Page 48 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

He opened the door. Merritt and Baptiste had made themselves scarce—only Owein sat in the hallway, his tail staying oddly still as the detective made his way out. Hulda passed a silent thank-you to him—the simple alteration spell would maintain the ruse that the house remained magical—and followed Mr.Adey as far as the stairs. Merritt waited at the bottom of them, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a grim look on his face.

“Good night, Mr.Fernsby,” the detective said, catching Hulda off guard. She didn’t recall Merritt introducing himself.

Baptiste showed the stranger to the door, and then through it. Likely the cook would follow Mr.Adey all the way to his boat and make it look like a courtesy rather than suspicion.

Hulda descended the steps on quiet feet. “I don’t think we need to worry about him. Did you hear?”

Merritt’s gaze remained locked on the front door. “Most of it. But tell me anyway.”

She did, and while she believed Mr.Adey had already stepped out of their story, the stress of the meeting never left Merritt’s shoulders.

Gifford arrived bright and early the following morning to torment Merritt with more essays on magic. One of which had been written in the 1400s. He wore a suit that looked like it had come from the same era, though it was in good repair, and his hair was oil slicked to one side.

“How lovely,” Merritt said as he invited Gifford into the living room. A change of scenery was needed, so he thought, though the burgundy drapes and forest-green wallpaper wasn’t exactly a cheery combination. Perhaps something more peaches and cream was in order, but he knew Hulda had plans for the space. He stifled a yawn before lowering into an armchair, though in truth, he was grateful for Gifford’s arrival. Not only from the hope they might discover something useful to him, but because he wanted a distraction from the detective sniffing at Hulda’s skirts. “But are they about communion?” He dared to hope.

“Oh yes.” Gifford poised himself on the sofa and opened his briefcase. “I’ve highlighted what I’ve determined to be the most pertinent, and I’ll leave the rest with you for your personal study.”

Merritt nodded. “I appreciate it.” Hehadread the previous essays and articles, and while he knew a lot more about his abilities in a theoretical sense, he was no better equipped to wield them than he’d been before.

“This one”—Gifford pulled out the copy of the ancient paper—“hypothesizes there exists a spell that not only permits a person to speak to insects, but allows thecontrollingof them as well. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Merritt tried to imagine what he might do with an army of beetles, or perhaps butterflies. “I suppose ... Was it ever proven?”

“Not by scholars, no.” He thumbed through the pages. “Quite disappointing, really. If only there were magic that would let us travel through time! How incredible it would be to go back to the fifteenth century and see magic in higher potency. What we might learn!”

Merritt smirked. “Wouldn’t learn much if the plague got you.”

“Ah, but I would be a century too late for that.” He set down that essay and picked up the other. “At least, for the big one. But ...” He shuffled a paper, and Merritt could see he’d underlined so many passages with yellow pencil it would be quicker to read what hehadn’tselected than what he had. “The theory of personal entanglement for magic comes up again in this one.”

Merritt leaned forward. “Remind me what that is?”

“The idea that an ability is directly connected with something of one’s person, usually the intangible.”

Merritt processed this. “Such as when you suggested my wardship was tied to my ‘protective instincts.’”

Gifford beamed. “Yes! Precisely.” He went on to read an incredibly verbose passage about it, of which Merritt managed to follow about seventy percent. If the scholar had been paid per word, the way Merritt was for his newspaper articles, he’d be a millionaire.

“So”—Gifford’s shift in tone signaled an end to his reading—“we might just need to find what your communion is tied to. I think his reasoning that it’s a pertinent connection is spot on. Wardship, protective instincts. They fit together like a puzzle. Communion may be related to speech, or communication, or ...” He scratched his temple. “Well, we’ll think on that one. And chaocracy could be tied to cleanliness, perhaps, or even anger.”

Merritt snorted.

“Pardon?”

“Not anger,” he answered, glancing toward the window. A few fallen leaves stirred outside. As if sensing his attention, something—it felt like a hare—whispered,Listen. Still. Listen.“I’d be an expert at chaocracy if that were the case.”

“Oh dear.” Setting down the papers, Gifford turned bodily toward him. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Merritt pasted on a smile. “Oh, no. Just some family business. You know how frustrating that can be.”

“Ah, yes.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thermometer. “I was thinking, however, that it might be interesting to take some vitals, both of you at rest and casting a spell ... if you can, of course. Are you willing?”

Merritt sighed. “Of course.” Sitting up, he straightened his vest. “Whatever you need.”

Hulda arrived at the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic at approximately a quarter after eight the morning after Mr.Adey’s visit. Normally the society didn’t open to the public until nine, but admittedly, Hulda was used to special treatment. Unfortunately, the ones who usually gave it to her were not present, unaware of her last-minute decision to do some professional snooping before she made her appearance in the BIKER office. The spare time had her fretting in front of the office over the incident with Mr.Baillie and then pulling out Mr.Adey’s card, glancing over two addresses upon it, which she’d already memorized: one was in New York, another in London proper. She’d lost sleep mulling over the detective’s unexpected visit, but had come to the conclusion he posed no real threat to her. At worst, he would miraculously track Silas Hogwood back to Blaugdone Island and to Marshfield, only to learn he’d attempted the murder of three persons and lost his life in the process. Hulda couldn’t be penalizedfor withholding what she knew—she was an American citizen, and the English government had no power over her. Even had her path never crossed with that of Mr.Hogwood, Hulda doubted even the best detective would be able to track his final whereabouts in the States. Not without Myra Haigh’s help.

He might be another fellow who ends up looking for you, Myra.

There were many of them now. Herself, the writer of the mysterious telegram, Mr.Adey. Did Myra know about the last? Doubtful. Should Hulda hire a detective of her own to track down the missing woman?

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