Page 5 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

And yet, inside it was a little boy who desperately missed his family. A little boy Merritt barely recognized, and—

“You look sick.” Hulda rose from her chair and pressed her palm to his forehead.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” He exhaled slowly and stood as well. Owein skittered out from beneath the table and darted into the reception hall after God knew what, his paws barely gaining purchase on the wooden floorboards. Merritt pasted on a smile. “Let’s get your things. Plenty of time to get to Boston and back.”

She studied his face, hazel irises darting right and left. “Not yet,” she insisted. “Maybe you should get some rest.”

He considered for half a second. “Maybe I should.” Which he wouldn’t—naps were slightly easier than sleeping at night, but if he stayed awake, he’d have more time with Hulda.

Besides, Merritt also knew no amount of rest would cure the ailment coiled in his belly like a snake, its fangs sunk in deep and slowly seeping venom. So he pushed it away, burying it beside the other half-rotted corpses he’d collected over the years. Poured on dirt and rocks and logs until the graves were hardly recognizable.

He was already starting to feel better.

Owein ran through thistle and goosefoot, stretching his legs. Everything was cold beneath his paws. It was so strange feeling cold again. Stranger even than having four legs, because he barely remembered what it was like to have two. Before this, he hadn’t had legs in a very long time. Over two hundred years.

Time was a strange thing. He felt that now, too. When he’d been in the house, it’d been different. Everything had been different.

But Owein thought having a body was excellent. He’d forgotten how great it felt. Then again, the memories he still had of his human body were of being weak and sick and hot.

He might not have chosen the form of a dog, but it was infinitely better than being a house, most days. He hadn’t adjusted to the cost of using his magic now—confusion and disfigurement—so he tried to use it less, but magic had been all he could do for so long, it felt strangenotto use it. He tried to occupy his time with reading, which was boring but necessary, he guessed.

The wind whipped past his ears, pushing the taste of winter into his mouth. Muscles burned as he darted beneath the low branches of a half-bald tree. It was shaped a little like a balloon, and the urge to make it look more like a balloon rolled up his body, but he stopped himself. He didn’t want his body to contort out here in the cold, and last time he’d taken on a big chaocracy project, he’d completely forgotten what he’d been doing halfway through it, thanks to the accompanying confusion. Frustrated, Owein barked at the tree instead.

And itwasfrustrating. For two centuries, Owein hadbeenmagic. That was why he was here, in this house, and his family was elsewhere, in heaven, or so MissTaylor said. Since Owein hadn’t wanted to die, his spirit had imprinted itself here.

He didn’t remember dying. If he held very still and thought very hard, he could remember being sick. Remember heaviness settling in hischest—the chest of a person, not a dog. Almost remember the twitching of five fingers on human hands. But it had been so long, and it was hard to pull up memories of before.

He liked MissTaylor. Beth. He called her Beth when she wasn’t listening, which was always. She could sense his moods, thanks tohermagic, but couldn’t hear his words like Merritt did. Well, no one could reallyhearhim. He didn’t have a voice capable of forming human words. But no one had heard him before, either.

Didn’t make it sit better.

Owein ran, chased a hare, leapt over a log, enjoying the newness ofnow, until his body started to ache and begged him to slow down.

He did, near the north coast of the small island—his home, and the only place he’d ever really known. He stood at the tip of a short cliff, the ocean about five feet down, lapping against dark rocks like it was trying to climb up and not doing so well with it. Lifting his head, he looked out into the bay, to land in the distance—

And his body seized up in a new way. His lungs shrunk, though he’d done no alteration magic. His body, warm from the exercise, sucked in the chill of the air. Owein retreated, a whine escaping his throat.

He didn’t like it. The ocean and those unfamiliar spaces beyond. He shook hard but couldn’t disperse the uneasy feeling. The fear creeping up like he’d stepped in an anthill. The shadows on the edge of his vision. He shook himself, and they went away.

The only time Owein had ever left his island was when that scary wizard had come for him. The man had put his hands on the walls of Whimbrel House and sucked Owein’s soul right out of them. Shoved him into this body, and then hurt him. Owein didn’t remember clearly the first time he’d died, but Silas’s spells had felt ... familiar. Not the pain shooting through his muscles as the wizard tried to wrench power from him, but the ... He struggled to describe it. Theflashes, the wavering, the darkness, had reminded him ofbefore. Owein had writhed and cried and begged, but that man hadn’t cared. If Merritt and Huldahadn’t intervened, Owein would have died. There’d have been no magic left to tether him anywhere.

Lying down in yellowing clover, Owein whined again and set his head on his front legs. No, he didn’t like it out there. Portsmouth, after the rescue, had been exciting. Too exciting. It had been the only time he’d left the island, ever. There’d been so many people andsmellsand sounds and buildings he’d gotten overwhelmed before reaching the boat. Overwhelmed and terrified until he stepped foot on Blaugdone Island again. His safe space. His home.

Maybe ... if Merritt or Hulda or MissTaylor or Baptiste came with him, maybe he could visit the mainland again. Maybe.

Stepping away from the ocean, Owein jaunted to the house, never once looking back.

Chapter 2

November 2, 1846, Boston, Massachusetts

Though Myra had often slept at BIKER during the week, she owned a weekend home on the north side of Boston—a small family home with a thatched roof, square windows, and a short picket fence in need of whitewashing. The gate wasn’t latched, so Hulda pushed through easily, glancing over the yard and back to the road, wondering if anyone was watching her.

With only a trickle of hope, Hulda knocked on the door. Waited, listening for movement within. There was none. After testing the lock—it was indeed locked—she turned around and pulled the spare key from its hiding place inside the chute of a wooden wind chime hanging on the eave. She let herself in, locking the door behind her.

The front room was small and tidy; Hulda’s hopes rose when she saw a teacup on the table—with augury, she could read the leaves and perhaps see where Myra darted off to. But upon inspection, the cup was empty of anything save dust, which did nothing to trigger her fledgling spell. Sighing, Hulda ventured into the kitchen, running her hand along the short counter, opening drawers and doors.

She ended in Myra’s bedroom. The bed was made; Myra mustn’t have been in a hurry to leave, despite the unlatched gate. The bedspread was a faded yellow, still cheery, and the curtains were drawn on thewindow. If there’d ever been a chest at the foot of it, it was gone. The side table, clear.

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