Page 16 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“Nothing. Just a passing thought.” He absently stroked Owein. “But ... now that this is out of the way, why did your cousin write us directly? Why bring us here? She mentioned an opportunity—”

Just then a man in a well-tailored uniform stepped into the room. He clasped his hands before him, waiting for Merritt to finish, but Merritt’s words wafted away from him. After a brief pause, the newcomer announced, “Dinner is ready, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Prince Friedrich clapped his hands, rose, and then offered a hand to Lady Helen. “If you’ll excuse our casual manner tonight, Mr. Fernsby, I think a comfortable dining experience will make talk easier.”

Merritt rose as well. “I know little about the formalities you’re omitting, so we’re all probably better off this way.”

The prince grinned. “Perfect. Shall we?” He looped his wife’s arm through his and led the way to the adjoining room. Blightree motioned for Merritt to go ahead of him, and Owein followed closely behind.

The dining room table was long enough to comfortably seat twenty, but only the close end of it had been set, including four different silver bowls on the floor surrounding a cushion for Owein. The dog went straight for it, his stomach apparently overriding whatever nerves had kept him quiet.

There was a vegetable and chicken soup already in the bowls at the complex place settings, as well as silver trays of what looked like fried sole, veal with a sort of spinach gravy, an encrusted leg of mutton, and a lemon-scented pudding farther out. It was Merritt’s understandingthat food at dinner parties like this were typically served in courses, so the setup was either intended to deformalize the event or for the sake of privacy. Merritt glanced around the room and noticed a lack of servants. And as he’d learned from his tour, there werealwaysservants.

Regardless, the spread looked absolutely delicious. What would Baptiste think of the setup?

They settled in, forgoing grace, and finished their soup course before Lady Helen addressed him in a very businesslike tone. “How much do you know about British wizardry, Mr. Fernsby?”

Merritt lowered his fork. “I admit to not being well studied in it, though I’m more familiar now than I used to be. My fiancée and I spoke at length on it, after the queen’s letter.”

“Is that so? Is she a scholar?”

“Not formally.” Merritt allowed himself a bite of mutton. Chewed and swallowed before adding, “She’s the director for the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms.”

“Oh!” Lady Helen’s fingers flew to her breast. “Really? The director?”

“A woman director?” Prince Friedrich asked, apparently unaware of the institute’s previous master.

“Hulda Larkin, if I’m not mistaken.” Blightree spoke more evenly.

Merritt nodded. “You are well informed.”

“Isn’t that something.” Lady Helen set down her silverware. “That’s something, isn’t it, Friedrich?”

Her husband chuckled. “Any plans you had brewing for him are certainly pointless now.”

Lady Helen swatted his arm. “Really, Friedrich. Let’s have some propriety at the table.”

“The interest,” Blightree politely, softly interjected, “is with Mr. Mansel, of course.”

Lady Helen composed herself. “Yes, thank you, William.” Her gaze refocused on Merritt. “The British wizarding pedigree is the strongestin the world, you see. It’s been taken very seriously since England could even be called such. It is one of the greatest duties of the peerage to uphold it, to nurture it. To continue the line. Thus Her Majesty’s direct missive to you.”

Merritt nodded, stomach suddenly tight. Where was this going?

“We heard about the prison break,” Prince Friedrich explained. “Animals can’t inherently possess magic. You said as much in your article.”

Merritt stiffened. “That article hasn’t been published a week yet.” And Owein was never named in it.

“We have our ways.” That same, gentle smile touched Blightree’s mouth.

“It is clear,” Lady Helen continued, “that Owein’s—I can call you Owein, can’t I?” She glanced at him.

Owein nodded.

She smiled. “Owein’s magic is strong and enticing. How old is his spirit?”

Merritt clasped his hands together. “He was born in 1624. Roughly two hundred and twenty-three.”

Lady Helen nodded, smiling enough to show her dimples. “As I thought. No wonder it’s so strong! A miraculous way to skip natural dilution.”

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