Page 42 of Boy of Chaotic Making

He desperately hoped to see his mother and sisters at the wedding. Desperately wanted it to be the doorway from a life with no family to a future with two—the Fernsbys and the one he’d begin with Hulda.

Owein grabbed his sleeve and tugged; Merritt wore only a long nightshirt, now that there was no immature ghost within the walls threatening to merge his bed with his housekeeper’s and leave him in an awkward entanglement with no pants on.I’ve been waiting forever for you to wake up. Let’s play!

“You’ll put a hole in it,” Merritt grumbled, unsure if the rasp in his voice was from sleep or communion. Stifling a yawn, he sat up, tangled hair falling into his face.

Owein’s tail beat against the mattress, and a soft whine emanated from his furry throat.

Merritt glanced at the bright sunlight around the curtains. Was it rude to sleep in so late? No one had come to wake him, so hopefully he was all right on that point. He stretched again.

Owein whined.

“Question,” Merritt said. “You’ve lived a great deal longer than me, albeit in a multitude of bodies.” He swept hair back from his face. “You’re centuries old.”

Owein dipped his head. His tail beat against the blankets impatiently.

“So why do you still act like a child?”

The tail stopped.

Sighing, Merritt reached out and stroked between Owein’s ears. “I don’t mean it negatively. I just wonder. I understand you died at twelve, but your consciousness has never stopped. Yet you still seem very much a boy.”

Owein shifted on the bed. Glanced around the room.

Rubbing a crick in his neck, Merritt offered, “You don’t have to answer. Just a thought I—”

It’s easier,Owein said, quietly, in his not-voice.It’s easier to deal with it, when I’m just a kid.

Carefully choosing his words, Merritt asked, “What’s easier?”

Owein’s dark, canine eyes met his.Dealing with the ... hurt.

The mattress seemed to suck down on him. Getting up on his knees, Merritt put a hand on either of Owein’s shoulders. “Owein, I’m so sorry.”

Owein didn’t respond. But if Merritt had learned anything over the last year, it was the importance of getting things off one’s chest, not bottling them up and letting them simmer until the glass shattered.

“Nightmares?” he tried.

Owein took several seconds to think.I was alone for a really long time.

Merritt nodded. Waited. Waited a little longer.

Owein settled down, laying his chin between his legs.I was always alone. Sometimes someone would come by, every twenty or thirty years, but they could never hear me. It’s different, inside the house. Different without eyes and ears and ...skin. I saw and heard and felt things in a strange way.Distantly. And it was always dark, even when the sun was up. Even after Silas put me in this body, the darkness followed. And it hurts.

Merritt ran his palm down the length of Owein’s spine. Once, twice, three times. His heart felt heavy, like it needed to slumber.

I don’t know how to grow up,he finally finished.

Merritt considered this for a long moment, wanting to say the right thing, if there even was a “right thing” to be said.I think,he began in communion, not trusting his voice to hold up,it’s like a child—a young child—thinking there are monsters under his bed. And he hides under the blanket, and the monsters disappear.

Owein’s gaze lifted to his.

Children are very forgiving,he went on.You hurt them, and moments later it’s forgotten. Children always look forward to the future because they don’t yet value the past. There’s certainly something alluring about the idea. But you do have a past, Owein. And yes, itisa dark one. I’d like to think I have an expansive imagination, but I canonlyimagine how hard such a past must have been.

Even though Merritt had spent a good many years alone before moving to Blaugdone Island, he’d never been completely solitary. He’d made friends. Expressed himself.Moved.Being trapped on Blaugdone Island in a house must have felt little different than imprisonment. In truth, it said a lot of Owein’s character that he wasn’t more psychologically damaged.

But you are too smart and too old to believe a blanket will muffle the bad. You have to face it. And it’s going to hurt. Honestly, it never stops hurting. Even with all the balms one could hope for, the hurt carves your soul and leaves a scar. But, Owein ... you’renotalone anymore. That twelve-year-old boy who got sick and fled into the walls of Whimbrel House will always be a part of you, but you and I are together now. Always will be.

Another soft whine. Owein lifted his head.Hulda, too? And Beth? Baptiste?

---