Page 41 of Boy of Chaotic Making

Cora offered him a look of sympathy. “It must be frustrating, to lose the ability so quickly.”

“Were it just Owein and I,” Merritt rasped, “it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t need to hear my voice.” Realizing how that sounded, he added, “Not that this is a bother at all. It is what it is.”

At the door, Anabelle murmured, “Some tea for Mr. Fernsby, if you would.”

“I’ve a few effects that make me quite cross,” Cora offered, seeming unsure whether to address Owein or Merritt. “Conjury is harsh; it takes something of equal value to whatever you conjure. I can only conjure stone, and there’s plenty of that around here, so it’s not particularly useful. But if I were, say, to conjure a rock the size of my fist, it might, oh ... take that quarter log over there in retribution, or perhaps the pins out of my hair.”

“Really?” Merritt’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Of course, there’s a way to do it,” she went on. “I could get a handful of sand and then trade that sand for a stone of what the universe considers ‘equal.’ It’s not always by weight or worth. Or perhaps it would be, if I had a little more of the blood in me.”

Merritt nodded; this was the most he’d ever heard Cora speak.

“But the air is the worst.” Cora folded her arms, then checked herself and let her hands fall daintily into her lap.

The air?Owein asked.

The ringing amplified.

“Lack of breath,” Merritt whispered, “if I recall correctly.”

The door opened, and a new maid brought in a small tea service. As she set it down on the nearest table, Cora said, “More than that—”

“Lady Cora is asthmatic,” Anabelle interrupted, dismissing the maid with a nod and taking on the tea service herself. She didn’t ask Merritt what he cared for, but the little bit of cream and sugar she added to his cup were fine enough for him. He nodded his thanks as he took the warm cup and sipped. “To use her magic, more than a puff, would threaten her life.”

Owein shifted onto all fours.Really? You shouldn’t use it ever.

Merritt held up a finger to Owein, begging for a moment to recover before sending more words his way. The tea was hot; he sipped it gingerly.

Owein watched him impatiently. Unfortunately, the muteness would take a good moment to wear off.

In the interim, Owein padded to the unoccupied couch against the wall perpendicular to the ivy window. Slipped behind it and pulled out a letterboard not dissimilar from the one Hulda had crafted him in the States. Had Hulda helped him find one? But she hadn’t had the time ... Perhaps the family had put it together, wanting Owein to be able to communicate if Merritt wasn’t around to translate.

He didn’t miss the faint flush on Cora’s cheeks as Owein dragged out the chart and smoothed it out as best he could. Was she embarrassed by the ordeal?

Owein began tapping out letters with his paw.H-A-S-I-T-E-V—

“I think I need to retire,” Cora said suddenly, softly. “I’m so sorry. I think the smell of the tea is making my stomach ill.”

Owein paused midword.

She stood and offered a quick curtsy to the both of them. “Anabelle, if you would inform my mother I’ll be resting upstairs.”

The maid nodded, then stepped aside and held the door for Cora’s uncomfortable exit.

Merrrrrriiiiiitt.

Merritt was vaguely aware of a strange tugging sensation on his arms as his dreams—which he was already forgetting—blended and bled from his thoughts. Words formed in his head that weren’t his.

Merritt! I’m bored. Let’s go play!

Opening bleary eyes, Merritt took in the bedroom illuminated by bright sunshine pouring around the edges of the heavy curtains. He stared at it for a couple of seconds before rubbing his eyes and propping himself up on one elbow. “What time is it?”

Owein jumped off the bed, ran across the room, and jumped back on again, shaking the mattress.Clock says ten forty-five.

Groaning, Merritt rolled over and stretched. He’d stayed up late last night with Hulda in that same yellow drawing room, talking through other possible magic sources for the collapsed room, though the lack of further incidents had her strongly favoring worn beams in the house itself, which was probably why Merritt had been able to sleep so soundly. They’d meandered on to the topic of the wedding, of course, and Merritt’s family. Though he owed his biological father, Nelson Sutcliffe, a great deal, he hadn’t invited him, nor any of his half brothers, to the wedding. He wouldn’t make it awkward for his mother, should she find a way to attend. And his half brothers still didn’t know he was their blood relation. Merritt understood Nelson’s desire to keep his family happy and intact, of course, but it felt like one more man penalized Merritt for something he’d taken no part in.

For now, Merritt would honor Sutcliffe’s wishes. Just not Peter Fernsby’s.

---