Page 2 of Boy of Chaotic Making

Perhaps involuntarily, Myra’s eyes shifted slightly to the right. Hulda followed them to a door she’d assumed was a closet.

Her chest tightened. “Do I want to know?”

Myra didn’t answer.

Sighing and adjusting the black bag on her shoulder, Hulda marched toward the door. She was nearly there when Myra said, “You’ve washed your hands of the place, remember?”

Hulda wrenched the door open. The space within was unlit, and not much larger than a closet. After fumbling in her bag, she pulled out an enchanted light and bid it to ignite.

She nearly dropped it.

Two of those horrid, shriveled bodies were in here, hung from a shelf like curing meat. Those awful, gnarled things used to be people. Silas Hogwood had mutated them with spells, preserving them from death so he could keep the magic stolen from them. That ability was the reason Myra had taken his body postmortem in the first place, sure that the secret to replicating magic lay somewhere in his anatomy.

“For the love of heaven.” Hulda slammed the door shut and reeled around. “Put themout of their misery.”

Myra pressed her lips together. Thankfully, she nodded, skipping the fight Hulda had been more than ready to have with her.

She ended the spell on the light in her hands and said, “I’ll see myself out.” She swept down the hallway and to the exit, leaving at a pace far quicker than she’d used upon arriving. She wished there were a kinetic tram line this far west. She couldn’t return to her hotel fast enough.

She found herself in desperate want of a bath.

Merritt paced the length of the hall in the triple-decker house that had been turned into a small inn. The Bluebird, it was called, and admittedly the weathering on its blue-painted exterior walls did resemble feathers. It was right next to the railroad station, and he’d stayed there last night, though barely slept a wink. Not because house plants and rodents were trying to speak to him—no, he had that, blessedly, under control.

It was just that ... he hadn’t seen his sisters in nearly fourteen years.

Worcester didn’t seem like the most ideal place to reunite, what with all the factories and construction and the noise from the canal, but it was a decent city somewhat in the middle of all their locations—Merritt was posted out in the Narragansett Bay, Scarlet had movedto Albany, and Beatrice was in Concord. Granted, he and Scarlet had access to a kinetic tram, which made it a little fairer for them, but—

He touched the faded scarf around his neck, uncaring that it didn’t exactly add to his clothing. And he was wearing his nicest clothing—church-worthy clothing, with a new lavender vest. Beth, his maid and friend, had thought it looked well on him, but it didn’t exactly blend with his multicolored scarf ... the only token he’d been able to take with him from his oldest sister, Scarlet, when the man who’d raised him had kicked him out with little more than the clothes on his back. Only much later had he learned that Peter Fernsby was not his true father. Merritt hadn’t been able to save anything of Beatrice’s.

His mother, against Peter’s wishes, had sent his sisters’ addresses to him, and he’d written to them. They were both married, with households of their own, so there was no one around to tear up letters before they reached their destination. Not like before. And his sisters, both, hadanswered. Immediately. He’d even gotten a telegram from Scarlet.

He was to be reunited with his family any minute now.Any minute now.

He pulled out his pocket watch with clammy hands and checked the minute hand for the dozenth time. His hostess had asked him on several occasions if she could get him anything, then finally let him be to wear down the varnish in her reception hall with his relentless pacing. Forcing the watch back into his pocket, Merritt squared his shoulders and ran a hand back through his hair. Should he have cut it? Maybe he should have cut it. Or at least tied it back with a ribbon or something. Merritt had never cared about his hair. Why did he suddenly care so much about his hair?

He turned about for a mirror. Didn’t see one. There was one in his room, but he wasn’t going to trudge upstairs for the sake of vanity. What if he didn’t like what he saw? What, precisely, was he going to do about it?

The front door opened. Merritt’s heart lodged in his throat—but a wide man of about forty stepped through, two suitcases in hand. His trouser leg got caught on a splinter in the doorframe.

“Here, let me,” Merritt offered, and grabbed one of the suitcases so the man could free himself. He might have wondered if this was one of his brothers-in-law, but both of his sisters had determined to come solo. First, to make this a more intimate and less stressful affair. Second, because they both had children, some of whom were in school, and it was easier to find help at home if their husbands could take over after work.

“Thank you.” The man tipped his hat to Merritt, then accepted his suitcase back.

“Hostess is upstairs,” he offered.

The man nodded and started up that way. Merritt moved to close the door—

And locked eyes with Beatrice Fernsby—Blakewell, now—coming up the path.

His organs evaporated. His spirit shot out of his body and dissipated into fog. She looked different—there was more weight on her, rounding out her features. More lines to her face. Her dress was well made, as was her coat. Good. It meant her family made a comfortable living. Her eyes were the same—blue just like his.

“Oh!” she cried, and dropped her suitcase right there on the winter-curled lawn. She ran toward the porch.

Merritt blinked, and suddenly he was in his body again, tripping over the doorjamb as he stepped outside. Blinked again, to clear tears from his vision.

“Merritt!” Beatrice shrieked, and bowled into him, nearly sending them both to the ground. Her arms went straight around his waist, and his fell over her shoulders. Had she always been this short?

“Bea,” he whispered, and a tear traced the side of his nose and fell onto her hat. “Goodness, Bea, you’re all grown up!”

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