Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

By Charlie N. Holmberg

Chapter 1

February 16, 1847, Near Waynesville, Ohio

A normal person would probably be completely aghast, and perhaps faint, at the sight of the man who’d tried to murder her, suspended in a tank of ... Hulda didn’t want to know. But in truth, she’d expected much, much worse, so in a strange way, seeing Silas Hogwood’s only partially decayed corpse in a cylindrical glass coffin was almost a relief.

The dolls he’d kept around in life, shriveled monstrosities that looked like starved cacti or fungal legumes, had been far more repugnant. Though those, at least, hadn’t had discernible features. Silas Hogwood ... he almost looked like himself.

Hulda drew in a deep breath, inhaling until it passed her navel and hit her hips, then let it out all in one gust. “This will see all of us in jail.”

Us , referring to all four persons present. As far as Hulda was aware, they were four of only five people who knew about the hidden, unnamed laboratory Myra Haigh had siphoned funds to for years.

Speak of the devil.

“I know I’ve left it to you”—Myra stepped up beside her, an index finger crooked just under her bottom lip—“but it would be a great waste to destroy it. Mr. Hogwood aside, a lot of research has been done here. Is being done. I beg you to take all of that into consideration before you make a decision.”

Hulda bit the inside of her cheek. At least the facility, while macabre, was well run. She shouldn’t have expected anything less where Myra was concerned. The woman had caused her a great deal of trouble over the last six months, but she was nothing if not competent. And aggravatingly difficult to get a hold of.

Hulda glanced over her shoulder at the two employees, both in long coats, working at tables full of glass vials and other sundry objects. Or pretending to work. Likely eavesdropping, and Hulda couldn’t blame them. Myra had sworn they were trustworthy. Hulda believed her.

Glancing back at the ... tube ... she asked, “What is he in?”

“Formaldehyde.” Myra leaned closer to the glass. “Salt. Water. Magic. If you want the exact potion, I can call over Lisbeth.”

Lisbeth, one of the workers behind her. Hulda had forgone introductions, though every iota of politeness and finishing school censured her for it. She’d only just assumed her new duties as the director of the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms a few months prior, and she didn’t want to be any more tangled up in this mess than she already was.

Magic had been slowly but steadily leaving the world for centuries. The idea of synthesizing it was fascinating. World changing. But to do it like this? It made nausea brew.

“How did you get him in here without informing outsiders?” she asked.

Shrugging one shoulder, Myra said, “I have my ways.” She hesitated. “I suppose you’ll want to know—”

“I really don’t.”

Interrupting. Another faux pas her manners teacher would deplore. Merritt Fernsby was rubbing off on her a little too much. Drawing another steeling breath, Hulda added, “The best situation any of us can hope for is to make this operation as legal as humanly possible. Paperwork can be fudged. I’ll speak to a lobbyist and—”

“It’s too risky,” Myra broke in, her voice low enough that the other two in the room would not hear her. “There’s too much at—”

Hulda wheeled on the older woman. “I will not take the fallout for your choices, Myra.” Her voice rang harsher than intended. Myra reeled back, sealing her lips. Pushing forward, Hulda added, “The cadaver law first.” Just being in possession of a corpse, even that of a mass murderer, broke United States law. Only hospitals and medical researchers could skirt it. As far as she knew, this was the first body brought into the lab, but she didn’t ask. The more ignorant she was, the better. “If we can portray this work as research into the field of medical knowledge, it will go much easier on us. I’ll be as anonymous as possible. Magic is a dying art, yet it’s something everybody wants. Why else would institutes like the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic be federally funded?” She glanced at Mr. Hogwood’s floating corpse, then turned her back to it. “I’ll place my petitions carefully. Unless this becomes sanctioned, not a single stroke of a pen will breathe of this place.” Myra looked like she wanted to speak, but Hulda pushed on. “It will take some time, yes, but I will do this right. We will do this right, and then we’ll have a new, documented start. If we cannot achieve that, then this place shuts down.”

Myra’s mouth twisted. Hulda sensed a great many words building up in her throat, most of them ungenerous. But Myra swallowed them. She’d given up her power when she’d abdicated her position as director of BIKER. The very fact that Hulda was even considering aiding this grisly effort ... well, Myra could only be grateful for it.

“I understand,” she managed.

Hulda nodded. “I will make it clear, again”—she glanced at the two employees, who paused to meet her eye—“that this institute is no longer associated with BIKER. I did not create it, and I cannot support it. As far as any of you are concerned, I’ve washed my hands of this place. But”—she turned to Myra—“Miss Haigh is likewise no longer affiliated with BIKER. If she wishes to keep it running, that’s her prerogative. But absolutely no funding will come from BIKER unless the proper ratifications are secured. Until they are, you will be on your own.”

After receiving silent nods of approval, Hulda started for the exit. Myra quickly fell into step beside her, heels clacking against the hard floor.

“Do you really think you’ll get government accommodation for this?” Myra sounded incredulous.

“I intend to look into options. Perhaps, if handled gently, we could even get a grant.”

Myra snorted. “I highly doubt it.”

“Doubt all you want”—Hulda stopped and met her gaze—“but do not doubt me .” She straightened her glasses. “Besides, I’m marrying a man who is very good with words. I’m sure he’ll be able to draft up a wonderful proposal.”

Myra frowned, clearly displeased that Hulda had brought Merritt into her confidence. Fine. Hulda was impenitent. Myra’s actions had nearly gotten Hulda and Merritt murdered by the man in that tank, and then incarcerated for crimes they didn’t commit. She really didn’t have a leg to stand on.

Hulda tipped her head slightly. “I envy you your gift. I wish I knew what you were thinking.”

Perhaps involuntarily, Myra’s eyes shifted slightly to the right. Hulda followed them to a door she’d assumed was a closet.

Her chest tightened. “Do I want to know?”

Myra didn’t answer.

Sighing and adjusting the black bag on her shoulder, Hulda marched toward the door. She was nearly there when Myra said, “You’ve washed your hands of the place, remember?”

Hulda wrenched the door open. The space within was unlit, and not much larger than a closet. After fumbling in her bag, she pulled out an enchanted light and bid it to ignite.

She nearly dropped it.

Two of those horrid, shriveled bodies were in here, hung from a shelf like curing meat. Those awful, gnarled things used to be people. Silas Hogwood had mutated them with spells, preserving them from death so he could keep the magic stolen from them. That ability was the reason Myra had taken his body postmortem in the first place, sure that the secret to replicating magic lay somewhere in his anatomy.

“For the love of heaven.” Hulda slammed the door shut and reeled around. “Put them out of their misery .”

Myra pressed her lips together. Thankfully, she nodded, skipping the fight Hulda had been more than ready to have with her.

She ended the spell on the light in her hands and said, “I’ll see myself out.” She swept down the hallway and to the exit, leaving at a pace far quicker than she’d used upon arriving. She wished there were a kinetic tram line this far west. She couldn’t return to her hotel fast enough.

She found herself in desperate want of a bath.

Merritt paced the length of the hall in the triple-decker house that had been turned into a small inn. The Bluebird, it was called, and admittedly the weathering on its blue-painted exterior walls did resemble feathers. It was right next to the railroad station, and he’d stayed there last night, though barely slept a wink. Not because house plants and rodents were trying to speak to him—no, he had that, blessedly, under control.

It was just that ... he hadn’t seen his sisters in nearly fourteen years.

Worcester didn’t seem like the most ideal place to reunite, what with all the factories and construction and the noise from the canal, but it was a decent city somewhat in the middle of all their locations—Merritt was posted out in the Narragansett Bay, Scarlet had moved to Albany, and Beatrice was in Concord. Granted, he and Scarlet had access to a kinetic tram, which made it a little fairer for them, but—

He touched the faded scarf around his neck, uncaring that it didn’t exactly add to his clothing. And he was wearing his nicest clothing—church-worthy clothing, with a new lavender vest. Beth, his maid and friend, had thought it looked well on him, but it didn’t exactly blend with his multicolored scarf ... the only token he’d been able to take with him from his oldest sister, Scarlet, when the man who’d raised him had kicked him out with little more than the clothes on his back. Only much later had he learned that Peter Fernsby was not his true father. Merritt hadn’t been able to save anything of Beatrice’s.

His mother, against Peter’s wishes, had sent his sisters’ addresses to him, and he’d written to them. They were both married, with households of their own, so there was no one around to tear up letters before they reached their destination. Not like before. And his sisters, both, had answered . Immediately. He’d even gotten a telegram from Scarlet.

He was to be reunited with his family any minute now. Any minute now.

He pulled out his pocket watch with clammy hands and checked the minute hand for the dozenth time. His hostess had asked him on several occasions if she could get him anything, then finally let him be to wear down the varnish in her reception hall with his relentless pacing. Forcing the watch back into his pocket, Merritt squared his shoulders and ran a hand back through his hair. Should he have cut it? Maybe he should have cut it. Or at least tied it back with a ribbon or something. Merritt had never cared about his hair. Why did he suddenly care so much about his hair?

He turned about for a mirror. Didn’t see one. There was one in his room, but he wasn’t going to trudge upstairs for the sake of vanity. What if he didn’t like what he saw? What, precisely, was he going to do about it?

The front door opened. Merritt’s heart lodged in his throat—but a wide man of about forty stepped through, two suitcases in hand. His trouser leg got caught on a splinter in the doorframe.

“Here, let me,” Merritt offered, and grabbed one of the suitcases so the man could free himself. He might have wondered if this was one of his brothers-in-law, but both of his sisters had determined to come solo. First, to make this a more intimate and less stressful affair. Second, because they both had children, some of whom were in school, and it was easier to find help at home if their husbands could take over after work.

“Thank you.” The man tipped his hat to Merritt, then accepted his suitcase back.

“Hostess is upstairs,” he offered.

The man nodded and started up that way. Merritt moved to close the door—

And locked eyes with Beatrice Fernsby—Blakewell, now—coming up the path.

His organs evaporated. His spirit shot out of his body and dissipated into fog. She looked different—there was more weight on her, rounding out her features. More lines to her face. Her dress was well made, as was her coat. Good. It meant her family made a comfortable living. Her eyes were the same—blue just like his.

“Oh!” she cried, and dropped her suitcase right there on the winter-curled lawn. She ran toward the porch.

Merritt blinked, and suddenly he was in his body again, tripping over the doorjamb as he stepped outside. Blinked again, to clear tears from his vision.

“Merritt!” Beatrice shrieked, and bowled into him, nearly sending them both to the ground. Her arms went straight around his waist, and his fell over her shoulders. Had she always been this short?

“Bea,” he whispered, and a tear traced the side of his nose and fell onto her hat. “Goodness, Bea, you’re all grown up!”

She pulled back enough to swat him with a reticule hanging from her wrist, then embraced him again, burying her face into his chest. “I was practically grown when you left!” she objected, then started bawling into his shirt.

He blinked rapidly to control his own tears. Squeezed her tight and pressed his face into her hair, just under the rim of her hat. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, throat constricting. “I tried to reach out to you—”

“Oh, stop.” She pulled back and fished into her reticule for her handkerchief, then carefully dabbed her eyes. “Stop it right now. We all tried.” She sniffed. A tear fell free from her dark eyelashes. Quieter, she repeated, “We all tried.”

Swallowing against a lump in his throat, Merritt gestured to the door. “There’s a fire inside, and some chairs. I think I scared off the other guests.”

Beatrice laughed—or maybe sobbed—and nodded. Merritt jogged out to fetch her suitcase. Urged her to take the chair closest to the fire. She lowered into it and then pulled off her gloves and warmed her hands.

“It’s ...” He sat beside her, still stunned and at a loss for words, his pulse racing laps from his head to his feet and back. “It’s so good to see you.”

She smiled, lips pinched together, eyes watery. Reached out to his face—he leaned forward in his seat so she could touch his jaw. She flicked back his hair. “This is nonsense.” She laughed.

“I know.”

She pulled back and looked him over. “All grown up.”

Merritt grinned. “I was grown before I left.”

“Hardly!” Dabbing her eyes some more, she added, “You were barely a man. Mother, well, she caught us up on everything.” She needn’t explain what; Merritt had let the ordeal with Ebba, his old fiancée, slip, and he imagined his father had been asked to account for his actions. After all, he’d known Merritt was a bastard long before Merritt did, and he’d orchestrated the whole mess. “Regardless, Merritt ... you’re my brother. I love you. Always have, always will.”

His pulse tripped on a lap. Merritt found himself turning away, digging into his pockets for his own handkerchief. A minute passed as he found it, used it, and tried to work down that sharp ball lodged in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She beamed. “I read your book. A Pauper in the Making . You absolutely drew on our trip to Connecticut for the train scene!”

He chuckled. “I did, I did.”

“And the next one?”

Clearing his throat, Merritt folded up the handkerchief. “It releases in May. May 18. Did ... Did you like it? Pauper ?”

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I didn’t!” Beatrice slapped his knee, and the simple gesture shot him back twenty years to their shared home in Cattlecorn. So many of her mannerisms were the same—even the way she dabbed at her eyes. “I never thought writing interested you. Did you write much before?”

“Started in my early twenties.”

“Well, you have a knack for it. A little scary for me. The book, not the knack.” She winked. “But I read it all anyway.”

His cheeks hurt from smiling. “But tell me more about your children. Bethany and Maggie. And your husband. Was ... Was it George?”

“Yes.” She grabbed the sides of her chair and scooted a little closer. “George. Our eighth wedding anniversary is coming up.” She sighed and relaxed into her seat. “Bethany is almost seven. Maggie is four. There was another, but, well, it didn’t work out.”

Strength fled his shoulders. “Bea, I’m so sorry—”

She shrugged. “It happens, Merritt. Happened with our own mother, if you remember.”

He nodded. “I ... do. I hadn’t thought about that for a while.” A stillborn, delivered two months early. Had the baby survived, Merritt would have had a younger brother, right between him and Beatrice in age.

“But the two I have keep me plenty busy!” She slapped his leg again. “But I heard a rumor—”

“Merritt?”

Both of them turned in their chairs to see a newcomer, dressed in a long wool coat, her dark hair twisted up and pinned, a small purse in her hands. Her cheeks were flushed, either from the cold or exertion, maybe both. She was tall and lean, with high boots and a red scarf.

Merritt rose from his chair, pulse picking up where it’d left off. “Scarlet.”

He crossed the room to her in a sort of trance. Beatrice was his younger sister by roughly four years; Scarlet was his older by two. His first playmate, his first defender. He still remembered her voice through the wall as Peter Fernsby tossed his things onto the lawn, yelling at him to stop it, stop it, Please, Father, stop!

When he neared, she lifted a delicate hand and touched the scarf around his neck. She let out a fluttering breath. “You kept it all these years.”

Merritt couldn’t answer. If he tried, his voice would be little more than the screeching of an old door hinge.

So he opened his arms instead, and Scarlet fell into them, leaving her tears just above Beatrice’s. After a moment, he felt another pair of arms—Beatrice, coming to join them, his sisters’ embraces warmer than the fire at his back.

This. Merritt had waited so long for this. There was so much to talk about, and so little time before they had to return home. How would he cover it all?

When they finally pulled apart, having exchanged their sorrys and well-wishes and regrets, they returned to the seats by the hearth. Scarlet hung up her coat and situated herself comfortably between Beatrice and himself, then said, “I hear you have something for us.”

He paused. “Something?”

“Yes!” Beatrice exclaimed, dabbing yet again. “Yes, I heard a rumor about a woman.”

“Oh!” Merritt reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the folded papers, neatly addressed and sealed with wax. The paper had seen better days, but such was the toll of travel. He handed one to each of them.

Wedding invitations. The date was set to April 12, two months away.

Scarlet broke the wax reverently and unfolded the note as if it were woven from spider silk. Beatrice ripped into hers, nearly tearing it in two.

“You have to tell us all about her,” Scarlet said, halfway to a whisper. “Hulda Larkin. Such a melodic name. I want to hear the story from the start.”

Elbows on his knees, Merritt knit his fingers together. “I want to hear your stories. I want to know about my nieces and nephews.”

“One thing at a time.” Scarlet smiled, soft and genuine. “Tell me about Hulda, and then tell me about the house, and where you’ve been all these years. Tell me so I can stop dreaming about it, worrying about it, wondering about it.”

Warmth enveloped Merritt’s chest. “All right. First, the story of the house and the story of Hulda are one and the same ...”

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