Page 10 of Boy of Chaotic Making

What are they going to do?Owein asked.

Merritt shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Folding his arms, Baptiste said, “If it were no legal, I think ... she would not write such polite letter.”

Merritt nodded. “Seems that way. But believe me, my imagination can conjure up all sorts of mires.” He sunk back into his chair. “You know, none of this nonsense happened before I met you all. Before I got this house.” He gestured widely. “Power-sucking necromancers, emotionally scheming lawyers, and now the most powerful wizard in the Western world?” He threw up his hands. “Well, why the hell not?”

Merritt was no stranger to late nights, and he’d known tonight would be one of them, with so much on his mind. But he’d taken two cups of warm chamomile tea heavy with cream and managed to drift off—just before the house started shaking.

Again.

His eyelids slow to part, Merritt pushed himself off his mattress and stumbled toward the door, managing to wake fully halfway down the hallway as another quake hit. He followed a huffing sound, laced with a whine, to the office, where Owein lay on his side on his bed, his legs jerking.

“Owein.” He crouched and rubbed the dog’s ribs and lightly patted his snout. “Owein, wake up. Owein.”

Alertness assaulted the dog suddenly, causing him to jerk up and collide the top of his head with Merritt’s chin. Merritt fell onto his backside.

The shaking subsided.

Ears sagging, Owein plopped back onto his bed.Sorry.

Another nightmare.

“It’s not your fault.” Merritt ran a hand down the dog’s sleek body. “What was it this time?”

Owein shook his head. After a few beats, however, he said,Just darkness. Just black. All around me.

Merritt’s heart felt like a dish sponge wrung too tightly, left torn and dry. “I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t surprised, though. When he’d first come to Whimbrel House, Owein had been a broody, almost violent spirit. Surely spending decades on end without another human around and then, when they came, being unable to communicate ... that would do something to the best of men. The loneliness Merritt had struggled with for much of his life failed to compare.

“Come on.” He tapped Owein’s butt, urging him off the bed, then picked up the large cushion and carried it into his room. Owein followed behind, droopy and slow, like he’d been scolded. Merritt set the cushion down near his bed, hesitated, then patted his mattress. “Come on.”

Owein hesitated a moment—Beth did not like him on the furniture—before hopping up on the side of the bed still made—the half Hulda would be occupying soon enough. He set his maw on the pillow and sighed.

Stifling a yawn, Merritt slipped in beside him and stroked his fur with one hand until the terrier’s breathing calmed. Slowly, together, they both fell fast asleep.

“I imagine every paper in Massachusetts made note of it, and the states beyond,” Hulda said, gazing over the torn note one more time. It floored her that she was holding a letter penned bytheQueen Victoria. Would Merritt let her keep it? But that was a foolish thing to ask. Or was it?

Regardless, she ensured for the third time she hadn’t missed anything, including any hidden meanings, of which the English were fond. She absently drummed the fingers of her left hand on her desk—she had only just become accustomed to being on this side of it. It was a large desk, cherrywood, directly across from the stairs in BIKER headquarters. One wall was lined with bookshelves, the other relatively sparse, save for a potted fern she had moved in here. Apparently it bemoaned of thirst to Merritt every time he stepped foot on the floor, so Hulda had taken it upon herself to keep it close and ensure it remained well watered.

Merritt sat across from her, chair pulled up close enough that he could prop both elbows on the opposite side of the desk. He’d given a little extra attention to his hair today—the waves in the light-brown locks were nearly uniform and shiny, save for a crimp that whispered he had tied it back at one point, then probably given up on it halfway to Boston and pulled the tie out. “I should have cashed in on that.” He stretched his neck to one side, then the other. “I could have written a far more detailed article on the jailbreak than anyone else.”

Hulda snorted. “The Crown likely has people everywhere. And they would easily be able to access the files on Whimbrel House.” Files that contained everythingexceptthe moving of Owein’s spirit from house to dog. As far as any of those papers were concerned, the house on Blaugdone Island was still enchanted. “She’s being straightforward. And I agree with Beth; I believe this letter to be authentic.” She certainly believed Dwight Adey to be authentic, and he was apparently the man who’d delivered it. “At the very least,” she offered, finally setting the paper down, “you should hear her and the Leiningens out.”

“Do you know anything of that family?”

“Not offhand. But the name is familiar.” Hulda had lived in England for several years. The light caught on her pearl engagement ring, and for the twentieth time that day, she found herself both mesmerized by the band and surprised it was there. She tilted her hand alittle to the right, then the left, watching sunlight from the window behind her dance across it.

Merritt lifted a fist and rested the side of his jaw against it. “I don’t suppose you might accompany me?”

The offer warmed her. “I would love to. But BIKER—”

“But BIKER,” he repeated, as though that was explanation enough. And it was. He punctuated it with a sigh.

A flicker of anxiety threaded around the base of her throat.Just a sigh now, but what about later?Merritt honored her commitment to her job, but what if a year or two down the line, he tired of it? What if he became the next Dickens and her BIKER paychecks became moot? What would she do?

“If,” Hulda tried, glancing once at the clock on the wall, “thisopportunityrequires an elongated stay, I’m sure I could arrange a visit with LIKER. They’re also stationed in London.” Might as well keep her fingers in two pies for as long as she could manage it.

A soft smile tugged on Merritt’s lips. She found herself matching it. “Thank you,” he said. He took the letter, folded it slowly, and slid it into an interior vest pocket. It was a brocade vest, threaded with violet, carmine, and gold. For as plain as all his other clothes were, Merritt seemed to fancy extravagant vests. Hulda hardly minded—they made her smile. Now, if only she could get him to wear a proper hat—

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