Page 61 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

So he paced. His room wasn’t large, but he paced the length of it, from the wall to the armoire and back. His legs grew too heavy, so he paused at the armoire. Opened it. Set his palm atop the stack of letters from Cora, then dropped his hand to a cream-colored cloth tucked in the back of the closet. He brought it out, opened it, and stared at the miniature of a mother he remembered but didn’t, running the pad of his thumb over her coif of blonde hair and her gentle eyes. Likely a portrait she’d had done for his father. He couldn’t recall. He’d found it in the library some years ago.

All at once, like a twig had snapped, the heaviness in his legs soared up to his chest, stealing his breath away. The sorrow coated him like oil, so much so that he could no longer stand and finally dropped onto the edge of his bed, clutching the portrait in shaking hands. Sorrow for having stayed behind while his family moved on without him, laced with guilt for digging up the remnants of that era, that story, and handing it to a cold scientist to do with as she willed.

The image of his mother blurred, and Owein set the portrait aside, clasping his fingers over his eyes before any tears could ruin the paint. Cradling his head, he sucked in shuddering breaths. He was going to lose all of them, wasn’t he?

Flapping feathers at the open window announced Fallon, probably come to ensure he’d kept his word. Setting his jaw, his wiped his eyes again. Felt her watching him. God help him, he was so scared. He was sotired.

Swallowing down a sore knot in his throat, Owein croaked, “Can you turn back? Please, turn back.”

A cracking of bone, a rustle of fabric. A knit blanket drawn around her, Fallon sat beside him and drew him into her arms, laying his cheekagainst her shoulder, pressing her lips to his crown, guarding him, if only for a moment, from the heartache. Long enough that, regretfully, Owein finally gave in to sleep.

The piragua Silas had stolen cut through the bay waters like a scalpel through skin; even his best carriage had never ridden so fine. He breathed in deeply, slowly, the tang of the sea, for a moment believing he stood in England again. For a heartbeat his mind betrayed him, dipping and folding, confused and lost. He blinked and saw the mouth of the River Mersey, and behind him, the soft clacking and popping of seedpods as the plentiful finches fed. But he grabbed the slender mast of the boat, brushing the taut sail, and breathed through it. He remembered.

It was so empty now. His head. So blissfully and eerily empty. Had it always felt like this in his life before? So quiet, so ... endless?

Silas pinched his nose with filthy fingers and focused on the task at hand. Tried to move the fingers of his half-rotted forearm with little success. He was closer now. The sails were too obvious, though, weren’t they? A beacon to show the others where he lurked. With effort, he furled them, then pressed a spell of kinesis into the slender vessel’s form, propelling it through the blue salt water. A nearly clear day, but Silas was tired of waiting. He wasn’t sleeping, for all the waiting. His fingers twitched, then his right shoulder. Ignoring the stiffness the kinesis whispered into his legs, Silas dug deep inside himself, imaginary fingers rooting through his gut, and pulled at his luck spell. Pulledhard, muttering his purpose under his breath as the augury magic sifted his mind, trying to make him forget again. But there was so muchspacein his head, it missed him. For a moment, it missed.

Silas did forget, but when he saw the skiff ahead of him, the woman with a spyglass held up to her eye, her back to him, he remembered. Remembered and grinned until the skin of his mouth threatened to tear. Kinesis, and luck, luck,luck. His gaze zeroed in on her as the piragua slipped ever closer. He was nearly upon her when she turned, gasped, reached for the whistle on her neck—

He thrust out his hand, shattering her spyglass. She shrieked as shards of glass flew into her face. Her hands dropped the whistle to cover her eyes.

Their boats collided. Pushing through stiff joints, Silas pulled the knife from his waistband with one hand, grabbed the back of her neck with the other. It wasn’t as smooth as the piragua cutting the sea, sinking the blade between the bumps of her spine. The fabric and the skin resisted, but Silas pushed, and it cut through and through, stealing away the woman’s voice. She arched back, eyes and mouth wide, her legs giving up beneath her as though they’d been severed, until only Silas’s strength kept her upright.

Silas glared at her wide-eyed expression. She looked familiar.Who is she?he asked theother, but that man was dead and gone, and only open nothingness replied. He adjusted the hand on her neck to better hold her up, but let her sink to her knees to alleviate the strain.

Mirren,a distant memory whispered. Viola Mirren. Queen’s League. Yes, he remembered her, from a life long ago. Their circles had crossed from time to time.

“You’ll be useful, then,” he muttered, and the conjurist shuddered as Silas’s necromancy delved into her, twisting around her life energy and sucking it out, fueling him like a holiday feast, soothing his weariness, his aches. It even staved off the inevitable nausea, or would until he’d finished. He sifted through her essence and smiled. Yes, she would be useful. He couldn’t preserve her body, not without a water spell. Mirrenhadmagic over water, but her magic would cease to be, justlike the rest, the moment her flesh and spirit split. He couldn’t use it indefinitely, but hecoulduse it now.

Life-force, kinesis, condensing, he bundled up Viola Mirren’s magic and sucked it into himself, the way he’d first done to his father all those years ago in the ... stable, was it? Or had it been a park? He couldn’t quite recall. It had reduced to a mess of dark colors and sour smells now. Lost in the emptiness.

Even as Mirren’s mouth opened and closed like that of a caught fish, even as her body shuddered with his necromancy, Silas lifted his hand and gestured to the bay, conjuring a storm, pushing Mirren’s water magic into it to speed up the process. His tongue dried as he did, the magic taking its toll on his body, but Mirren’s likely did, too, even as blood wetted her back. Clouds rolled out of the sky, out of the sea, thickening and graying the air. Silas’s knife disappeared, stolen by the price of conjury, so he held Mirren’s head with both hands, continuing to siphon off her. It was a longer process than he would have liked, even with all his practice. But they were alone in this part of the great bay, as luck would have it.

The fog roiled and grew, and as Silas sucked out the last bits of conjury from the woman, her boat began to fade as though God himself had unbuilt it around her, another item claimed for conjury. The wrinkles in Mirren’s skin stood out starkly as the elements stole her moisture. Silas grew thirsty. So thirsty, surrounded by undrinkable water. But there was a canteen on Mirren’s boat. It floated on the gentle waves when the vessel vanished.

Releasing the woman and letting her sink into the sea, Silas reached for it. Uncorked it, but before lifting it to his lips, he emptied his stomach right onto the floating corpse. Wiped his mouth and drank it all.

Reached inside him for another shred of luck.

Owein woke up feeling like an anvil had dropped on his head and cobwebs had replaced his eyes. He blinked bright summer sun from his eyes; it fell right across his face, likely the reason for his stirring. He’d been in the depths of a dream he couldn’t recall, and it took him a moment to sit up, remembering his body as though he’d just gotten it.

Something slipped from the mattress onto the floor.

Stifling a yawn, Owein looked. A letter? He reached for it, recognizing the wax seal immediately, but turned it over to behold his name penned in beautiful handwriting across the front. Beautiful, but tight. She was worried. So was he.

He glanced to his door. Closed. Who had brought it to him? He must have slept for ... it felt like hours. One of the Queen’s League might have returned with it, or perhaps Fallon had made the flight to Portsmouth and back. Incredibly kind of her, knowing how she felt about it all.

Owein hesitated to break the seal. He held the letter in his hands, staring at the Leiningen family crest imprinted in violet wax. The letter was a little thicker than usual. Heavier, but maybe the weight was all in his head.

What if ... what if Oweindidn’tgo to England?

The thought made his body feel too tight for his spirit. Sucked the heat from his fingers, but he made himself think it anyway. What if he didn’t go? Would the queen send soldiers to Narragansett Bay to retrieve him? Could she, legally? Would Cora hate him? Would she recover quickly, or not care at all? Because, truthfully, thatwasan option for him. He was one man—a wizard—in the scope of an entire planet. He could run away with Fallon. Hide until it blew over. No one would be able to find him if he didn’t want them to.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Owein breathed deeply, then stretched, trying to alleviate the tightness in his muscles. He broke the seal and pulled free the letter. It comprised several pages, much of it looking like ... poeticverse? He turned to the first page, tracing his finger over his name, almost hearing it in Cora’s voice.

Dearest Owein,

I have heard about William Blightree and am pained at the news. I pray day and night for his recovery. I do not know what to expect, exactly; I am not in the Queen’s League of Magicians and thus am not entitled to the information, and my father is loath to reveal too much. But what good has come from keeping others in the dark? I hate it. I am sick with fear and worry, and hope you and your family are well. I could not bear it if

---