Page 24 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“But what?” Merritt asked.

Helen’s wide-eyed gaze fell to Owein before shifting to Merritt. “But ... this was meant to be your room.” Her voice quivered with each syllable. “Mr. Fernsby, I’d initially intendedyouto behere.”

Chapter 10

March 2, 1847, London, England

Despite lack of sleep, Merritt found himself very awake at the breakfast table the following morning. The breakfasting room was, in size, at least, one of the more modest areas of the house, meant to serve just the family, sans guests, or so Lady Helen had told him. The furnishings, however, were still quite grand. The ceiling, trim, table, and chairs were all painted a brilliant white that seemed to reflect the east sky billowing in from the enormous window at Merritt’s back. The walls were papered a deep navy blue with white fleur-de-lis in neat, vertical rows. There were two entrances to the room, one to the north and one to the south, and the servants seemed to use only the former. Lady Helen apologized for the meager meal, which wasn’t meager in the slightest—Merritt had a boiled egg in a little egg cup with a genuine silver spoon the length of his pinky, a plate full of eggs, sausage, ham, cheese, and braised tomatoes. There was also bread, butter, and preserves and a tray of little tarts that hadn’t made its way to his end of the table yet, not that he could possibly spare room in his belly for it. The most excellent part of being a guest in a lavish home was the equally lavish food.

He focused on the food so as not to dwell on the fact that he would not be here to enjoy it if Lady Helen hadn’t determined to move his room closer to the family suites.

A chill coursed from elbows to shoulders at the thought. He’d taken a peek at the damage after the constable left this morning. Had he slept in that space, he would most definitely be dead.

God knew he was getting tired of people trying to kill him. But who could hold any animosity toward him here, of all places? It was a coincidence. It had to be. His sanityneededit to be.

“The incident last night does seem to be the working of magic,” Blightree said in a solemn tone, which made breakfast gurgle in Merritt’s gut. The necromancer appeared to have gotten less sleep than Merritt, judging by the heavy bags under his eyes. “It couldn’t have been natural causes, isolated as it was. The constable agrees with me.”

“A sound judgment,” Prince Friedrich said. He hadn’t touched his plate, while Lady Helen’s appetite seemed well. Lady Cora picked at hers sleepily. Owein sat in the corner—Lady Helen had tried to get him a feasible chair for sitting at the table, but it had proven more awkward than it was worth. Cora herself had set him up in his present position—a good sign. Owein had already finished and was sniffing around, only occasionally passing a thought to Merritt.

“Even if any of ours had the ability to break stone”—Lady Helen looked at Merritt specifically—“so much magic would have caused enormous side effects. We would have discovered the culprit straightaway.”

An assurance that his host wasn’t trying to murder him. And it did assure him, a little—he’d seen all of the family members shortly after the incident, and none had appeared to be experiencing the kickbacks associated with magic. Only Lady Helen had seemed discomfited, and that was from overuse of her spell of air movement to clear the hall. He wondered if anyone suspected himself or Owein, whodidhave spells that could cause such destruction, but again, their lack of magical symptoms marked them as innocent. That, and lack of motivation. Blightree had come late to the event, but he was a necromancer. None of his spells could have wreaked such havoc. But all that had already been discussed and recorded with the constable.

Merritt knit his fingers together and placed them beneath his chin, feigning surface-level calmness. “And none of the servants are gifted?”

Lady Helen shook her head.

“There’s Elizabeth,” Cora offered.

Lady Helen met her daughter with a patient smile. “Yes, but she is only a hysterian, darling, and barely one of note.” She met Merritt’s gaze. “Elizabeth works in the kitchen. She has a slip of joy in her from her grandfather.”

“Perhaps she made the house chuckle itself into breaking,” Merritt offered.

Lady Helen shook her head. “I don’t think ... Oh, but of course you jest.” Another patient smile.

Perhaps now was not the best time for jesting. But Merritt found he could best stomach the uncertainty—especially as it seemed to involve him directly—with a little mirth. He’d learned to cope with a lot of things with laughter, for better or for worse.

“Let us hope,” Prince Friedrich said, finally cracking into his egg, “that the police turn up something in their search and we can let it be done and over with.”

“Mr. Fernsby,” Blightree added, “I assure you that very few persons know you’re here, and for what purpose. I believe your involvement to be happenstance.”

“I prefer to think so,” Merritt agreed. And yet, logic dictated it must havesomethingto do with him. It was no isolated earthquake or failure of construction; both Blightree and the constable had confirmed the damage appeared to be of magical make. Merritt prided himself on his imagination, but he could not begin to fathom a story that made sense of the situation.

Owein lifted his head.Someone is coming.

A moment later, the south door opened to a footman who bowed and announced, “Baron Ernst Freiherr von Gayl and Lady Briar Feodora of Leiningen.”

Cora leapt from her seat as a tall blond man with a shockingly wide mustache stepped through, followed by a demurer woman who appeared to be around twenty, with brown hair similar to Hulda’s, pinned up modestly, though her dress was certainly of expensive make.

“Briar!” Cora cried, instantly crossing the room to her. She embraced Lady Briar around the middle, and was embraced in return. If Merritt remembered last night’s conversation correctly, this was Friedrich and Helen’s eldest daughter.

“I’m so sorry, Mama,” Briar said midembrace. “We meant to arrive earlier, but there was a problem with a horse.”

“Tossed a shoe?” Prince Friedrich asked.

The ... baron with the enormous name ... Ernst was the beginning of it, Merritt thought, took an empty seat. “No, just a fit.” He had a heavy German accent that put Prince Friedrich’s less pronounced one to shame. “Driver said it was newly broken and unused to the travel. We stayed at the Red Rabbit last night. The place has really gone downhill.”

“Red Rabbit?” Lady Helen frowned. “That’s only a few miles from here. You should have stayed the night.”

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