Page 56 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“Some personal sleuthing,” she said, glad she’d written everyone’s name either too tightly to be easily read or in code.Briar, for instance, wasBushhere.

She took her time to look over her notes—if there was anything she’d learned in these lessons, it was not to rush—and tossed the sticks again. Most fell onto the open pages. A few scattered onto the table, and one dropped to the floor. She left it there.

Letting the sticks and notes blur to her eyes, she considered the breakfast room and the bedroom. How her dowsing rods picked upon nothing. The failed exorcism. The family, and Blightree. The stolen marriage contract—

The magic swelled, swallowing the receipt book and the sticks and replacing them with an onslaught of images.

A pen scraping the bottom of an ink vial.

A shod foot as it came down, as though running.

A bead, or perhaps a marble, rolling across the floor.

William Blightree, with tears in his eyes.

They happened in such quick succession she couldn’t garner more details than that. The images rushed her in the space of half a breath, then vanished.

“You saw something.” It wasn’t a question.

Hulda paused, trying to cement the strange vision in her mind before looking up. “Yes, several things.” She repeated all of them, if only to better remember.

Two deep lines appeared between Professor Griffiths’s eyebrows. “Interesting. A cluster vision. Those are rare. Whatever this is”—he pointed to the receipt book—“it must be complex.”

“Very,” Hulda agreed. “If you’ll give me a moment.”

“Of course.”

With her pencil, Hulda jotted down each vision on the following page of the book, recording any other details she could recall. The morning light in the room where she’d found the ink vial. The floor where the little sphere had fallen—there’d been some cream carpeting, but in the distance, hardwood. The shoe had a large gold buckle on it. It was brown ... or perhaps maroon? With a slight heel. And Mr. Blightree. His head was bent, nodding just barely.

The image of him stuck with her the most. Why was he so melancholy, and what did it have to do with her notes, her sleuthing?

“I’ve time for another exercise,” the professor offered.

Hulda closed the book. “Thank you, but ...” She paused, her mind going blank.

“But,” he encouraged her.

She shook her head. “But ... I thought I had something. I can’t for the life of me recall ...” She reached into her bag for her planner.

“Such is the second bane of being an augurist.” Professor Griffiths stood. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve forgotten something on the stove or missed a class because I had a vision.”

She followed suit. “It is nice to know I’m not alone.”

“But of course. I think we have quite a few things in common, Miss Larkin. Should I still expect you tomorrow?”

She nodded. “If you’re available, yes. I’ll be in town.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “I look forward to it. Allow me to walk you to a cab.”

She did.

For a moment, upon his return, Merritt thought the hired guards were having a foray in the east yard of Cyprus Hall; they were all clustered together, speaking in low tones. Someone even had a hound on a leash. As he neared, however, he recognized Prince Friedrich among them and, even closer, noted about half the men were not contractors, but police.

“Lordy,” he muttered, quickening his pace. The chill had seeped into his boots—he’d spoken to the Druids for about an hour—and his toes smarted with each step. What terrible thing had happened this time?

Owein panted but kept up with him. One of the policemen indicated Merritt, causing Prince Friedrich to turn around.

To Merritt’s bewilderment, the man grinned.

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