Page 23 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

Fallon, human, in her linen dress, watched him, chewing her lip. He hadn’t noticed when she’d transformed, only noted her presence, still and serene, contrasting his nervous stomping as he widened the already existent trails through the flora. She let him pace back and forth like that for ... long enough that the sun dipped into the horizon. Owein had a hard time comprehending the passage of time today.

He owed her an explanation, another apology, and a long talk, but his mind was so tangled up in Silas Hogwood he struggled to focus on anything else.

“We’ll keep watch,” she offered. She could see over the entire bay when she got high enough. As she’d reminded him again, and again, and again.

Finally, Owein slowed. Rubbed his eyes. “You should get some rest. You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re tired.” It wasn’t a question. Fallon had been scouting even more than he had, something he was both grateful for and ashamed of. If anyone needed a break, she did. She opened her mouth to say something else, then paused, looking past his shoulder. “Who is that?”

Owein turned, seeing a boat nearing the island. He stiffened.

Fallon offered, “I can transform—”

The boat carried two occupants. Owein stalled her with a hand. “Watchmen. Those are watchmen, from Portsmouth. I’ll get Merritt.”

“I can—”

“Fallon.” He stepped toward her. Cradled either side of her face. “Please sleep. That way at least one of us will be alert tonight.”

Her expression softened. “Or, since there are watchmen and the sun is still up, we canbothrest andbothbe useful later.”

Sighing, he forced his shoulders to relax. The muscles around them felt like horseshoes. Fallon noticed, for she pushed his hands away and dug her fingertips into them. Owein winced, then groaned, then yawned.

She had a point.

“I’ll get Merritt.”

“Then come with me.” She ground out a knot. “I won’t ... I won’t try anything, again.”

Owein’s shoulders slumped. “Fallon, it’s not that I don’t want ...” He ran a hand back through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

“I know.” She smiled at him, or perhaps at his unfinished words that, admittedly, held a masked sort of promise. She kissed him on the cheek. “I know.”

He looked from her, to the watchmen, to the house. Let go of theshouldsandmaybesfor a moment and allowed his spine to relax. “As long as we can see the house. I know a good spot.”

She released him, and he jogged to the house, though Merritt was already coming out onto the porch, having seen the incoming vessel himself. After speaking with him and ensuring the others didn’t need him, Owein led Fallon to a weeping cherry sprouting from soft loam, not far from the dock.

It was surprisingly easy to fall asleep in her arms.

Chapter 9

June 18, 1851, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

“Like this,” Owein said to Mabol in the wild grass not far from the northeast coast of Blaugdone Island, the June sun hot against his shirt and hair. Though the watchmen had begun patrolling the bay two days ago, he, Fallon, and the others kept their own watch, and everyone felt the heaviness of lack of sleep mixed with simmering anxiety. It was only two o’clock now, cheery and sunny, which certainly didn’t seem conducive to another attack. That was, perhaps, one of the reasons Owein found himself able to teach the art of hair braiding to his nine-greats-niece.

He demonstrated on Fallon, finger-combing her long black hair toward him, enjoying the way the thick strands felt in his hands. Fallon liked people playing with her hair, basking in the tug and tickle on her scalp. He’d done it before countless times, but today it felt different. Today it made him think of the greenery of her scent and the softness of her lips under his, and how much harder it had become to ignore his feelings now that he’d shown his hand. Hulda had gotten her a longer dress, still simple in design, which Fallon currently wore, though she’d torn off its sleeves, insisting it was nonsense to wear sleeves in the summer, and they made her alteration magic harder.

She had a point, Owein thought, although he could tell Hulda silently struggled with the fashion faux pas.

“Oh,” Mabol said, for the third time, and regathered the fine yarn locks on the doll supported between her knees. She pinched them into three uneven hanks and clumsily twisted them together.

“How do you even know how to braid hair?” Fallon asked softly, twisting the head of a dandelion between her fingers.

Owein thought for a moment. How did he know? “I had a lot of sisters,” he answered. Something he and Merritt had in common, he supposed.

Oliver had sisters. He’d learned that much from Cora. Had he known how to braid hair, too?

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