Page 94 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“Hello.”

They both startled. Merritt’s knee hit the corner of the chess board, knocking down several of his soldiers. A footman had entered the room, albeit without the jacket that went with his uniform. A footboy, rather. The lad was an adolescent, with the slightest bit of baby fat still in his cheeks. Dirty blond hair swept just over his eyebrows, trimmed short in the back. His eyes were gray, chin on the sharper side. He’d have a well-defined jaw when he was older.

He smiled hesitantly. “I suppose I do look a little different.”

It was the accent, more than the words, that made Merritt’s heart break apart and reorient itself. It wasn’t quite British, not quite American, but something other, something learned a long time ago, warped only slightly by environment, because until now he hadn’t had a voice to warp.

Hulda stood. “Is ... Is that you, Owein?”

The boy lifted his hands, studied them, turned them over. “It feels odd, being this tall. But yes, it’s me.”

Merritt stood as well. “Tell me something only Owein would know.”

They both glanced at him.

Merritt shook his head. “I’m sorry ... I just want to be sure.”

The boy considered for a moment. “Sometimes you hum ‘Turkey in the Straw’ when you get dressed. And you tried to feed me an onion at Christmas, but Beth smacked it out of your hand and jammed your middle finger.”

Merritt laughed. Tears filled his eyes with each chuckle. He crossed the distance between them in four strides and threw his arm around the boy. The top of Owein’s head came to Merritt’s clavicle.

“Owein ... it’s really you.” Hulda came around, and when Merritt released him, Hulda turned him to her. Pushed his hair off his head. Looked him over for ... signs of injury? Likely just to assure herself that he was real, hale, and whole. “Did it ... hurt?”

“I don’t remember,” he said. “But it fits a lot better than Merritt did.”

Merritt grinned and wiped his eyes. “I did get one thing out of it.” He looked around. Grabbed a cup off the table with the pitcher and brought it over. “Let’s see ...”

He concentrated on the cup, feeling a rumble, almost like a growl of hunger, zip up his torso. The cup shuddered in his hand and melted just enough to bend out of shape.

Hulda gasped. “Chaocracy! Why didn’t you tell me?”

He blinked a few times to dismiss the confusion curling through his thoughts and reorient himself. “I was trying tomeltit,” he said with a frown. “Not enough magic, I suppose. But Ifeltthe way you did it, Owein. It sort of contextualized things for me. I, um ...” He set the cup aside. “I can see why they want you.”

Owein folded and unfolded his hands together. “I’m not ready to do any magic yet. I’m still getting used to ... this.” He gestured to his whole self. “Maybe we can take the cup home and mail it back?” His voice jumped midsentence.

Merritt grinned and wiped his eyes. “Ah, the joys of puberty. You haven’t gotten to experience that yet. What a way to greet humanity.”

Owein cleared his throat. “You’re welcome, for not stealing your voice anymore.”

New tears brimmed, but Merritt ignored them, instead hugging his uncle once more. “I think I’m going to miss our private conversations,” he said, kissing the top of his head. “But I’m so, so happy to have you back.”

Owein, despite having only been technically human for a couple of hours, was exhausted. Blightree said that was to be expected; his new body and old spirit had both undergone a lot of stress. His reintroduction to everyone was also tiring. Half the Leiningens treated him like a newcomer, and not like he’d been living at their house for the last week and a half. But it felt wrong to sleep when there was a very important issue to discuss, and an important person to discuss it with.

Her door was unlocked. Owein rapped softly with a knuckle—he could do that now—and cracked the door open. “Cora?”

Her room was dark, only one drape drawn. She sat on the far edge of her bed, facing away from him, hunched over. He’d never seen her hunched before. She always sat up so pristinely, with a spine Hulda would envy. Turning her head just enough to glance over her shoulder, she asked, “Who’s there?”

Owein stepped into the room. “I wanted to talk to you before I leave.”

She turned more, looking at him, her brows knit tightly together.

Owein glanced down at himself. “You didn’t know him, did you?”

“Who?”

“Oliver Whittock.”

It took her a moment. Then her eyes widened and her lungs took in a sharp breath. “He’s the one ... You’re ...”

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