Page 20 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

If nothing else, Hulda didn’t want to leave their relationship on such a sour note. She hadn’t spoken to Myra directly since berating her in her bedroom, seething that she would never forgive her if Merritt died. Then she’d stolen her horse.

The telegram weighed down her pocket, reminding Hulda that she wasn’t the only one searching for Myra Haigh.

Merritt wouldn’t have realized he was dozing off if that damnable red maple outside the house hadn’t woken him withFaaaaallllllllll.

He tried very hard not to make his sleepiness obvious as James Gifford drawled on from a book of essays on magic. He’d finished the one on communion—which had only covered the various recorded spells under its umbrella and provided no insights into turning the magicoff—and moved on to wardship, covering everything from the foundation of the magic to well-known users, spells, theories, and blah, blah, blah.

Even Owein had curled into a ball in the corner of Merritt’s office, muzzle resting on his right leg. Merritt hadn’t related the true nature of the dog to his teacher. For some reason, it felt safer to keep that private.

He pushed his thoughts toward Owein.If I have to suffer through this, so do you.

The dog didn’t stir.

Merritt tried again.Owein. Can you hear me?

Nothing. He tried once more, this time letting instinct guide him. The thought seemed to push out from his forehead in a strange, slightly draining way.I never should have signed up for this.

Owein lifted his head.Told youIcould teach you.

Merritt smirked. He’d never spokentoOwein using communion, only listened. Owein had no communion spells; he simply spoke “dog,” or whatever the mental or silent version of “dog” was. All the translating came from Merritt’s end.You don’t have communion spells.

You don’t need help with communion spells.He sniffed.See? You’re doing it just fine.

If only that were true. Side effects tickled Merritt’s throat, and he tried to clear it without interrupting Gifford. He wondered how much of the bookish drawl he’d missed. Would he be tested on it later? If so, he’d have to confess why he hadn’t been paying attention. Then again, as long as the man got paid, did it really matter?

“Mr.Fernsby?”

He startled and turned toward Gifford. “Yes?”

“You said it ignited when you heard a story about your friend being in a dangerous situation, yes?”

It took Merritt a moment to piece together what the older man was asking. “Oh, yes.” His wardship spell, which had sent Hulda on a wild-goose chase all over the house, searching for the source. For a time, she’d believed it to be the tourmaline beneath the foundation. In truth, Merritt had unwittingly activated the spell after Hulda had confided in him about Silas Hogwood. The magic had been enacted again while he was fighting the man, but Merritt didn’t relate either story. He had no loyalties to Myra Haigh, but until Hulda was ready, not a chirp would escape him in regard to Silas Hogwood.

Gifford wrote something in a ledger that already had three pages of notes in it. “I wonder.”

Stretching his back, Merritt asked, “Wonder what?”

“If it’s tied to your protective instincts,” he explained. “Seems that way, given these examples, and it’s not uncommon for men. But you say there’s been no evidence of chaocracy?”

“It’s in the family line, but ...” He shrugged. “I’m more concerned with the communion.”

Gifford nodded. “It’s not uncommon for magic to skip like that.” He seemed not to hear the rest. “Magic subtracts with every generation unless it has other magic of the same discipline to add to, and sometimes it’s finnicky still. In the same way two blue-eyed parents might have a green-eyed son.”

“I’m aware.” He stifled a yawn, not wanting to be rude. He was just so tired. “But I had someone tell me it was in there ... somewhere.”

“Oh? A psychometrist?”

Merritt blinked. “Something like that.” He assumed it must have been a psychometry spell that had allowed Silas Hogwood to look into his blood and decipher the latent spells there.

He glanced to Owein. Perhaps not his blood so much as his spirit. Owein’s blood and body were long gone, but his magic remained indefinitely tied to his soul. Thinking of it that way, Merritt felt retrospectively exposed. How much had Silas seen before he died?

Gifford scrawled another note. “There’s an empathy spell in the school of psychometry that allows the reading of magic in others. Quite rare, actually. Who told you?”

That answered that question. Merritt glanced at Owein, who offered nothing. “A ... fortune-teller on Market Street. In passing. Might have been loony—I shouldn’t put too much stock in it.”

“Huh.” Gifford considered for a moment, then wrote another note. “Interesting. I wonder if the person was a recent immigrant; I can’t think of any empaths of the sort registered in the state.”

Owein laid his head back down. The floorboards near him began to ripple. Chaocracy, the manipulation of chaos. Or, when chaos was abundant, the manipulation of order.

---