Page 43 of Boy of Chaotic Making

Merritt smiled.Hulda, certainly. I’m not letting her go anywhere. I can’t make promises for the others, but I’ll eat my shoe if Beth ever leaves you behind.

Owein leapt to his feet and licked Merritt’s face.

“Ugh,” Merritt rasped at the same time Owein complained,Scratchy.

Wiping off the slobber, Merritt felt his stubble. Shaving was such a pain. If Hulda allowed it, he’d become a hermit on Blaugdone Island and grow out a beard to his chest. Anything past the nipple line would be excessive.

After shaving, dressing, brushing his teeth, and combing his hair, Merritt headed into the hallway, Owein on his heels.

“I wonder what we’ll do if the food’s already put away.” His voice had mostly returned to normal. “Is it uncultured to go straight to the kitchen?”

Owein huffed, considerate enough not to tax Merritt’s communion further—until they reached the bottom of the stairs near the reception hall, where Owein exclaimed,I have to pass water.

Merritt gestured toward the front doors. Fortunately, the terrier didn’t request Merritt’s presence this time, and simply went on his own, using magic to melt one of the double doors and slip into the cool March ... afternoon? Was it noon yet?

Fortunately, upon entering the breakfast room, Merritt was pleased to see he wasn’t the only late riser. There was food atop the table, and Baron von Gayl and Lady Briar sat across from one another, both of them eating. Briar had nearly finished her meal; the baron appeared to be working on recent seconds.

Briar looked up as Merritt entered, her icy blue eyes sharper than they’d been when last he’d spoken to her. “Mr. Fernsby.”

Merritt nodded, thinking his name a greeting, but as he reached for a chair, Lady Briar continued.

“How is it that you can continue to live under this roof with the knowledge of how hurtful your presence is to both me and my sister?”

The baron lowered his utensils. “Again, Briar?” His voice wasn’t harsh, but pleading.

Briar ignored him, never taking her glare from Merritt.

Merritt grasped the chairback with both hands. As kindly as he could manage, he replied, “You have made your feelings abundantly clear. Unfortunately, your sister has not yet expressed a similar sentiment.” Not where he could hear, anyway, but that was beside the point. In truth, this was Owein’s decision, not his.

Briar’s lips pressed into a thin line. Setting her utensils atop her plate, she threw her napkin onto the table and escorted herself out, leaving the dishes for the staff to clean up.

Merritt let out a long breath and pulled out the chair.

“I’m very sorry,” the baron offered, German accent polishing his syllables. “She’s very passionate about this.”

“My condolences as well.” Merritt sat and reached forward for a cherry pastry. “It must be hard hearing it, considering your ... circumstances.”

The baron—Ernst—shrugged. “It is what it is. I knew from a very young age that I would marry to create a magic lineage, not for love. I never expected anything different.” He looked at the door Briar had left through. “I think the same for her, but she had ... hope. I’ve tried to win her over. Really and truly. But not yet.” He sighed.

“Have you tried battling a necromancer in a dank basement?” Merritt asked.

A bite of egg stopped halfway to Ernst’s mouth. “Pardon?”

Merritt cleared his throat. “I asked if you’ve tried reading. Her favorite books, perhaps.”

“Ah.” He chewed the egg, swallowed. “She does love reading. It feels too ... slow for me. But I could try.” He shrugged. “By the way, Mr. Fernsby. What is your occupation?”

“I’m an author, actually.”

Ernst laughed. “But in truth.”

Merritt mimicked the same shrug.

Ernst blushed. “My. I’m sorry. I thought you were joking.”

“Your question did have excellent comedic timing.” Merritt smiled. “But I do think the books might help.”

Ernst took a full minute to consider this, long enough for Merritt to grab a sausage—two, that was—and an egg for himself. He’d just cracked the shell when a scurrying of clipped-clawed paws sounded outside the door.

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