Page 47 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“Oh?” She didn’t look at him.

“It’s just ... and please, correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to have upset you.”

Hulda paused and turned to him, caught off guard. He wasn’t a large man—indeed, in these shoes, Hulda was a finger’s breadth taller. He had a benevolent face and balding head, but she could see the Hogwood in his eyes and the curve of his mouth.

“Not at all.” Hulda put on her stiffest mask, trying not to sound flustered. “Indeed, we’ve barely had a chance to acquaint ourselves since my arrival.”

He nodded. “This is true. Then perhaps I imagine it ... but, Miss Larkin, even now, you seem discontent.”

A flush threatened to crawl up her neck. Hulda forced her spine to relax.Well, better now than never.“I admit I’m aware of your relation to Silas Hogwood.” There. She’d said it.

“Ah yes.” He rubbed his chin, seeming not at all surprised at the statement. “That one does come up a fair bit. First cousins, we were.”

Sensing opportunity, Hulda pressed, “Might I ask how you were related?”

“His mother was my aunt,” the necromancer answered honestly.

Hulda considered this. She was well aware of Mr. Hogwood’s pedigree; his mother had been a solid necromancer. Everything else he had came from his father’s side.

“And,” she pressed, “if you’re the one to be performing this potential body switch, you are also a kineticist?”

He looked impressed, of all things. “Indeed, I have a fractional ability with movement, as well as in psychometry, for detecting magic. My real skills lie in necromancy.”

Fractionalability. So the man was, essentially, a pure necromancer. And necromancers couldn’t break bedrooms ... assuming he was being truthful on that front.

“He is,” Mr. Blightree went on, “a dark spot in the family history. Necromancy is considered by many to be a dark art, but it also does a lot of good ... such as healing the poor baron’s arm.”

Hulda dipped her head in hesitant agreement.

“I hope to give it a better name. And the family a better name, though fortunately I don’t bear the title ofHogwood.” A weak smile touched his lips. “I, uh, assume you know the story of my cousin.”

“Indeed, Mr. Blightree. I was involved in it.”

She waited to see his reaction—surprise. Interesting.

“I didn’t realize.” He rubbed his hands together. A few age spots mottled them. “I ... I was called in after they found his ... cache, if you don’t mind my bringing it up again. It was rather ... unsettling, what he did.”

Hulda let out a long breath through her nose in hope of better disguising it. She had a suspicion that Merritt was right—Mr. Blightree was simply a kind old man, here to enact his queen’s will. She’d keep an eye on him, however. She’d learned not to be too trusting with those she didn’t truly know.

“Then, while I have you”—Hulda resumed their walk toward the stairs—“I want to know what might go wrong, when and if you move Owein’s soul. How is the search coming? I am well aware the royal family is powerful, but we will not accept a bodytaken.”

He nodded. “Neither will I. When your life is as dedicated to the workings of life and death as mine has been, you learn not to trifle with it. In truth, I think the likelihood of Cora marrying another suitor is high. If we haven’t found a means of making Owein presentable by, oh, the time she’s twenty-five, I think another pairing will be arranged.”

Hulda clasped her hands together. “Owein will not live that long in his present body. Unless you intend to stave off its aging.”

But Mr. Blightree shook his head. “Alas, my abilities only work on mankind. I can do nothing for animals, however much I wish it were otherwise.” They reached the stairs, and he took a firm hold on the railing. “Had a horse once. Loved that beast. He was fast and noble and everything good. Couldn’t do a thing for him when he broke his leg.”

Her posture softened. “I’m sorry.”

“Twenty years ago now.” He took the stairs slowly; Hulda matched his pace. “But I will do my best, for the queen and for your family.”

“Thank you.” And she meant it.

They reached the base of the stairs; Hulda heard the police chatting in the reception hall up ahead. As she neared, she spied Merritt and Owein loitering near the entrance. The former noticed her and hurried toward her. Mr. Blightree gave her a congenial nod and went off to join the family.

“Well,” Merritt offered, combing a hand back through his hair. “There’s not much new to report.”

A few strands of hair came loose on his fingers; he shook them off his hand. As they drifted toward the floor, however, a pattern formed between the delicate threads, throwing Hulda into a vision.

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