Page 60 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

She shrugged. “Sugar makes sad things better.” She often indulged when she was sad. She’d eaten scads of candy the night Merritt had taken off to Manchester, looking for Ebba Mullan.

He considered that and took another sip. “I can’t fault you there.” He watched the liquid swirl in the cup, and though Hulda had many questions, she kept them at the back of her tongue. Now was not the time to burden him. Not so soon after recovering from the most extreme backlash of chaotic confusion she’d ever witnessed. Not so soon after erupting in the first place. How much had he been carrying, how many fuses had he struggled to put out, to make such anexplosion? It was no wonder he’d struggled with chaotic spells. They’d been buried beneath everything else.

“I’m sorry ... about that.”

Hulda didn’t need to ask for clarification. It was fortunate Blaugdone Island was small and had no other human inhabitants, though several of the nonhuman ones had suffered. Still, the weak apology dug into her heart like a corkscrew into a bottle of wine. “Don’t apologize, Merritt.” Lowering her gaze, she picked at the duvet. “I know you’ve been dealing with a lot, and I haven’t been around to help you—”

“Hardly your job to—”

“And it isn’t a path you chose,” she pressed on, meeting his eyes. She managed a smile. “Gifford will be so excited.”

Merritt ran a hand down his face. Glanced at the window. “I ...Idid that.” He tensed. “The house—”

“Is fine,” she finished. “You only hit the edge of it, and Owein has already repaired it. However, the trees and ... Well, we’ll have some spare firewood this winter and rabbit stew for dinner.”

His lip quirked at that, but the near smile didn’t last. He watched the tea. She watched him watch the tea.

“Sutcliffe wants it all to stay under wraps,” he said. He’d mentioned as much before. “I really should reach out to the people he mentioned on that list.” He gestured to his night table, where the list was pinned down by two empty mugs, which only reminded Hulda of MissTaylor’s absence, which in turn reminded her ofwhyshe was gone. “But I can’t even tell them who I am. I have an entire undiscovered family tree out there, and I can’t tell them who I am. Well.” A dry chuckle escaped him. “I suppose Icould. I don’t owe Sutcliffe anything. But that might ostracize me further.”

Hulda had tried to imagine, multiple times, what she would do in Merritt’s position. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it, and she hated how useless that made her feel. She couldn’t just read a primer on managing broken families and secret affairs and give him a tidbit of advice that would make it all better. She couldn’t do much of anything right now.

“It must be hard,” she tried.

He cleared his throat. Drank tea. “You’re right. I didn’t ask for this. For any of it.” He peered back toward the window, and Hulda knew he was lumping Sutcliffe’s magic in with his family problems. “But how many of us do? Ask for our problems, I mean.” He winced.

“Too hot?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Even now, they’re talking to me.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “There’s a spider waiting for a morsel in here somewhere. And that red maple keeps reminding me it’s nearly winter.”

She rolled her lips together. Best talk to him as much as she could before he lost his voice again. “You’re suffering for the choices of your parents. And your father.” The one who had raised him, she meant, but Merritt seemed to understand.

“He never wanted me,” he whispered.

Her throat grew thick. “But didn’t your mother? Your sisters?”

Merritt reached up to his neck, feeling for the scarf he often wore. When he didn’t find it, he tensed, gaze darting around the room until landing on the dresser, where Hulda had laid it out to dry. He relaxed visibly. “Yes. I think so,” he said, near voiceless, but from communion or emotion, she wasn’t sure. “They always were good to me. I didn’t really—”

His words cut short. He cleared his throat again. “I never got to say goodbye to them. I wrote, in the beginning. Letters. A few a week, then once a week, once a month ... I never received a single response.” He ran his thumbs up the length of the teacup. “I’d always hoped that was my father’s doing, and not theirs.”

“How could it be theirs?” She took one of his hands from the teacup and curled her fingers around it. “Merritt, do you realize how amicable you are?”

He chuckled. “I know a housekeeper who would have disagreed with that sentiment not too long ago.”

“Amicable and tidy are not synonymous.” At least his hands had warmed up. She should probably get a bath drawn for him. “You are agood person, Merritt. You are nothing short of delightful.”

His face fell. Panic rose as Hulda reviewed her words for possible misinterpretations. Her expression must have been fraught, because Merritt said, weak as a fish on land, “She used to call me that.”

Hulda glanced to his collar. “Your sister?”

“Ebba.”

That woman’s name still riled her, but she held on to an insouciant expression.

“Delightful,” he added, and she could hear tears in his voice. They weren’t in his eyes—he did such a remarkable job of putting on that mask Hulda would envy him for it, if it weren’t so disheartening.

He shook his head but kept his hand in hers. “I loved her, and she used me.”

Hulda had nothing to say except “I know.”

---