Page 22 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

Interesting.

Owein knew Hulda had her hands in some interesting scientific ventures when it came to wizarding; he’d offered assistance at BIKER multiple times over the years, and no safe or locked drawer could keep him out if he wanted to see what was in. Hulda was very careful, however, and the few pieces of evidence he’d found about her research werevague, just like this one. He knew she had a laboratory somewhere that wasn’t in Boston or Providence, but he didn’t know where. He also knew it had something to do with synthesizing magic.

Hulda did not know he knew, and he never asked after it.

The postal worker came back with paper and a pen. Owein returned the letter to its envelope and, with a flicker of restore order, resealed it. He wrote down his telegram to Marshfield, keeping it brief, asking about any follow-up reports regarding the incident that happened with Silas Hogwood nearly five years ago. It was likely a dead end—Myra Haigh had cleaned up so thoroughly after the incident the constable likely wouldn’t know what he was talking about. But he had to try. Try, hope, and wait.

Owein reunited with the Fernsbys just down the street from the constable’s office, where Merritt was tossing pebbles into a gopher hole with Mabol and Hulda had Ellis on her shoulder, patting her back. Owein handed the stack of letters to Hulda before saying, “I sent the telegram to Marshfield.”

Hulda sighed. “Thank you.” Balancing Ellis in the crook of her elbow, Hulda thumbed through the letters. Owein knew when she’d found the one for BIKER because practiced apathy stole her expression, and she slid it into the black bag she carried everywhere with her. Then her eyebrows rose at the next one. “Merritt, do you know aHiramSutcliffe?”

Merritt, about to throw a pebble, stilled. “I do, why?”

She held out the letter to him.

Mabol pouted as Merritt crossed the distance between them and accepted the letter, opening it without checking the address. It looked short, and he read it quickly.

“He’s my brother.” Merritt passed the folded parchment to Hulda. “Half brother. Apparently he was a late bloomer like me. Wardship.”

Curious, Owein stepped behind the bench so he could read over Hulda’s shoulder. It was, indeed, brief. Hiram claimed he’d been struggling with the same spell Merritt had, and when the struggle had come up with his father—Merritt’s biological father—he’d gotten the truth, along with Merritt’s Portsmouth address. He was asking for help.

Owein did not envy him.

“Will you?” Hulda asked. Help, she meant.

“Of course.” He winced, accidentally pulling on his bandages. “I’ll send a telegram and invite him to the house.”

“I’ll send a telegram,” Owein interjected. “You can’t even stand without hurting yourself.”

Hulda folded the letter back up. “Is that safe?”

“I can hardly travel.” He sighed and looked at Owein. “Mention there’s been an assault. If Hiram wants to wait, he can wait. And thank you, Owein.”

Owein nodded.

Hulda straightened. “Merritt, I wonder if that’s who I saw in my vision. There was something familiar about the man. Familiar facial features—yourfeatures. It would make sense if it were a relation.”

“He comes, then.” Merritt’s tone was optimistic, but the heaviness of worry still hung overhead, unspoken.

“Let’s get some wards and meet up with Beth”—Hulda stood and resituated Ellis in her sling—“and send Owein or Baptiste for other supplies. You need to ... not move.”

A low grumble was Merritt’s only protest. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” She stood. “Mabol, darling, walk with me.”

Mabol frowned. “I want to be carried.”

Hulda frowned. Glanced at Owein, who nodded. “If you go with your uncle, you can be.”

This seemed to satisfy the child, for she dropped her pebbles back to the road and hurriedly crossed to Owein. He crouched down, letting her climb on.

“My knees used to be able to do that,” Merritt said wistfully.

Owein smiled and headed back for the post office, scanning the road for a man with a white-patched beard the entire way.

Three days ago, Owein would have insisted he was good at waiting. He’d spent, literally, hundreds of years waiting. Patience was his grandest virtue. And yet this sort of waiting made his skin prickle and palms sweat. Gave his legs too much energy. Sitting in that damn boat on the way back to Whimbrel House nearly killed him. Pacing now, on the island, didn’t settle him. There was a difference between waiting in the bones of a house, wondering if any person, or even an animal, might trespass and amuse him, and sitting vulnerable on a detached piece of floating earth, wondering if a nightmare returned to life was going to try a second time to murder everyone he loved.

He was aware islands didn’t actually float. But he wasn’t as good at metaphors as Merritt was.

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