Page 7 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

Owein stretched when he woke, his feet pressing against the edge of his narrow bedframe. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, then checked the room for Fallon. He wouldn’t put it past her to be waiting in his room this morning, but a quick glance assured him he was alone. The ajar window let in cool morning air, reminding him he ought to take advantage of it before it got hot. He slipped from his bed and straightened the blankets and pillow, then stripped from his nightshirt and folded it, setting it on the end of the bed. Hulda often praised him for how tidy he’d become; in truth, he’d learned the habit because he hated the idea of Beth cleaning up after him. From his armoire he pulled out a pair of clean drawers, a loose button-up shirt, and brown trousers. His trousers had patches on both knees, though the fabric nearly matched and the mend wasn’t conspicuous. After dressing, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and tucked in the rest of the shirt before grabbing his suspenders and buttoning them into place. He washed his hands in the basin on the little side table he’d built, then ran wet fingers back through his white hair, which was getting a little long in the front and had started to fall into his eyes. Quick use of a comb got it out of the way for now.

He noticed new lessons on his desk, left there by Hulda. Algebra sat on top, so Owein grabbed a pencil—sharpened it with a quickspell—and filled in the ends of the equations. Pulled it aside to find several pages of new etiquette notes, with diagrams. Sighing, he folded the bunch together and stuck it in his back pocket. Brushed his teeth and stomped on his shoes, then clogged down the stairs to the kitchen.

The scents of bacon, eggs, and fresh bread announced Baptiste’s presence before Owein actually saw him, but other than the chef, Owein appeared to be the first to rise. Merritt and the girls tended to sleep in, but Hulda usually rose with the sun. She must have stayed up late last night. It was a Saturday, so she shouldn’t need to go to Providence today. Hulda had formally moved the headquarters for the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms two and a half years ago, but while Providence, Rhode Island, was closer to home than Boston had been, it still made for a bit of a trip, and despite its new location, this office was still referred to as theBostonInstitute.

“Bonjour, Baptiste.” Owein grabbed a plate and helped himself. “Merci beaucoup.”

The chef took a knife and gingerly sliced the bread. “Your accent is getting better.”

“Is it?”

“I understand you now.” He laughed.

Owein rolled his eyes and accepted the warm slice of bread. He knew only simple, conversational French, but Hulda insisted the skill would help him once he moved to London. Once upon a time, he’d known simple, conversational Welsh as well, but the years had stripped it from his memory.

“You should come with me, when I leave.” Owein buttered his bread on the counter instead of going into the breakfast room. He didn’t feel like dallying, and the sun rose higher with each passing minute. “Be my translator in case Lady Helen sits me near a French emissary.”

“Ho! Maybe. I will talk to the mademoiselle first. We will not tell Mr. Fernsby.” He winked.

Owein smiled and pulled up a stool, eating while Baptiste set the rest of the food in the breakfast room, then pulled off his apron andmade a plate for himself. They chatted about their plans for the day, which weren’t anything noteworthy. Then Owein washed his plate, returned it to the cupboard, and slipped outside.

Aster and Ash greeted him with the kind of enthusiasm only dogs could muster, jumping up and licking his trousers. In the back of Owein’s mind, he remembered the strong, vibrant smells of the island from when he’d had a nose like theirs. Owein curled his tongue and whistled, and the dogs followed him. He grabbed the first stick the island offered him, then threw it as hard as he could. The terriers took off after it. Ash got to it first and bounded back fast enough the air flapped his lips. Aster kept pace, nipping at him the whole time. A gesture commanded Ash to sit, and Owein threw the stick again, letting Aster go after it. He then located one of the dogs’ tug knots and threw that in the other direction, which fully occupied Ash’s attention.

In the small shed behind the chicken coop, Owein grabbed his tool belt and strung it over his hips, checking everything he needed was there before heading to the garden. Aster returned her stick, and he threw it again.

By the time he crouched at the rows of carrots and began pulling out the budding weeds, Fallon showed up in her dog form. She pressed her nose to his shoulder before taking off with Ash, grabbing the other end of the tug knot and pulling the terrier away from the garden. The mutt had a habit of trampling plants, so Owein appreciated the distraction. He heard Mabol shout something inside the house as he worked, occasionally pulling out a weeding fork to work up thorny intruders.

Fallon returned, this time carrying a sun hat in her mouth. Owein took it and plopped it on his head. “Thanks.” It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but the sun already beat down, preparing the island for the power of summer. “You’re welcome to talk to me.”

Fallon glanced toward the house.

“I promise they won’t care.” He wore out the phrase with how much he used it. “What are they going to do, throw you in the ocean?”

Fallon let out a soft whine. While she imitated canines well, dog-Fallon had a language all her own. This whine sounded sarcastic.

Lowering his weeding fork, Owein lifted a hand and ran his knuckle beneath Fallon’s chin. “They won’t care. Aren’t you tired of hiding?”

She huffed at him.

“Besides”—he returned to his work—“I’m pretty sure you could best Hulda in a fistfight if it came down to it.”

Another huff, a dog chortle, really, and Fallon resumed distracting Ash from the garden.

Once Owein finished with the weeds, he headed north. He tried to visit his family’s graves once a week. He’d already carefully recarved their names into their headstones, including his own. It used to be surreal, visiting the small rock inscribedOwein Mansel, but he’d gotten used to it over the years. Kneeling, he pulled back climbing morning glory and took shears to the surrounding grass, trimming it neatly. He could have used magic for it, but side effects aside, it felt more personal to do it by hand. To care for those who’d once cared for him, though, as with his Welsh, his memories of them had faded more than he liked to admit.

“Memory’s such an interesting thing,” he said offhandedly as Fallon perched nearby. “I still have my memories. A few from when I was him”—he gestured to the gravestone—“the ones of the house. I still remember meeting Merritt for the first time. I remember everything as the dog.” The terrier had met its end in England, but he brought his body back to the States with him. It had taken a moment to track it down, and Blightree, the necromancer who’d moved him into this body, had tried to convince him it was unnecessary. But he’d brought it home, whereupon he’d washed and wrapped it and buried it at the end of the row of graves, with a flat stone Owein had chiseled himself simply reading,A Good Dog. “But I don’t have any of Oliver Whittock’s memories. I have his body, hisbrain, but I don’t know what he knew. I don’t know his family, his interests, his favorite color.” He’d wondered so many things about the boy over the years, but no one in the Stateshad known him. Even Cora had only known him distantly. He met Fallon’s moss-colored eyes, which maintained their color across all her forms. “So memory isn’t stored in the flesh.” He stood, leaning back so his spine could bend the other way for a moment. “Memory is like magic, in that sense. Are you hungry?”

Fallon shook her head, so Owein walked to the Babineaux house. Somewhere between the graves and the house, Fallon took off again, so it was just him when he passed the front window, catching Beth’s eye as he did. She smiled at him, so when he reached the door, he didn’t bother knocking.

“Morning,” he called, tapping dirt off his shoes at the entry as Beth set her son, Henri, in a chair, tying a belt around him and the chair’s back to keep him from falling. She had some overcooked porridge mashed into a bowl, and she spoon-fed it to him.

“Morning,” she replied. “Are the others getting a late start?”

Translation: Would Baptiste be a while?

“He’s on his way,” he said.

She fed Henri another portion. “Would you do me a favor? There’s a step that’s creaking, fourth from the top.”

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