Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Chapter 2

February 23, 1847, Boston, Massachusetts

After too many days of travel and another long day of catching up on work, Hulda met Merritt at Karlsson’s, a soup-and-sandwich shop near the docks in Boston that had become a regular rendezvous point for the two of them when she could get away from BIKER and he had time to travel up from Blaugdone Island. This past month had seemed especially busy—BIKER was running much more regularly now, with only occasional checkups from its parent company, LIKER, or the London Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms. Merritt was writing a great deal and had taken a much-needed visit to reunite with his sisters. Hulda was elated to see him again, and relieved to see him so happy. They took a table in the corner, away from the drafty windows, and he recounted everything. She, on the other hand, had not disclosed her findings at the Ohio facility, though Merritt knew she’d gone. She couldn’t risk it, not yet. Certainly not at a public restaurant, and she dared not tell him of it through their linked communion stones. Which were technically BIKER property, and technically should not be in Merritt’s ownership anymore.

Technically.

“But,” Merritt said, putting a hand in front of his mouth to mask the last remnants of food there. He’d been talking so long, answering all of Hulda’s questions, that he’d barely eaten a bite. “I wanted to show you this. Picked it up on my way here.”

He lifted his satchel onto his lap and pulled from it a folded newspaper. Opened it up, turned to the second page, and folded it down again. Hulda quickly wiped her fingers on her napkin before accepting it.

“Is this it?” She brought the paper to her face, pushing up her glasses with her free hand. It took her only a moment to find it.

Souls Over Blood

Local scholar theorizes magical heritage is linked to more than blood .

“How wonderful that it published!” she said, glancing over the article. She’d read early drafts of it already—it detailed, without too much detail, findings that suggested magical inheritance was connected to the soul first and blood second—hence the ability powerful spirits had to inhabit houses, which was becoming a far-less-frequent occurrence as magic continued to dwindle. The fact that Owein—once a boy, then a house, now a canine—still had full access to his magic seemed proof enough, though Merritt had purposely not named him or given many details on the matter. He valued privacy too highly, and there were those who might go to great lengths to study him. Myra came to mind.

“Scholar?” she teased.

Merritt shrugged. “Gifford edited it, so it counts. I’m not the first person to have made the connection, but they published the article anyway.”

Mr. James Gifford from the Genealogical Society was quoted twice in the passage. While Merritt usually put his name to articles he sold, he’d requested it be left off this one. Again, for privacy. Both for himself and for Owein.

“How is he?” Hulda asked, softer, folding the newspaper again. “Owein, I mean. Nightmares?”

“Not for a bit now. At least, not since I got back, and if it happened while I was away, Beth didn’t mention anything.” He swirled his spoon around his chowder, took a bite, considered. “He seems all right.”

Hulda nodded. “That’s good.” Owein hadn’t been sleeping well. It wasn’t every night, only on occasion. Perhaps that was normal, for a child. Then again, Owein was, if they were to be precise, 223 years old. He seemed reluctant to talk about it. Granted, he could easily communicate only with Merritt, but he’d learned his letters well and could speak with a letterboard when he needed to.

She folded the paper back up, but a smaller article on the same page caught her attention. She skimmed it. Renowned Aristocrat and Wizard Passes Away. It was half news, half obituary, naming a marquess who had died at Cyprus Hall in London. She’d paused because she recognized the name—Patrick Bryson Pratt, the Marquess of Halesworth. He was a direct relation to the Crown. She’d met him once, indirectly—he’d been a member of the King’s—now the Queen’s—League of Magicians, and Silas Hogwood had hosted him at a few dinner parties at Gorse End. That had been long ago, of course, before Hogwood’s insidious affairs were uncovered. The marquess had been kind—a pity that he’d passed away.

She folded the paper, and her thoughts broke when she noticed the steam over Merritt’s soup bowl looking rather ... cubical in shape. She blinked. “You’ve gotten rather good at that.”

The cube dispersed, letting the steam dissipate. “I’ve been practicing.” He did so again, over Hulda’s tea. The cube was smaller, and would have been unseen if not for the little wisps of steam licking its side. It didn’t quite form all the way before silently shattering.

Hulda almost asked if Merritt had been in contact with his half brothers—he had three from his biological father, and one had wardship abilities. But surely Merritt would have mentioned as much, and Hulda didn’t want to needlessly remind him that he had family who didn’t know he was a part of them. Thus far, Merritt had kept his biological father’s secret. Perhaps he felt he owed the man, after Nelson Sutcliffe had so gallantly come their way to pay bail after their wrongful imprisonment. Perhaps Merritt didn’t want to risk wounding the innocent people who would be hurt. Or perhaps it was simply too much for him to take in. He’d only just reunited with his mother and sisters, and getting him to take the first step there had been ... difficult.

So Hulda didn’t ask. She moved to hand the paper back to him, then paused. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

Merritt chewed and swallowed a bite of bread. “Go ahead.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Going to brag about me to Sadie?”

Hulda rolled her eyes. “It might be useful for some letters I need to write.” If she could prove there was a need for further study in the realm of magic to President Polk or Congress, it might open up some avenues for Myra’s ... projects. She could cut out this article and anything else she found and mail them as evidence. Magic regulations in the States were lax, but they still existed. Hulda was the head of BIKER, however, and had a better chance of getting through to key legislators than most.

“ Those letters?” Merritt asked. He knew the general direction she meant to take, but not much more. Safer for the both of them to keep it that way, for now.

“Those letters,” she confirmed, and slipped the paper into her bag.

“Letters, houses, résumés, assignments.” He sighed. Stretched a leg out so his foot touched hers. “If only the pastor would let you marry BIKER.”

Hulda snorted. “Perhaps I should ask him.” They had a Baptist pastor in Portsmouth who had agreed to come out for their spring wedding. They were to get married on Blaugdone Island, of course, just as the blooms were bursting on the trees—the ones Merritt hadn’t torn up in the discovery of his chaocracy spells.

It was a queer thing, contemplating—really thinking —about the wedding. That it was actually happening. Her insides danced, mingling elation with ... uncertainty. Not about Merritt, no, but about marriage .

Hulda had wanted to be a wife and mother since she was a little girl. She’d fantasized about romance and a babe in her arms throughout her adolescent years and into adulthood. She’d focused harder on her studies when she struggled to turn a beau’s eye, then dove into a very fulfilling career when it became apparent she was destined to live out her life as an old maid. Apparent for a time, at least.

Now, finally, at nearly thirty-five years old, she was tying the knot. Finally living out her dream. But she was so terribly used to being a single, independent woman that the idea of being someone’s wife stirred anxiety. How much would her life change, once she was married? Once she had children? If children were even in her future ... The older she got, the less likely she’d get pregnant. She wanted children, of course, but she also wanted BIKER. One change she certainly wasn’t reveling in was the commute. Once she married and relocated to Whimbrel House, she’d acquire a two-hour, one-way commute to work. The best option for avoiding the inconvenience would be to move the office itself. Blaugdone Island was out of the question—BIKER had enough staff and clientele that moving so far out of the way would be discommoding, but perhaps she could find office space in Portsmouth. She’d need to run it all through LIKER, since it had proven wise in the past not to have a public face for the institute. All in all, it was a lot of communication and paperwork Hulda wasn’t looking forward to.

Perhaps she could invest in a faster boat.

Even now, the line of dedication between her career and her fiancé stretched to a delicate thinness. How could she possibly keep it from snapping altogether?

Merritt sipped his tea, and in doing so broke the tangled line of thought. There were certainly pleasant things to look forward to in marriage, as Hulda recalled a premonition that had assaulted her from Merritt’s tea leaves months earlier. It had involved a bed and other risqué things—

“What are you thinking about?” Merritt asked.

She cleared her throat. “Nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t make you pink.”

Hulda took to folding her napkin, trying not to give attention to the blush beneath her skin, because minding it only made it worse. “No matter. I have every intention of standing across from you beneath the arbor.”

And she did. Worry aside, it still astounded her that she was getting married. It was ... surreal. Even now, she woke up in the morning wondering if Merritt were merely a figment of her imagination or she’d conjured his fondness for her in a dream. Why Merritt, why now, and not ... then? If only her augury were strong enough to let her understand how God had laid out the cards.

Hulda didn’t like showing affection in public. Admittedly, she struggled with expressing just how much she loved this man even in the privacy of his home. She’d buried her emotions and yearning for so long they seemed to prefer the metaphorical trunk in which she stuffed them. But not even the deepest box could contain all she felt in her heart. So, in a weak effort to show it, she reached across the table and laid her hand over his.

Merritt smiled coyly at her and asked her to talk about her day as he finished his meal; Hulda had already devoured hers. He made another wardship cube before his soup cooled off, and when they rose to leave, he knocked his knee on the table and hissed through his teeth.

He hadn’t hit it very hard, but the weakening of the body was a side effect of wardship. All magic had side effects, often something seemingly opposite to whatever the spell had been cast to accomplish.

Hulda touched his elbow. “Are you all right?”

He rubbed the spot. “Serves me right.”

They walked back to BIKER together, her hand in the crook of Merritt’s elbow—a place where she’d found much comfort. The air had a crispness to it, but the sun was bright overhead, teasing the onset of spring. They moved aside for a coach, then crossed the street and took a shortcut between two shops—a shortcut Hulda took only when she was in a great hurry or when she was accompanied, as it wasn’t the most unmolested alleyway in the city. They reached the hotel, then circled around its back to BIKER’s entrance, near a large tree bare of its leaves. Still, as they neared, Hulda felt a sudden thrill of daring. Glancing about, she ensured there were no onlookers, and just before Merritt reached for the door, she grasped his collar and kissed him.

She hadn’t realized how cold her face was until his warm lips pressed into hers. He caught his balance quickly, palm finding her neck as he deepened the kiss—only for a moment, before Hulda pulled back. They were still in public, after all. But she hadn’t kissed Merritt for eight days, and, well, she’d wanted to.

“How uncharacteristic,” he murmured, looking at her with half-hooded eyes. Love eyes, she thought, and that earlier thrill swirled around her heart.

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’m in charge here, remember?” She stepped back and fixed her hair, though her fingers found nothing out of place. “Who is going to tattle on me?”

Goodness, she felt like a sixteen-year-old. She couldn’t decide if that was a positive or negative.

“Well,” Merritt began, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips, “Sadie is right behind you.”

Mortification stripped all the thrilling feelings as she spun around, an apology on her tongue—

To the closed door.

Merritt laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s just ... you make it so easy.”

She turned back to him and smacked his shoulder. “You nearly gave me a stroke, Merritt Fernsby!”

He shrugged. “I have something to make it up to you.” He reached inside his coat. “Close your eyes.”

She glared at him with utmost suspicion.

A mischievous slant tilted his features. “I don’t have to give it to you ...”

Giving in to the enticement of curiosity, Hulda closed her eyes and held out her hand, expecting a small parcel of lemon drops to fall onto her palm. Instead, Merritt reached for her other hand—her left—and slid something onto her ring finger.

She opened her eyes, heart jumping into her throat. On her finger was a silver band with an inlaid pearl, catching the orange and rose light of the sunset. Simple yet elegant. Perfectly suited to her ... and it matched her spectacles.

“Oh, Merritt,” she whispered, touching the pearl.

“Admittedly the real reason I needed to come into town.” He gently grasped her fingers in his own, tilting her hand so the light shifted and glimmered across the pearl’s surface. “Feels more official now, doesn’t it?”

Emotion constricting her throat, Hulda managed a nod. She was never taking it off.

“Wish I knew where my grandmother’s went,” he went on, releasing her hand. “I don’t even remember what it looked like, but in a way, Anita Nichols is who brought us together.” She had bequeathed Whimbrel House to Merritt after her death, and BIKER had sent Hulda to tame it for him. The rest had fallen into place, not so neatly, after that. “But from what I remember of her ... I bet it was gaudy. Big. Not suitable for hands like these.” He grasped both her hands this time and brought them to his lips, kissing the middle knuckle of each.

Heaven help her, she was going to cry. She squeezed his hands and took a deep breath, steeling herself. “It’s perfect.” Still holding his hands, she turned her grip so she could admire the ring. “Wherever did you get it?”

“Little jeweler in Portsmouth. Also sells ceramics, actually. We talked over what might be suitable and settled on this.”

He’d had it made for her. Good gracious, despite everything, she could not wait the seven weeks to be married to him.

And yet BIKER loomed behind her, full of files and work they were still behind on from Myra’s resignation and LIKER’s audit, plus LIKER’s reassignment of a few buildings’ care to Boston. The reason the wedding had been delayed until spring was to give Hulda enough time to get things in order and delegate whatever needed to be delegated. Perhaps she was married to her work, as Merritt had joked earlier.

Repressing a sigh, Hulda stood on her toes and kissed Merritt’s cheek. “I’ll see you soon,” she promised.

He kissed her forehead. “Remember to breathe, love.”

She nodded, unable to school a very girlish smile. “Travel safely, Merritt.”