Page 8 of Boy of Chaotic Making

The dog tilted his head.

Merritt waved the words away. “Don’t mind me.” After setting the pencil aside, he petted the top of Owein’s head, then scratched behind his ears. “What did you do today?”

Chased birds.He pulled back and scratched his neck with his back paw.Helped Beth with the laundry.

Merritt grimaced. “Do I have terrier spittle and tooth marks all over my clean shirts?”

Owein managed to make his canine countenance look affronted.Only one hole, and I fixed it.

Merritt snorted, then cleared his throat. Communion liked to take his voice away, but in truth, that was the mildest wizarding symptom he had to deal with. He could always whisper—ish—or write if he needed to. Long stretches of work were often done in quiet, besides.

He and Owein chatted a bit more before Merritt returned to his book and scribbled down another two pages. He was interrupted by a soft, barely perceptible knock at the door. Beth waited until he looked up, then said, “Dinner. Do you want it up here?”

Stretching his arms over his head, Merritt answered, “No, I’ll come down.” Owein trotted ahead of him, and they went down the hall, down the stairs, and into the dining room, where the table had already been set. Merritt still felt spoiled sometimes, having these things done for him, but he was grateful. It gave him more time to write, and to travel back and forth between the island and Boston. It was easier for him to get away than for Hulda—hopefully the distance wouldn’t be too exhausting for her once she moved in again, this time officially, and this time inhisroom, no walls between them. April 12 couldn’t come soon enough.

He was just about to sit down when Owein perked up and bolted to the front door, sticking his nose to the bottom corner of the jamb, sniffing. Merritt exchanged a glance with Beth as Baptiste walked out carrying a pot of soup.

“I’ll get it,” Merritt said, and hurried to the door. Was Hulda stopping by? Perhaps her plans had changed—

He opened the door, and Owein bolted out onto the porch, barking once at a man trudging up the path, his journey made easier by the wintery flattening of the island’s flora. The twilight sky left much to the imagination, but the stranger wore a light-colored suit. He kept one hand on his hat to keep it from blowing away and the other on a cane, though his gait was even.

“Can I help you?” Merritt asked.

The man glanced up when he reached the stairs for the porch. “Indeed, Mr. Fernsby,” he said in a heavy English accent. “I’m here to deliver a message.”

Merritt froze. Not a stranger—Merritt recognized both the voice and the face, once the light of the house fell upon him.

“Mr. Adey,” he said, stiff. Adey was the detective who’d come sniffing around last November, inquiring after Hulda’s ties with Silas Hogwood.

The man held out a letter. “I need not come in this time. I’m merely the messenger.”

Owein sniffed the man’s shoes. Adey seemed not to notice.

Merritt hesitantly took the missive. “There are other ways to send letters.” He glanced at the paper, but there was no return address.

“Sensitive query, this one.” Adey looked past him to Beth, nodding a greeting. “I’ll be back in a couple of days for your response.”

The letter felt heavy in Merritt’s hands. A cold breeze swept by.Close,murmured a bird, possibly nesting in the eaves.Close, closer—

Merritt tuned it out. Not bothering to hide the skepticism from his voice, he said, “Would it not be easier to come in and—”

“I believe,” the British man said with a faint smile, “that you’ll want to mull it over. I’ll be back.” He tipped his hat first to Merritt and then to Owein, which raised gooseflesh up Merritt’s back. He thought about the article, but there was nothing in it that would point to Whimbrel House or Owein Mansel. He’d made sure of it. Even Gifford was still in the dark. Then again, Dwight Adey had proven himself privy to personal information in the past.

Adey turned to go. Using a communion spell, Merritt said,Owein, inside.

The mutt stepped indoors. Merritt closed the door to a crack, then said, “Baptiste?”

The chef cracked his knuckles. “I will watch.” He pushed past them and stepped outside, ensuring Adey got on his boat, just as he had the first time he’d come by.

Beth lingered at the window, watching him go. Merritt stepped into the dining room for better light, Owein on his heels.What is it?

“I don’t know.” Merritt broke the seal and opened up the single-page letter, then caught his breath. “It ... There’s no way.”

What?Owein asked.

Merritt’s gaze shifted to the signature at the bottom, then back to the top of the letter.I am interested in your dog,it said.

And it was signed by none other than Alexandrina Victoria.

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