Page 97 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“I, Merritt Fernsby, take you, Hulda Larkin, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy law, and this is my solemn vow.” Then, before the pastor could instruct Hulda to do the same, Merritt added, not really loud enough for the audience to hear, “Hulda, I am a better man because of you. I am afoundman. You have changed everything in my life for the better. I honestly don’t know how I lived before you. I want your face to be the first thing I see in the morning, and your voice to be the last I hear at night, forever and always. I will gladly haunt this house with you for eternity.”

Hulda laughed, and tears brimmed on her eyelashes. Merritt broke their handhold long enough to lend her Fletcher’s handkerchief. “I told you I hate crying at weddings,” she said, and a few in the congregation chuckled. When the handkerchief was again stowed away, she repeated after the pastor, “I, Hulda Larkin, take you, Merritt Fernsby, to be my husband.” Hervoice choked; she took a moment to swallow. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God’s holy law, and this is my solemn vow.” She glanced to the pastor—she was a rule follower, after all, and when he nodded, she murmured, “I never realized how boring I was before I came here.”

Merritt laughed.

She fought a smile. Lowered her eyes to their hands. “You are a light, Merritt. You aremylight. You are everything that is good in this world. So genuine, so chivalrous, so imaginative. I’m so happy I get to partake in that imagination with you. In thislifewith you.” She blinked a few times, clearing tears. “You have written me a happy ending, and I cannot fathom a better story than ours.”

Warmth wound from his shoulders, down his torso, and into his toes.

The pastor waited a beat, then, over his Bible, said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may, Mr. Fernsby, kiss your bride.”

Merritt tugged Hulda forward and crushed his lips to hers, grabbing her around the waist and dipping her. Applause rose up from the small crowd, and he was fairly certain that was Beth letting out a loudwhoop!in the back.

Righting Hulda, he broke from her, pleased to see the grin on her face. It wasreallyofficial now, though, in truth, they would always celebrate their anniversary on his birthday. And Merritt really, truly, didn’t mind.

The families mingled as Beth and Baptiste set out the luncheon. Merritt formally met Richard Moore, Scarlet’s husband, and his three nephews, Matthew, Albert, and Andrew. George Blakewell, Beatrice’s husband, clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve heard only good things, my man. I think we ought to smoke cigars sometime.” And his nieces, Bethany and Maggie, seemed charmed by him regardless of what he said, though that might have been the power of his very nice vest.When Merritt introduced Owein as his “nephew,” Scarlet and Beatrice assumed he came from Hulda’s side, while the Larkins presumed he was a Fernsby. Merritt didn’t bother to clarify.

They ate together, they laughed together, they celebrated together. It was probably the best day of Merritt’s life, but he was all about progress and intended to have even better ones to come. It wasn’t until the sun threatened to set and guests began taking to their boats for the journey back that Merritt spied Baptiste putting away dinner and slipped over to speak to him.

“You know,” he said offhandedly, “I think Icanhandle it.”

Baptiste glanced up. “Handle what?”

“The story. About your previous incarceration.” He shrugged. “Surely we’ve known one another long enough for you to let me in on the secret. I won’t judge you for it.” He was fairly certain Baptiste hadn’t murdered anyone, or they wouldn’t have let him out.

Baptiste continued his cleanup, and for a moment Merritt thought the conversation over before it had begun. But without looking up, Baptiste said, “Cheese.”

“Pardon?”

“Cheese,” he repeated, meaning Merritt had heard him correctly the first time. “I worked with three men to steal wagon full of cheese. Sold it over border, in Belgium.”

Speech fled Merritt for a good few seconds. “You ... You stolecheese?”

A small smile ticked up the corners of Baptiste’s mouth. “Was very expensive cheese.”

Merritt snorted and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Somehow, I think that makes me like you more.” He checked his pocket watch. “I’m going to see my mother off. Hold down the fort, hm?”

Nodding, Baptiste picked up a stack of dishes from the table, then glanced out a north-facing window. Frowned. “I thought you said the dog died?”

“Hm?” Merritt followed his line of sight. Owein walked the shallow wilds a way out, and sure enough, a dog was trouncing beside him. From this vantage point, itdidlook remarkably like the brown terrier Owein had spent the last few months in.

“It ... did.” Uncertainty dropped Merritt’s voice. “I’m sure it did. Huh.” He scratched the back of his head, ready for the tie holding his hair back to come out. “I’ll ask about it.” But first he’d tend to his mother. With luck, he’d be seeing her again soon. He already had an invitation to spend the weekend in Concord with Beatrice and her family, and Peter Fernsby certainly wouldn’t prevent Merritt’s mother from visiting her daughters, now would he?

“I’ll help clean up after the guests leave. Thank you, Baptiste.” He clapped his shoulder once more and wound his way into the cool air, where his family, both new and old, awaited him.

It wasn’t hard, really, to adapt to being human again. Owein’s soul remembered it, even if his memory didn’t quite. Memory was finnicky that way; the older it got, the more slippery it became, and there was very little magic—at least,hismagic—could do about that. But Owein Mansel had been human again for an entire month, almost to the point where he didn’t think about himself ashuman, just merely Owein.

The dog had started following him about a quarter hour ago. He’d thought it was a fawn at first. Then he thought it washisdog, the mutt Silas Hogwood had snagged off the streets to stuff him into for easy transport. But the pattern in the fur wasn’t quite right, the ears were too high, and it was missing the white patches. That, and this dog was a girl.

When he stopped, surveying the pinks and violets of a breathtaking spring sunset, the dog caught up to him and licked his hand.

“I know you’re not the same,” he said offhandedly, enjoying the layers of red in the sky. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of seeing the color red. “Are you going to tell me who you are? I have a hunch.”

The dog barked and loped ahead, tail wagging, ready to play. Owein didn’t have communion—Merritt had gotten that somewhere else in the family line. But he’d lived as a dog long enough that canine instincts had embedded themselves in his subconscious. In a strange way, he almostfeltthe animal’s response.

“When you’re ready, then.” He picked up a stick about the length of his forearm. “I don’t mind if you stay.”

The dog barked an agreement, and when Owein threw the stick, she bolted across the island to chase after it, startling a nesting whimbrel as she went. Owein watched her go, pausing where the stick landed. Instead of bringing it back, however, the dog simply waited there and barked at him again, inviting him to play.

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