Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Chapter 4

February 23, 1847, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

For a moment, Merritt didn’t breathe. In that same moment, his cheeks cooled as blood drained from them, and his heart kept hard, even time.

He read the letter from the top.

Attention: Merritt Fernsby, or

To Whom It May Concern,

In short, I am interested in your dog.

I am personally addressing you as a situation in which you were involved has greatly impressed me. The incident I speak of was the sudden deterioration of the Suffolk County Gaol in the state of Massachusetts. Specifically, the report of a certain witness who detailed the involvement of a male, medium-sized, mixed-breed terrier.

As I’m sure you know, I come from a long line of magic users and consider it a personal responsibility to continue that line, and to protect a resource so many have forgotten is nonrenewable. My involvement in magic includes, of course, a vast education on its workings. This education informs me that dogs cannot be in the possession of spells. And yet, it seems yours is.

My necromancer assures me there is only one possible explanation, and upon examination of files from the London Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms, supplied recently by its Boston counterpart, I feel certain I understand completely and do not find it necessary to explain in a letter what we both already know.

I wish to introduce you and your dog to my cousins the Leiningens. I believe we can offer you and Owein Mansel an irresistible opportunity that will secure a most excellent future for the both of you. Your compliance, of course, is greatly appreciated, and all expenses for the trip, boarding, and otherwise will be covered.

With the utmost sincerity,

Victoria

Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

Merritt’s free hand clamored for a chair and managed to pull one out before strength left his legs.

“Mr. Fernsby?” Beth padded over. Owein’s nose pressed into his trousers.

Merritt said nothing, merely handed the letter over and stared into a dimension portaled somewhere between the table and the far wall.

Adey had not been wrong about the mulling.

“Oh my.” Beth’s hand pressed to her collar. Then, a moment later, another “Oh my.”

What? What? Owein pestered. The words were loud. That was, Merritt couldn’t technically hear them. They simply pressed into his mind, and his mind vocalized them in a way he could understand. A spare part of his brain wondered what Owein’s true voice would have sounded like, if he’d still had it.

Blinking back to the present, Merritt rubbed his eyes. “Surely it’s not real.”

“I believe it is.” She turned the letter over just as Baptiste came in. “That seal.”

The chef approached. The letter rustled as it exchanged hands. After a moment, Baptiste asked, “What this mean?” and pointed to a word. Beth did her best to explain—an explanation that served as subtle harmony to Merritt’s whirling thoughts.

The actual queen of England knew about Owein. She wanted Owein. Why? The letter was not threatening in the slightest—there was no reason Merritt shouldn’t consider the offer she’d put forward. But then again, he didn’t have to. The monarch of England had no jurisdiction here. He could ignore both it and Adey, next time the royal puppet came knocking. But ...

Opportunity.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est!” Baptiste said as Owein leapt up and tore the letter—most of it—from his hands. Merritt shook himself and stood as Owein trotted to the stairs, spat the letter out, and began reading it. He had become a decent reader these last few months, though Merritt imagined he might get stuck on some of the same words as Baptiste.

After a minute, Owein turned toward him, dark eyes shining. What does this mean?

“It means the queen of England is interested in you. For the sake of her cousins ... for whatever reason. I can’t fathom that part.” He inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly, and ran a hand back through his hair. “I ... I need to talk to Hulda.” He patted his pockets, but his communion stone wasn’t there.

“I’ll fetch it,” Beth offered, and, picking up her skirts, quickly ascended to the top floor.

What are they going to do? Owein asked.

Merritt shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Folding his arms, Baptiste said, “If it were no legal, I think ... she would not write such polite letter.”

Merritt nodded. “Seems that way. But believe me, my imagination can conjure up all sorts of mires.” He sunk back into his chair. “You know, none of this nonsense happened before I met you all. Before I got this house.” He gestured widely. “Power-sucking necromancers, emotionally scheming lawyers, and now the most powerful wizard in the Western world?” He threw up his hands. “Well, why the hell not?”

Merritt was no stranger to late nights, and he’d known tonight would be one of them, with so much on his mind. But he’d taken two cups of warm chamomile tea heavy with cream and managed to drift off—just before the house started shaking.

Again.

His eyelids slow to part, Merritt pushed himself off his mattress and stumbled toward the door, managing to wake fully halfway down the hallway as another quake hit. He followed a huffing sound, laced with a whine, to the office, where Owein lay on his side on his bed, his legs jerking.

“Owein.” He crouched and rubbed the dog’s ribs and lightly patted his snout. “Owein, wake up. Owein.”

Alertness assaulted the dog suddenly, causing him to jerk up and collide the top of his head with Merritt’s chin. Merritt fell onto his backside.

The shaking subsided.

Ears sagging, Owein plopped back onto his bed. Sorry.

Another nightmare.

“It’s not your fault.” Merritt ran a hand down the dog’s sleek body. “What was it this time?”

Owein shook his head. After a few beats, however, he said, Just darkness. Just black. All around me.

Merritt’s heart felt like a dish sponge wrung too tightly, left torn and dry. “I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t surprised, though. When he’d first come to Whimbrel House, Owein had been a broody, almost violent spirit. Surely spending decades on end without another human around and then, when they came, being unable to communicate ... that would do something to the best of men. The loneliness Merritt had struggled with for much of his life failed to compare.

“Come on.” He tapped Owein’s butt, urging him off the bed, then picked up the large cushion and carried it into his room. Owein followed behind, droopy and slow, like he’d been scolded. Merritt set the cushion down near his bed, hesitated, then patted his mattress. “Come on.”

Owein hesitated a moment—Beth did not like him on the furniture—before hopping up on the side of the bed still made—the half Hulda would be occupying soon enough. He set his maw on the pillow and sighed.

Stifling a yawn, Merritt slipped in beside him and stroked his fur with one hand until the terrier’s breathing calmed. Slowly, together, they both fell fast asleep.

“I imagine every paper in Massachusetts made note of it, and the states beyond,” Hulda said, gazing over the torn note one more time. It floored her that she was holding a letter penned by the Queen Victoria. Would Merritt let her keep it? But that was a foolish thing to ask. Or was it?

Regardless, she ensured for the third time she hadn’t missed anything, including any hidden meanings, of which the English were fond. She absently drummed the fingers of her left hand on her desk—she had only just become accustomed to being on this side of it. It was a large desk, cherrywood, directly across from the stairs in BIKER headquarters. One wall was lined with bookshelves, the other relatively sparse, save for a potted fern she had moved in here. Apparently it bemoaned of thirst to Merritt every time he stepped foot on the floor, so Hulda had taken it upon herself to keep it close and ensure it remained well watered.

Merritt sat across from her, chair pulled up close enough that he could prop both elbows on the opposite side of the desk. He’d given a little extra attention to his hair today—the waves in the light-brown locks were nearly uniform and shiny, save for a crimp that whispered he had tied it back at one point, then probably given up on it halfway to Boston and pulled the tie out. “I should have cashed in on that.” He stretched his neck to one side, then the other. “I could have written a far more detailed article on the jailbreak than anyone else.”

Hulda snorted. “The Crown likely has people everywhere. And they would easily be able to access the files on Whimbrel House.” Files that contained everything except the moving of Owein’s spirit from house to dog. As far as any of those papers were concerned, the house on Blaugdone Island was still enchanted. “She’s being straightforward. And I agree with Beth; I believe this letter to be authentic.” She certainly believed Dwight Adey to be authentic, and he was apparently the man who’d delivered it. “At the very least,” she offered, finally setting the paper down, “you should hear her and the Leiningens out.”

“Do you know anything of that family?”

“Not offhand. But the name is familiar.” Hulda had lived in England for several years. The light caught on her pearl engagement ring, and for the twentieth time that day, she found herself both mesmerized by the band and surprised it was there. She tilted her hand a little to the right, then the left, watching sunlight from the window behind her dance across it.

Merritt lifted a fist and rested the side of his jaw against it. “I don’t suppose you might accompany me?”

The offer warmed her. “I would love to. But BIKER—”

“But BIKER,” he repeated, as though that was explanation enough. And it was. He punctuated it with a sigh.

A flicker of anxiety threaded around the base of her throat. Just a sigh now, but what about later? Merritt honored her commitment to her job, but what if a year or two down the line, he tired of it? What if he became the next Dickens and her BIKER paychecks became moot? What would she do?

“If,” Hulda tried, glancing once at the clock on the wall, “this opportunity requires an elongated stay, I’m sure I could arrange a visit with LIKER. They’re also stationed in London.” Might as well keep her fingers in two pies for as long as she could manage it.

A soft smile tugged on Merritt’s lips. She found herself matching it. “Thank you,” he said. He took the letter, folded it slowly, and slid it into an interior vest pocket. It was a brocade vest, threaded with violet, carmine, and gold. For as plain as all his other clothes were, Merritt seemed to fancy extravagant vests. Hulda hardly minded—they made her smile. Now, if only she could get him to wear a proper hat—

“I think I might get some documentation notarized.” He leaned back in his chair. “In Providence.”

She blinked. “What documentation?” Their marriage license was already taken care of.

“I don’t know.” He fidgeted. “It’s just ... they know about Owein. All of this revolves around him. I honestly don’t know what to expect, so I want to make sure we have any and every protection we need. I think ... I think I’m going to adopt him.”

Hulda’s lips parted. After a beat, she said, “I-I’m not sure the law will allow you to legally adopt a canine.”

“I’ll see what I can finagle. In my experience, you can get away with just about anything if you pay the right amount.”

She frowned. “Perhaps. Though I do not believe you are flush with cash.”

Sweeping back his hair, Merritt said, “Just don’t tell Baptiste I’ll be dipping into his cow fund.”

Adey returned two days later, midsunset. Merritt had a letter ready for him—it was brief, accepting the offer and nothing else. Playing it safe until they had more information. Owein was anxious about traveling so far, and Merritt was anxious about traveling on so little. But they were going together, and that seemed enough to steady them both.

However, after Merritt opened the front door and handed the queen’s man the unsealed note, he didn’t take it. “May I ask, Mr. Fernsby, if the letter is in the affirmative?”

Merritt hesitated, arm still outstretched with the paper. “I’ve no qualms about you reading it.”

The British man smiled. “If you would tell me.”

Merritt sighed through his nose, wondering at the detective’s game. “We are, tentatively, accepting Her Majesty’s offer.”

He nodded, grin still in place. “That is most excellent. In that case, I will wait for you to pack your bags.”

Finally withdrawing his arm, Merritt asked, “Pardon?”

“Her Majesty instructed me to bring you straightaway upon your consent,” he explained. “I’ve a ship awaiting us in Newport, ready to leave on the morrow.”

Merritt stared at the man, incredulous. But he seemed all jovial seriousness.

He heard the clicking of Owein’s nails on the floor before words communed with his mind. We’re going now?

Apparently. His brain picked apart every word, every shift in Adey’s stance, every possibility of subterfuge. He found none. His legal adoption of Owein provided some comfort, but to be safe, he would pack one of his pistols.

“I suppose I’ll have you wait in the living room.” His limbs moved woodenly as he stepped back to allow Adey enough space to step in, which he did. Beth, who had been lingering in the dining room, swept in to take the man’s hat and jacket.

Adey nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you.” Then, turning toward Merritt, he added, “The swifter we are, the easier the trip will be.”

“If you’d wanted swiftness, you should have called earlier.” Merritt shut the door. Waited for Beth to escort Adey to the living room. Then, feeling quite odd, he walked up the stairs, Owein on his heels.

He packed enough for three days, because that’s what would fit in his suitcase. Hesitating, he took the scarf Scarlet had made him and set it on his dresser for safekeeping. With luck, he’d have more memories to make with her in the future, and maybe this poor bunch of yarn could finally get some rest. He then spoke to Hulda through their communion stones to alert her—once he started across the Atlantic, the spell binding the stones together wouldn’t work anymore. That finished, he came downstairs to say goodbye to his small staff. Owein took a long time with Beth. While Merritt waited, he quietly pulled Baptiste aside, out of earshot, and said, “Keep Beth safe.”

Baptiste nodded.

After a beat, Merritt asked, “Are you ever going to tell me the story?”

The chef raised a dark eyebrow. “What story?”

“You know.” He spun a hand in the air. “Why you had to leave France.” Why he was a convict.

Baptiste’s eyes narrowed while his lips pulled into an almost feline grin. “I do not know if you can handle truth. When I think you can, I will tell.”

That gave Merritt pause. What sort of grotesque thing could the man have done? Surely not murder ... he’d be in prison for murder. Would Merritt have to fire him if it was murder? That was something he’d have to consider.

Owein’s goodbyes complete, they followed the queen’s man into the twilight and sailed into Portsmouth by the gleam of lighthouses.

And in the morning, as Adey had promised, they embarked on the two-day trip across the waters on a kinetic ship to England.