Page 36 of Boy of Chaotic Making

Chapter 13

March 3, 1847, London, England

The problem with exorcising a noble manor was the excessive amount of salt it required.

The staff and Merritt helped Hulda spread it by lamplight, thankfully, so the perimeter around the mansion went down quickly. The entire family stood outside as well, bearing the March chill, though Hulda had already assured them it was unnecessary. The spells targeted wizards’ ghosts floating about within the walls, not the ones still entrapped in living, breathing bodies.

That made her think of Owein.

She set eleven stones—one representing each of the eleven doctrines of magic—inside the house, along with small red bags containing alteration and wardship spells that would allow for the expunging of any spiritually inclined resident wizard. With the salt in place, she stepped into the large receiving hall and read her spell.

Nothing happened. It was quite similar to Whimbrel House.

She inspected the stones, spells, and the full name of the suspect again, then took a quick jaunt around the property to ensure the salt circle was thick and unbroken, which it was. Out of breath, she returned to the hall and recited her spell once more. No change. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut, but it insisted on sinking nevertheless.

The family had gathered round when she exited this time. As she tucked her spell papers into her black bag, she put on her most professional façade and said, “Prince Friedrich, Lady Helen, I’m sorry to say I haven’t any answers for you. The collapse of that bedchamber was not the working of a ghost. At least, most certainly not the doing of the deceased Marquess of Halesworth.”

Lady Helen’s hand flew to her collar. “But if not that, then what?”

“Might I suggest,” Hulda tried, “speaking to a contractor about the build of the house itself?” That would provide an answer and, in some senses, a comforting one. Though staying in an abode that might degenerate at any moment was not an appealing prospect.

Prince Friedrich sputtered. “This house has stood for generations without a problem!”

Lady Helen touched his arm. “We have a crew arriving tomorrow to begin the repairs. I’ll have them inspect the area.”

Hulda nodded. “I would advise that, yes.”

Lady Briar, who stood several feet apart from her husband, gave him an uneasy look. The others did not appear unaffected, either—Lady Cora stepped closer to her mother, Owein not far from her, and Merritt just behind him.

Merritt tipped his head suddenly, listening to a voice no one else could hear. “M’lady,” he offered a moment later, garnering Cora’s attention, “Owein is wondering if you might still like to adjourn to the drawing room, and if so, whether my presence wouldn’t be a bother. He’d like to speak with you.”

The delicate adolescent’s gaze hopped between Merritt and Owein before resting on her mother.

“Tomorrow would be best,” Lady Helen advised. “If not for the light, then because I have some things to think about, and Cora will of course need a chaperone.”

Merritt nodded. “Of course.”

Chapter 14

March 4, 1847, London, England

Merritt awoke to the sensation of falling.

He gasped, his mind taking a beat to identify where he was—not Whimbrel House, but Cyprus Hall. Shadows engulfed the ceiling overhead; the curtains were drawn against the depth of night. And he was sinking.

Merritt bolted upright and a little to the left as the too-soft mattress bowed beneath his weight. His comforter, shifting into a thick liquid, stuck to his hand like bread dough.

“Owein!” he barked, scrambling back with what little purchase he had. He smacked into a still-solid headboard and rolled onto the floor from there, a few drips of blanket coming with him. “Owein,wake up!”

His shoes danced across the carpet—which shifted from burgundy to navy to white—as though they had invisible legs. He crawled away from the bed, spying Owein at its foot. Where the trunk had gone, Merritt hadn’t a clue. But the dark terrier huffed and whimpered, his legs quivering like they were trying to run but the joints kept catching on something.

“Owein!” he shouted louder. “Wake—”

A box the length of his forearm flew at him, pelting him in the shoulder hard enough to knock him over. Merritt shook himself and leapt to his feet.

The trunk. It was the trunk, now a fraction of its original size.

Before he could call Owein’s name again, a cup came soaring toward his hip; he dodged, and the ceramic shattered against the wall behind him. Next came the basin and pitcher; the first flew wide, but the second sailed straight for his head.

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