Page 34 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

Hulda chewed on her bottom lip. Stared into her tea. “I do.”

“Thenshowhim!” She swung her arms out, nearly knocking over a vase of day-old flowers. “Break one of those bars, Hul. Let in the sunshine. Humans are emotional creatures, even you. You’ve got to crack the shell on the egg and let him see the soft flesh underneath.”

Hulda returned her cup to her saucer. “If you must be poetic, you should stick to one form of imagery. Else it becomes confusing.”

Danielle chuckled. “Are you confused?”

She took a moment to think on it. “No.”

Reaching over, Danielle took her hand and squeezed it. “If this Mr.Fernsby fell in love with you, that means he loves who you are, bars and shell and all.” She smiled. “That says a lot for his character. I think it’s romantic.”

“You think everything is romantic.” She sighed.

“What?”

A shrug. “I feel a little silly getting advice from myyoungersister.”

“Alas, you do not have an older one,” she quipped. “Now, let’s talk about reciprocation when he returns from this trip. One step at a time. I want to hear all about him so I might enlighten you with my wealth of relationship knowledge and stellar advice.”

So Hulda told her the whole of it, leaving out Silas, and by the time she turned in, she felt a little less heavy.

By the time dinner was served, Merritt managed to stitch a smile back on his face and boil down his errant thoughts to a simmer. He’d mentally retraced his steps through town and felt fairly certain he hadn’t seen anyone who might recognize him. That is, he saw plenty of people, many of whomherecognized, but they either didn’t notice him or didn’t look his way twice. Which made him wonder how different he looked. Had he not written ahead, would Nelson Sutcliffe have been able to name him? His own son? But it wasn’t worth dwelling on.

He’d embraced Ruth, Fletcher’s mother, upon arriving, which had both helped and hurt. Fletcher’s father was still at work, and his two siblings were out of the house—Amos was in Manhattan finishing a butchering apprenticeship, and Keri was dining with her fiancé’s family.

“But she’ll be right back here tomorrow, mark me.” Ruth finally sat down after seeing the others served.

Merritt pierced a piece of gravy-smothered chicken with his fork but didn’t lift it to his lips. “I heard she was engaged.”

“About time, too. Real nice boy.” Ruth nodded. “Father’s a wainwright, but Jon wants to be a pharmacist.”

“Interesting.” His stomach was small and hard as steel, but Merritt pushed the chicken into his mouth and chewed, anyway. He didn’t want to be rude. A distant part of him knew the food was good; he just had no appetite.

“Truth be told, I thought she’d be getting a ring from you for a while there.” Ruth laughed.

Merritt chuckled, the sound growing more barbed with every vocalization.

The Portendorfers had taken him in after his father cast him out and Ebba left. Keri had been kind to him, and they’d tried it for a week or two until she straight-out told him she couldn’t handle his brokenness. And rightfully so. He’d used her as a human crutch.

The chicken turned oily in his belly. Better for all of them that she wasn’t there.

Thankfully, Fletcher took over for him, chatting about his job and the upcoming holidays—easy topics Merritt could comment on without much effort. No mention of murderers or magic. Fletcher was the only person Merritt had told about the Hogwood mess, and he wasn’t keen on sharing with anyone else, even the woman who had been like a mother to him after his own was stripped away.

Still, it was a relief when the meal was over. Merritt helped with the dishes to give his hands something to do, then lingered by the door, sure he was going to vomit everything he’d stuffed down his gullet. He reached for the knob twice, but his body was kind enough to hold on to its meal, and the flora and fauna of the evening seemed fit to leave him in momentary peace.

And so Merritt took to staring out the window, though there wasn’t much to see. Just a few lights in windows or hanging by doors. Freeman,Fletcher’s father, came home and greeted him before going in to eat. The draft from the glass was cold. Merritt leaned his forehead against it, and it fogged up from the heat of his skin.

And he thought about ... nothing.

He must have been there awhile, because when Fletcher approached him, Merritt had completely forgotten where he was.

“Sutcliffe have much to say?” Fletcher asked.

Merritt kept his gaze fixed on a candle in the house across the way. “Enough.”

A few seconds slipped by. “Maybe tomorrow we can—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered.

---