Page 25 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

Owein side-eyed him. “I think questioning the sudden appearance of four wizards from Victoria’s court is a little more pressing than hosting duties.”

Blightree chuckled. “He’s right, of course.” As the other three stepped from the boat, Blightree introduced them. “This is Lord Loren Pankhurst, Mrs. Viola Mirren, and Mr. John Mackenzie, of the Queen’s League, as you guessed.” His tone sobered. “We’re here on command of the queen herself. To apprehend my unfortunate cousin, Silas Hogwood.”

Fallon joined them in the house, first arranging pillows on a chair so Merritt could sit comfortably, then turning out another chair for Blightree to sit in. She ignored the other three guests and joined Beth in the kitchen to help with the tea service, which Beth only did when they had guests, especially unexpected ones. It left Owein unsure of what to do with himself, and he ended up hovering between the living room and the reception hall, eager and anxious, not far from one of the red-bagged wards Hulda had hung up, whatever good they might do. Give them a split second’s warning before Silas murdered them in their sleep, perhaps, but Owein didn’t voice the thought. Blightree had apologized for not alerting them beforehand, a decision they’d made both because they traveled faster than a missive would, and so as not to tip off Silas Hogwood, should the man still be lurking around.

Anything else they didn’t know, Merritt updated them on.

Fallon returned and took the farthest chair, though there was plenty of space beside Mrs. Mirren on the sofa. Fallon didn’t love the English, and she didn’t mind if they knew it.

“This is a friend of ours, Miss ... Fallon,” Merritt offered by way of explanation. “She’s visiting from Ireland.”

Mr. Mackenzie said, “Tá súil agam nár chaill tú Corpus Christi,” his accent decidedly Scottish. “Déanann na hÉireannaigh féasta maith.”

Fallon frowned. “I might care if I were Catholic, Mr. Mackenzie.”

The man looked properly chagrined. Owein didn’t speak Irish, but it sounded like the Scot had asked after Corpus Christi, a Catholic holiday that would be celebrated tomorrow.

Lord Pankhurst and Mrs. Mirren exchanged a look as though they had picked up on something Mr. Mackenzie hadn’t.

Seeing Beth crossing the reception hall, Owein attempted to relieve her of the tea tray—bohea tea, if he sniffed it out right—but she balanced it in the crook of her elbow and swatted him away. “I will do that, thank you.”

He sighed. “Do you sense anything?”

She clucked her tongue, but paused just outside the living room, considering. “A lot of worry. We’ve been in a cloud of it all week.”

Owein followed her into the room, watching as she wordlessly set the tray on the short table in its center and poured tea into cups. He eyed the seat beside Mrs. Mirren before drifting toward a corner of the room and leaning against the wall, fixing his cuff before he folded his arms. He didn’t feel like sitting. He didn’t think he could keep still.

“She’ll be home in a few hours,” Merritt was explaining. Hulda, he meant.

“And this is from him?” Mrs. Mirren indicated the sling.

“Aye.” Merritt ran a hand over the bandaging pinning his arm to his side. “Honestly, if Owein hadn’t been here, we’d be corpses, the lot of us.” He glanced toward the door, perhaps ensuring the children weren’t nearby. Beth gave him a nearly imperceptible nod, assuring him they were fine. With Baptiste, most likely. The chef had stepped up with tending the little ones, since Merritt’s movements were so limited.

All of them looked at Owein. The unabashed stares stoked a strange desire to seep back into the walls that had once been his.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Mrs. Mirren offered a smile. It appeared genuine. “I was told specifically to ensure your safety during our visit.” She reached into a bag at her feet.

Owein pushed off the wall. “By the queen?”

Mrs. Mirren shook her head. “By Lady Cora.”

The answer was obvious; Owein realized that. But something about hearing it aloud struck him. Perhaps, in a strange way, Cora had become something of a storybook character to him—real only on paper. Having a stranger speak the young woman’s name gave her a sudden presence. He felt it in the room as though she stood there now, beside him, and Owein found himself wondering yet again if she looked any different, if her features had aged, if her hairstyle had changed. Parts of her had already faded from his memory, though he clearly recalled her eyes. Blue, bright, and red rimmed. At least, they had been the one and only time he’d beheld them as a human.

While Owein didn’t know for certain where Cora’s heart lay, it pricked his that she cared for his well-being.

Mrs. Mirren hauled a polished wooden box from her bag, about the size of Owein’s head, and presented it to him. “She sent me this to give to you. Didn’t trust the post.”

Owein started across the room, then hesitated as he lifted his eyes to Fallon. She frowned, but her expression was otherwise unreadable. Inhaling deeply, he continued to Mrs. Mirren and took the box from her. It was well made, new, and sported a numbered lock on the outside of it, with six spinnable digits. The whole thing was wrapped in white ribbon, under which was secured a small note.

Owein glanced again to Fallon before turning to Merritt. “If I may.”

Merritt nodded, and Owein swept from the room, wishing to read the missive in private. He’d asked for the conjurer’s bead—was it insidethis device? He heard nothing rolling around within the box, but perhaps it’d been secured.

“—help you locate this watchman, whose information we’re digging up—” Lord Pankhurst’s voice said, but Owein took the stairs up, two at a time, and the conversation faded from hearing. He would get the abridged version when Hulda returned. If Merritt hadn’t already contacted her with their linked communion stones, he would be doing so soon.

In the privacy of his room, Owein thumbed at the lock, then threw an alteration spell at the box’s lid, seeking to expand it and create a hole in the center. The box quaked slightly, but resisted the spell. Confused, Owein tried to break it apart with chaocracy, only to receive a similar response.

Pulling the letter from the ribbon, he tore through its seal.

---