Page 4 of Boy of Chaotic Making

Merritt couldn’t answer. If he tried, his voice would be little more than the screeching of an old door hinge.

So he opened his arms instead, and Scarlet fell into them, leaving her tears just above Beatrice’s. After a moment, he felt another pair of arms—Beatrice, coming to join them, his sisters’ embraces warmer than the fire at his back.

This. Merritt had waitedso longfor this. There was so much to talk about, and so little time before they had to return home. How would he cover it all?

When they finally pulled apart, having exchanged their sorrys and well-wishes and regrets, they returned to the seats by the hearth. Scarlet hung up her coat and situated herself comfortably between Beatrice and himself, then said, “I hear you have something for us.”

He paused. “Something?”

“Yes!” Beatrice exclaimed, dabbing yet again. “Yes, I heard a rumor about a woman.”

“Oh!” Merritt reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the folded papers, neatly addressed and sealed with wax. The paper had seen better days, but such was the toll of travel. He handed one to each of them.

Wedding invitations. The date was set to April 12, two months away.

Scarlet broke the wax reverently and unfolded the note as if it were woven from spider silk. Beatrice ripped into hers, nearly tearing it in two.

“You have to tell us all about her,” Scarlet said, halfway to a whisper. “Hulda Larkin. Such a melodic name. I want to hear the story from the start.”

Elbows on his knees, Merritt knit his fingers together. “I want to hearyourstories. I want to know about my nieces and nephews.”

“One thing at a time.” Scarlet smiled, soft and genuine. “Tell me about Hulda, and then tell me about the house, and where you’ve been all these years. Tell me so I can stop dreaming about it, worrying about it, wondering about it.”

Warmth enveloped Merritt’s chest. “All right. First, the story of the house and the story of Hulda are one and the same ...”

Chapter 2

February 23, 1847, Boston, Massachusetts

After too many days of travel and another long day of catching up on work, Hulda met Merritt at Karlsson’s, a soup-and-sandwich shop near the docks in Boston that had become a regular rendezvous point for the two of them when she could get away from BIKER and he had time to travel up from Blaugdone Island. This past month had seemed especially busy—BIKER was running much more regularly now, with only occasional checkups from its parent company, LIKER, or the London Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms. Merritt was writing a great deal and had taken a much-needed visit to reunite with his sisters. Hulda was elated to see him again, and relieved to see him so happy. They took a table in the corner, away from the drafty windows, and he recounted everything. She, on the other hand, had not disclosed her findings at the Ohio facility, though Merritt knew she’d gone. She couldn’t risk it, not yet. Certainly not at a public restaurant, and she dared not tell him of it through their linked communion stones. Which were technically BIKER property, and technically should not be in Merritt’s ownership anymore.

Technically.

“But,” Merritt said, putting a hand in front of his mouth to mask the last remnants of food there. He’d been talking so long, answeringall of Hulda’s questions, that he’d barely eaten a bite. “I wanted to show you this. Picked it up on my way here.”

He lifted his satchel onto his lap and pulled from it a folded newspaper. Opened it up, turned to the second page, and folded it down again. Hulda quickly wiped her fingers on her napkin before accepting it.

“Is this it?” She brought the paper to her face, pushing up her glasses with her free hand. It took her only a moment to find it.

Souls Over Blood

Local scholar theorizes magical heritage is linked to more than blood.

“How wonderful that it published!” she said, glancing over the article. She’d read early drafts of it already—it detailed, withouttoomuch detail, findings that suggested magical inheritance was connected to the soul first and blood second—hence the ability powerful spirits had to inhabit houses, which was becoming a far-less-frequent occurrence as magic continued to dwindle. The fact that Owein—once a boy, then a house, now a canine—still had full access to his magic seemed proof enough, though Merritt had purposely not named him or given many details on the matter. He valued privacy too highly, and there were those who might go to great lengths to study him. Myra came to mind.

“Scholar?” she teased.

Merritt shrugged. “Gifford edited it, so it counts. I’m not the first person to have made the connection, but they published the article anyway.”

Mr. James Gifford from the Genealogical Societywasquoted twice in the passage. While Merritt usually put his name to articles he sold, he’d requested it be left off this one. Again, for privacy. Both for himself and for Owein.

“How is he?” Hulda asked, softer, folding the newspaper again. “Owein, I mean. Nightmares?”

“Not for a bit now. At least, not since I got back, and if it happened while I was away, Beth didn’t mention anything.” He swirled his spoon around his chowder, took a bite, considered. “He seems all right.”

Hulda nodded. “That’s good.” Owein hadn’t been sleeping well. It wasn’t every night, only on occasion. Perhaps that was normal, for a child. Then again, Owein was, if they were to be precise, 223 years old. He seemed reluctant to talk about it. Granted, he could easily communicate only with Merritt, but he’d learned his letters well and could speak with a letterboard when he needed to.

She folded the paper back up, but a smaller article on the same page caught her attention. She skimmed it.Renowned Aristocrat and Wizard Passes Away.It was half news, half obituary, naming a marquess who had died at Cyprus Hall in London. She’d paused because she recognized the name—Patrick Bryson Pratt, the Marquess of Halesworth. He was a direct relation to the Crown. She’d met him once, indirectly—he’d been a member of the King’s—now the Queen’s—League of Magicians, and Silas Hogwood had hosted him at a few dinner parties at Gorse End. That had been long ago, of course, before Hogwood’s insidious affairs were uncovered. The marquess had been kind—a pity that he’d passed away.

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