised him. “Honestly, it’s sort of a messy area that everything that can’t be categorized gets shoved into.”

Owein lifted his head, suddenly awake and apparently interested.

“I see. And these other ones,” he pointed to the last two on the list.

“Those,” Gifford said apologetically, “are ones I believe are lost on you. Though you may have experienced them—or something similar—in that one instance, I can’t find any other reason why you, especially so far down the line, would possess such capabilities. However”—he leaned in close, as though to share a secret, despite no one else being in the room—“Ithink the Nichols line is incorrect.” Nichols was Merritt’s mother’s maiden name. “I believe there may have been another sexual partner or two in there somewhere, which, for obvious reasons, was never reported in any of the hospital records or our surveys.” He shrugged. “We may never know. But take it for what it’s worth.”

“I understand. Thank you for this.” He lifted the paper.

What about me?Owein asked.

“Say, Gifford,” Merritt went on, “what percentage do you think my, oh, eight-times-great-uncle might be? Presuming he was in a magical line?”

“Eight times?” Gifford reeled back, then began counting on his fingers. “That would be what, the fifteen hundreds?”

Merritt shrugged.

“Well ... and this is just a rough guess, mind you,” he said, as though having a bad estimate be publicized was his worst possible fate, “given the statistics and finnicky nature of magic, in your line specifically ... I’d say anywhere from twenty-four to thirty-six percent, in order for you to have accumulated, especially bychance, as much as you have presently.”

“Interesting.” Merritt glanced to Owein, putting on his “impressed eyebrows.”

Owein barked, startling Gifford.

“Thank you for your efforts.” Merritt extended his hand, and Gifford shook it happily before picking up his briefcase. “I’ll see you out.”

“I would love to hear about any other phenomena you experience,” Gifford said as they went down the stairs. “It might help us winnow down precisely what’s going on in there.” He made a rough gesture toward Merritt’s person.

Merritt supposed knowing the specifics couldn’t hurt, even if life as awizardstill seemed like someone else’s life. He certainly didn’t have any desire to be employed for the use of his unexpected abilities, though anyone who would hire someone as green as he was would have to be desperate indeed.

Merritt stopped short. “What is that smell?”

Gifford paused and sniffed. “Something gone bad in your house?”

“Is cheese,” Baptiste’s voice sounded distantly, likely from the kitchen. “Smells perfect.”

I want to see!Owein took off through the reception hall and into the dining room, nails clacking on the floor.

“Terribly sorry about that,” Merritt offered, nose wrinkling. The fresh burst of air as he opened the door was much appreciated. “Plenty of light left for the trip back.”

“And MissLarkin in time for dinner,” he replied.

Merritt squinted. Sure enough, Hulda was taking the path up to the house, the white boat she’d hired already sailing back for the mainland. Merritt smiled. “Indeed. Do stop by again.”

“You as well.” Gifford donned his hat and stepped off the porch, taking a more east-leading path to where his vessel awaited him. Merritt strolled down the well-worn one to his own tiny, enchanted boat, meeting Hulda halfway. Her hair was meticulously pinned, as always, though the wind from the journey had persuaded a few locks loose, making her look like she was part fey, softening her features. When he reached her, Merritt swept the loose hair behind her ear, and she smiled at him.

“Just two weeks ago that would have made you blush,” he commented.

Hulda shrugged. “Perhaps I’m getting used to you, Merritt Fernsby.” She glanced toward Gifford, who was stepping into his boat. “What did he say?”

“Done with lessons, for now. But I have a chart you might find rather interesting inside.” He paused, studying her stance, her shoulders, the line between her brows. “What’s wrong? Something happen in Boston?”

Hulda licked her lips. “Yes. Something I wanted to talk to you about.”

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