Chapter 6
March 1, 1847, London, England
Merritt felt like a little boy as their private, very expensive-looking carriage pulled up to a mansion that surely wasn’t made of marble but certainly looked it. He’d thought the exuberant home looked, well, exuberant from the road, but as the horses trotted up its long drive, past manicured bushes and enchanted water features that looked like upside-down wedding cakes, it became utterly astonishing. Merritt found himself equal parts amazed and, due to his modest sensibilities, disgusted at the blue gabled roofs with bronze cresting, perfectly symmetrical chimneys, and rows of neat rectangular windows highlighting panels of pressed brick. There were pale stringcourses in high relief between each of the house’s stories, of which there appeared to be four. The base of the glamorous monstrosity was textured with a mix of brick and stone in shades of white, gray, and blue to match the rest of the house. There were doors. Many doors. Which made sense—a man could easily get lost in a house like this, so numerous exits were smart. The whole thing was roughly the size of Blaugdone Island, and it sat on a lush green lawn roughly the size of Rhode Island. A hyperbole to be sure, but it seemed an apt one.
And he’d thought Whimbrel House excessive upon his first visit.
“Welcome to Cyprus Hall,” Adey said, with a pleased look about him, though he’d borne a pleased look ever since Merritt and Owein had agree upon this eccentric adventure. The carriage pulled around, revealing a long line of people waiting outside massive double doors—most were in matching black-and-white uniforms, four women and two men. At their center stood three middle-aged people, two men and a woman, all looking onward with bright eyes and brighter smiles. Two of them, likely a couple, stood in front of the other man. He wore dark clothes and had a receding hairline and light-brown hair speckled with gray. Of the couple, the woman had dark hair, nearly black, meticulously curled and pinned. She was tall with a healthy amount of stoutness. The man was taller still, with a long nose and thinning gray hair neatly oiled and combed. His jacket was nearly the same color as the roof, and Merritt wondered if he’d done that on purpose.
I don’t know. Maybe, Owein replied, surprising Merritt, who hadn’t realized he’d sent the thought on their communion line. There was magic all about in this place—those water features didn’t move by machine, and there appeared to be enchanted lights, currently unlit, along the path and exterior of the house. Other spells likely lurked about as well. It was incredibly interesting. How much would these folk let him poke around?
The carriage stopped, and one of the men in uniform—footman—approached as the driver dismounted. The footman opened the door. As Merritt hesitated to rise, Adey stepped out first, then off to the side to allow Merritt through, followed by Owein.
Goodness. The house was immense . Merritt took a moment to gawk at it before his eyes lowered to the approaching middle-aged couple.
The man extended a hand. “Merritt Fernsby?” He had a notable German accent and an equally notable graying mustache.
“As my mother named me.” He accepted the hand and received an overly firm shake.
“Wonderful, wonderful! I am Friedrich, and this is my wife, Helen. We are very happy to welcome you to our home.”
Clearing his throat, Adey added, “This is Prince Friedrich Karl Heinrich Ludwig, third prince of Leiningen, and his wife is Lady Helen de Clare, daughter of the Marquess of Halesworth.”
Merritt took in the information like he was sipping honey. Hulda would have understood it a little better, surely. He wished, not for the first time, that she’d been able to attend. “Meaning that you are both very important,” he tried.
To his relief, Friedrich—Prince Leiningen?—laughed. “Or so we would have others assume.”
“Please,” said Lady Helen—Merritt was fairly certain that would be the correct way to address her—“allow me to introduce you to our dear friend William Blightree.” She gestured behind her, and the man in dark colors stepped forward, nodding his head in greeting. “He is a royal necromancer, here to help us with discussions.”
The term necromancer immediately put Merritt on edge. He’d met only one in his life, but Silas Hogwood had been more than enough for a lifetime. Still, Merritt found himself erring on the side of politeness and extending his hand, which Blightree graciously took in both of his own.
“It is very nice to meet you. Both of you.” His gaze drifted to Owein, who seemed more interested in the prince’s shoes than in the introductions.
Prince Friedrich placed a hand on Blightree’s shoulder and, perhaps sensing Merritt’s hesitation, said, “He is a good man. The best of wizards. He saved my life when I was only seven years old.”
Merritt nodded. “I am glad to hear it. I ... don’t suppose you’re the necromancer Her Majesty spoke of in her letter?”
Blightree smiled. “The very one. I am aware of the situation at hand.” He reached for Owein, who retreated behind Merritt.
He smells like licorice, Owein said.
Merritt chuckled. “I don’t suppose you’ve been in contact with any anise today?”
Blightree leaned back. “I ... have, actually.” He pulled back his hands and sniffed his fingertips. “Does it bother you?”
“Owein merely commented on it.”
All three of them paused. Blightree passed a glance to Adey. “You said he was a wardist!”
Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Adey said, “The intelligence is not perfect.”
“Communion?” Lady Helen asked with a grin. “Do tell me you’re a communionist. Or are you a psychometrist? Would that work with a human soul?”
Merritt was unused to speaking so openly about his still-new abilities, and yet their enthusiasm was enticing. “They can, but I am no psychometrist. Communion and wardship, yes. A very little helping of chaocracy—”
Lady Helen gasped.
“—which I inherited, indirectly, from him.” He jutted a thumb toward Owein.
“Really!” Her hand flew to her breast. “What an excellent mixture! And”—she glanced at his left hand—“you’re not married!”
His skin warmed. “ Yet , my lady. With any luck, my fiancée will be joining us. Though I’m unsure how long we’re staying ...” He glanced at Adey, who merely shrugged.
“Oh, oh yes, I’ve been too forward.” She batted at the air like the action alone could clear it. “We’ll discuss it all in good time. And there is so much to discuss! I’m sure dear William is eager to move forward”—she tipped her head to Blightree—“but manners are manners. Please, come in, the both of you. And, Owein, dear, if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to let us know. It will be so good to have a translator here! And ... relative?”
“He’s my uncle,” Merritt filled in, “a couple of times removed.”
Prince Friedrich clapped his hands together. “Fascinating!”
I need the grass, Owein pressed. He needed to relieve himself.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Merritt replied, Now?
Owein answered with a whine.
“I will personally give you a tour of the hall”—Lady Helen gestured to the house—“and show you to your rooms. Are you hungry? I can have a tray brought—”
“I am terribly sorry to interrupt.” Hopefully being American would let Merritt get away with that. Lowering his voice, he continued, “But my dear uncle is in need of a lavatory.”
“Ah! Yes, right this ...” Lady Helen paused. “That is ... well, it’s not quite built for dogs.”
“Any bush will do,” Merritt assured her.
Lady Helen deserved credit—she moved with the changing current well, her countenance barely flickering as it hurried to catch up. It wasn’t easy to mesh a canine in with polite society. “I have a most excellent bush. Right this way. Or, Friedrich, perhaps you should lead the way? Since Owein is ...” She merely circled her hand around.
Merritt bit down on a smile. It wasn’t like a terrier had any real sense of modesty; he didn’t wear clothes. Everything to be seen was, well, easily seen.
Still, Prince Friedrich obliged with a nod. “This way. And afterward, we do have a very fine lavatory for the rest of you. Have you ever used an enchanted commode? It will change your life.”
The tour of the house was, indeed, impressive. Actually, impressive didn’t seem to be the right word for it. It didn’t seem to encompass what he was seeing. But he didn’t have his well-worn thesaurus with him, so he couldn’t, for the time being, find a better term.
Hulda would know, he thought absently as they passed through the hall that had christened the tour. The walls were hung with dozens of portraits of varying sizes, some that could fit in a pocket and others that were taller than Merritt, who was neither notably tall nor notably short.
A great deal of horses and mantels were featured.
With the same pleasant enthusiasm she’d exuded on the house tour, Lady Helen led them into a sitting room off the dining room. The scents of dinner hung in the air, reminding Merritt that he was hungry. The size and expense of the house made him quite eager to see how the food fare compared.
“Please, take a seat.” Lady Helen gestured to an array of settees and armchairs. When Owein hung back, Merritt crossed the room to the far side, choosing a scarlet settee with elegantly carved armrests and legs—something Hulda would certainly remark upon, were she here. It was comfortable, and he settled in. Owein settled on the floor beside him.
“Oh no, that won’t do.” Lady Helen took a plush pillow off the settee and set it before Owein. “I know, well, this is a little awkward. We’ve never hosted a pup like yourself in this capacity. But please, make yourself comfortable.”
Owein’s dark eyes glanced at Merritt. He nodded, and Owein resituated himself on the cushion.
All right? he tried. Shorter messages tended to have fewer side effects.
Owein didn’t answer; Merritt masked a frown. He’d tried speaking with him on two other occasions since they’d begun the house tour, and he hadn’t responded either time.
Once their small party settled, William Blightree approached. “If you don’t mind”—he had the decency to address Owein directly—“I’d like to examine you.”
A slight whimper slipped from Owein’s throat, but he stood.
Blightree stepped back immediately.
Reaching a hand over, Merritt stroked Owein’s back. “Forgive him, we had a ... negative experience with a past necromancer.”
Blightree’s forehead creased with the raising of his eyebrows. “Hm? Who?”
Merritt simply shook his head. Best not to drop that name anytime soon.
You’re safe, Merritt assured Owein, who, after a few seconds, settled down again.
After approaching with caution, Blightree knelt on the carpet and gently took Owein’s canine head in his hands. If he did anything, Merritt couldn’t detect it. In truth, he just looked like an aging man enamored with a mutt.
“It’s true,” the necromancer said after a moment, pulling his hands back. “He’s no Druid. This is indeed a human soul trapped within a dog.”
“Goodness.” Prince Friedrich leaned forward from his own armchair. “I suppose I didn’t quite believe it!”
Merritt met Blightree’s eyes. “I’m sorry. Druid?”
Blightree’s knees cracked as he rose to his feet. He settled himself on the settee, taking the seat closest to Merritt, before answering. “Druid, yes. They’re a dwindling group of people, mostly hailing from Ireland. Shape-shifters and wood-speakers. I haven’t heard of any covens in the United States, but one never knows.”
Alteration and communion spells, Merritt figured. All those dry essays on magic Gifford had tasked him to read were proving surprisingly helpful.
Blightree continued, “You yourself would be eligible to join their ranks, should you ever have the urge to shun polite society.” He smiled, not unkindly.
Merritt leaned back in his seat.
“Forgive me.” He gestured to Owein. “My family line has a psychometry spell that allows us to read spells in others. That’s how I confirmed Mr. Mansel’s present state ... and the details of yourself, when I shook your hand. I should have asked first.”
“Well.” He shrugged. “It’s not really a secret.”
“Americans are very open people,” Lady Helen explained to her husband.
Again, Merritt’s thoughts shifted to Hulda. “Not all Americans.”
Lady Helen turned. “Pardon?”
“Nothing. Just a passing thought.” He absently stroked Owein. “But ... now that this is out of the way, why did your cousin write us directly? Why bring us here? She mentioned an opportunity—”
Just then a man in a well-tailored uniform stepped into the room. He clasped his hands before him, waiting for Merritt to finish, but Merritt’s words wafted away from him. After a brief pause, the newcomer announced, “Dinner is ready, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Prince Friedrich clapped his hands, rose, and then offered a hand to Lady Helen. “If you’ll excuse our casual manner tonight, Mr. Fernsby, I think a comfortable dining experience will make talk easier.”
Merritt rose as well. “I know little about the formalities you’re omitting, so we’re all probably better off this way.”
The prince grinned. “Perfect. Shall we?” He looped his wife’s arm through his and led the way to the adjoining room. Blightree motioned for Merritt to go ahead of him, and Owein followed closely behind.
The dining room table was long enough to comfortably seat twenty, but only the close end of it had been set, including four different silver bowls on the floor surrounding a cushion for Owein. The dog went straight for it, his stomach apparently overriding whatever nerves had kept him quiet.
There was a vegetable and chicken soup already in the bowls at the complex place settings, as well as silver trays of what looked like fried sole, veal with a sort of spinach gravy, an encrusted leg of mutton, and a lemon-scented pudding farther out. It was Merritt’s understanding that food at dinner parties like this were typically served in courses, so the setup was either intended to deformalize the event or for the sake of privacy. Merritt glanced around the room and noticed a lack of servants. And as he’d learned from his tour, there were always servants.
Regardless, the spread looked absolutely delicious. What would Baptiste think of the setup?
They settled in, forgoing grace, and finished their soup course before Lady Helen addressed him in a very businesslike tone. “How much do you know about British wizardry, Mr. Fernsby?”
Merritt lowered his fork. “I admit to not being well studied in it, though I’m more familiar now than I used to be. My fiancée and I spoke at length on it, after the queen’s letter.”
“Is that so? Is she a scholar?”
“Not formally.” Merritt allowed himself a bite of mutton. Chewed and swallowed before adding, “She’s the director for the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms.”
“Oh!” Lady Helen’s fingers flew to her breast. “Really? The director?”
“A woman director?” Prince Friedrich asked, apparently unaware of the institute’s previous master.
“Hulda Larkin, if I’m not mistaken.” Blightree spoke more evenly.
Merritt nodded. “You are well informed.”
“Isn’t that something.” Lady Helen set down her silverware. “That’s something, isn’t it, Friedrich?”
Her husband chuckled. “Any plans you had brewing for him are certainly pointless now.”
Lady Helen swatted his arm. “Really, Friedrich. Let’s have some propriety at the table.”
“The interest,” Blightree politely, softly interjected, “is with Mr. Mansel, of course.”
Lady Helen composed herself. “Yes, thank you, William.” Her gaze refocused on Merritt. “The British wizarding pedigree is the strongest in the world, you see. It’s been taken very seriously since England could even be called such. It is one of the greatest duties of the peerage to uphold it, to nurture it. To continue the line. Thus Her Majesty’s direct missive to you.”
Merritt nodded, stomach suddenly tight. Where was this going?
“We heard about the prison break,” Prince Friedrich explained. “Animals can’t inherently possess magic. You said as much in your article.”
Merritt stiffened. “That article hasn’t been published a week yet.” And Owein was never named in it.
“We have our ways.” That same, gentle smile touched Blightree’s mouth.
“It is clear,” Lady Helen continued, “that Owein’s—I can call you Owein, can’t I?” She glanced at him.
Owein nodded.
She smiled. “Owein’s magic is strong and enticing. How old is his spirit?”
Merritt clasped his hands together. “He was born in 1624. Roughly two hundred and twenty-three.”
Lady Helen nodded, smiling enough to show her dimples. “As I thought. No wonder it’s so strong! A miraculous way to skip natural dilution.”
“What my dear wife is dancing around,” the prince said, “is that we wish to add Owein’s abilities to the family line.”
Merritt stiffened like someone had taken an iron fence post and shoved it right up his backside. “P-Pardon?”
“He is common, yes,” Lady Helen explained, “but where magic is concerned, such things can be overlooked.”
What do they mean? Owein asked.
Merritt could barely process the communion. His pulse had doubled in speed. “You want to ... but he’s a dog . It isn’t possible.”
“That is where I come in,” Blightree interjected. “My family line is also well cultivated; I have strength in a number of spells, including the one I believe was used on your uncle.”
Merritt shook his head, not understanding.
“What we’re offering”—Blightree glanced at the Leiningens to ensure it was appropriate for him to continue—“is a human body for Owein.”