Page 21 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

“It means dealing with big things,” Hulda explained.

Mabol considered this a moment. “Like Baptiste. He carries big things a lot.”

Merritt laughed, then gritted his teeth, almost, but not quite, stopping a hiss.

Hulda swallowed a sore lump in her throat and clucked her tongue. “We shouldn’t have brought you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dad’s going to eat all the chickens,” Mabol said.

Hulda’s gaze shot to her oldest. “Did you foresee that, or are you fibbing again?”

Mabol frowned and stared at the ground. “Fibbing.” A pause, and then, “I’m just harrowed.”

“We can leave after Owein returns.” Hulda lifted her head, glancing at passersby, terrified she might recognize the haggard man from the island. “Though I’d like to get a few wards.” Hopefully she wouldn’t have to make them herself from the supplies kept at the offices. That would take time, and BIKER wasn’t guarded. Not yet. Perhaps she could send a courier to Sadie and have the secretary deliver some wards to her in another spot. Then again, the office was quite a distance away, and Merritt was in obvious pain. No, she decided, she’d have to purchase them like everyone else. There was a small, antiquated shop that might have something useful not far from here.

She should have given Owein Merritt’s communion stone. She felt like a target, sitting here in public.

Please hurry, Owein,she thought, pushing the desire into the ether as though it were a spell.

They all felt safer with him.

Owein ignored the looks he usually got when he went into the city, thanks to his headful of white hair contrasting with his young face. Though, perhaps they were more entranced by the hawk sitting on his shoulder than anything else. When they arrived at the post office, Fallon flew up to the roof to wait for him—there wasn’t an easy place for her to transform, though in crowds, Fallon usually preferred to be a bird. The people in the cramped building recognized him, but stillasked, “Fernsby?” when he walked in. Scents of paper, ink, and coffee wafted over him.

“Please,” he responded. The Fernsbys, Babineauxs, and his one Mansel all shared a box; he needn’t specify he was picking up for all three. He leaned against the sternum-high counter while the worker stepped into the back room to collect the mail, tapping his letter to Cora against the palm of his hand, a small way to burn off the nerves buzzing through him. When the postal worker returned, he set a small stack of letters at Owein’s elbow and held out his hand. “London?”

Owein nodded, handed over the letter, then reached into his trouser pocket for his wallet. “Quick couriering, please.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“I know.” He shelled out the coins. Merritt was generous enough to give him a monthly allowance to supplement his inconsistent work with the millwright. Owein hated being a burden in any sense, however, so he took odd jobs on the mainland when he wasn’t needed on Blaugdone Island—usually farm labor or, on occasion, tutoring. He should contact the millwright and let him know he wouldn’t be in for a while. How long, Owein wasn’t sure, and that made the nerves prick up anew.

Desperate for something to do while the postal worker stamped his missive to Cora, Owein thumbed through the mail. The first was from Scarlet Moore, Merritt’s oldest sister, whom they’d celebrated Easter with. A small smile ticked up the corner of Owein’s mouth; she always addressed her letters to the Fernsbys and Mr. Mansel, including him in the missives. The second was to Merritt Fernsby from his publisher; it felt like a check. The third was an advertisement, the fourth a letter from a Hiram Sutcliffe to Merritt ... Owein knew Merritt’s biological father was a Sutcliffe, but his name wasn’t Hiram. Curious. The fifth—

Owein paused at that one. It was addressed to Hulda, though not by name. Specifically,ATTN Director, Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms. Odd. BIKER mail always went to Providence. Whoever sent this must’ve used the wrong address on file.

“Anything else?” the postal worker asked.

Without looking up, Owein said, “I need to send a telegram to the constable in Marshfield, Massachusetts.” He’d do that on Merritt’s behalf.

“Do you know the name?”

“I don’t.”

The postal worker stepped away, and Owein guiltlessly tore open the letter. He’d been a house eavesdropping on his occupants for over two hundred years. As Benjamin Franklin would say, old habits died hard.

It was brief, on official stationery.

To whom it may concern:

Your grant for the Study of Posthumous Genetics in Wizardry has been awarded. You will need to file the appropriate forms for the third and fourth quarter 1851 with the Congressional Committee for the Continuation of Wizarding, along with your revised proposal for the funds, to formerly accept this grant. Filing must be completed by October 1, 1851. Questions can be fielded through your contact for previous years.

Sincerely,

R. A. Statton

Foundation for Education in Wizardry

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