Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Chapter 9

March 2, 1847, London, England

The darkness had claws.

A room with no walls, no floor, no ceiling. Just shadows cast without light. Water and soot sloshing and staining, and low, black claws on crooked pitch fingers, too many to be a real hand, reaching and bending like spider legs. Reaching, reaching—

Owein startled awake. Found himself shivering despite the blankets on the enormous bed in his room. It was still dark, but it wasn’t mind-dark, because pale-blue moonlight whispered through the window. Lady Helen had drawn the curtains. He’d opened them back up.

A whimper escaped his throat as he nosed deeper into the covers, hunkering there until the shivering stopped. Then he poked his head out and looked around. Searched for anything crumbled or broken. Maybe he’d woken up before his spells kicked in this time. He didn’t feel any of their effects. His mind was keen (Hulda had taught him that word) and his body normal. So he scratched behind his ear with a back paw, laid his head down, and waited.

Sleep didn’t come.

He waited a quarter hour, or so was his guess, before sliding from the heavy blankets and dropping to the enormous rug upon which his enormous bed sat. Everything was enormous, like the people who’d made this house had forgotten how to build things small. He walked to the door and rose on his hind legs, pushing down the handle with his paws. It gave, and he slipped out into a hallway with no traces of window-screened moonlight.

He paused, seeing a dozen inky claws in the back of his mind. Swallowed a whimper and trotted with his side brushing the stone wall. His dog eyes could make out the doorframes and sconces just fine in the dark, but there was comfort in touching something solid. When he reached Merritt’s door, he stood on his hind legs and pawed at the knob. This time, however, he couldn’t get it to turn. Maybe it was locked. So he melted himself a hole. Slipped inside silently, save for the faint clacking of his nails on the stone.

Merritt’s room looked just like his, but in reverse. It even had the same trimming, which in the candlelight had looked cream and gray, although Merritt had told him the gray was actually burgundy—Owein had a hard time seeing burgundy, though he remembered what it looked like. In the dark, especially with the curtains closed, everything looked black and gray.

Another chaocracy spell forced the curtains open a little roughly, but some calming moonlight streamed in. Merritt stirred in the bed. He woke up fully when Owein jumped onto the high mattress.

“Owein?” he asked blearily, then a calloused palm stroked Owein’s shoulder. After letting loose a yawn, Merritt mumbled, “Nightmare again?”

Huffing, Owein folded all four legs beneath him and set his dog chin on Merritt’s stomach.

The petting continued. Owein liked being petted. Or maybe it was the dog part of him that liked it. Silas Hogwood hadn’t bothered clearing out the terrier’s body before shoving Owein inside of it, but Owein’s soul overwhelmed the simplicity of the animal’s soul. Still, sometimes the dog made its preferences known, and its instincts had a mind of their own. “You’re fine to stay here.”

So Owein did. Settled in for about two minutes, long enough for Merritt’s breath to start an even pattern. Then he asked, What will it mean to be married?

Merritt startled. Yawned. “You’re very aware of what marriage is.”

For other people. Not for me.

With a soft groan Merritt sat up, slightly displacing Owein. He stretched his arms overhead. “Is that what’s keeping you up?”

Owein shook his head. He knew Merritt could see it, because he’d opened the curtains.

Merritt frowned. Considered. “It means when you’re old enough ... old enough in body, I suppose ... you’ll come back here to England and marry Lady Cora. If you agree, of course.”

I will, he said. I want a body.

“I don’t blame you. It would be a good thing, mostly—you’ll never want for money. All those needs will be taken care of. But you won’t be able to choose your own wife. If you fall in love with another ...” Merritt shrugged.

I’m not in love with anyone.

A light chuckle escaped him. “Not yet, I suppose. And maybe not ever. It would work out better that way. But you’d be bound to her.” He ran a hand back through his messy hair and glanced at the newly revealed window. “You would take care of her when she’s sick. Listen to her when she’s sad. Comfort her when she needs it.”

I think the servants do that.

“ You will do that,” Merritt pressed, a raspy edge leaking into his voice from communion. “You first. As if there were no money and no servants and no family to speak of.” He paused for a moment. Kneaded his hands together. Maybe he was thinking about Hulda. They talked about marriage and weddings a lot now. “You’ll attend her gatherings and her dinners, and because it’s the royal family, you’ll have a certain level of”—he swirled his hand in the air—“ prestige to uphold. I don’t know if they’d require a lot of public appearances from you. And you’d become a father, and take on all the responsibilities of that.”

Owein mulled it over for a moment. He’d never really imagined himself as a father. Then again he’d never imagined himself as a dog, either.

Before a new question could form in his mind, the room began to quake. Not roughly, but gently, like a cat purring unevenly. The tremors were disjointed, uneven.

“Owein?”

Owein rose to his paws. Not me, he said.

A crack and a rumble followed, almost like a storm, and then everything was still.

Owein met Merritt’s gaze. Merritt flung the blankets off himself, hurried to the foot of the bed, and grabbed his trousers, nearly falling over as he struggled to pull them on while rushing for the door. One perk of being a dog was not needing clothing, so Owein made it there first.

The hallway smelled faintly of dust. Merritt spun, trying to orient himself. Owein raced ahead, following the heady scent of dust. Not wanting Merritt to lose his voice, he barked to communicate his location, and Merritt followed him down the hallway and around the corner, where the smell became nearly overwhelming. There was a short, wide set of stairs, and then dust clouded everything.

Merritt waved his hands, trying to clear the air. He coughed and pulled his shirt over his nose. Owein didn’t have the luxury. He sneezed twice and blinked, eyes watering.

“My goodness!” It was Lady Helen’s voice, and suddenly air swept through the hallway, pressing against Owein’s backside, clearing the dust. “What happened?”

A lady’s maid in a night-robe hurried behind her, protecting a candle from the gusts.

“These rooms,” Merritt said, then coughed, “they seem to have collapsed.”

“Good gracious!” Lady Helen met them, then cast her hands out, sending another gust down the corridor. She sounded a little out of breath—the side effect for elemental air spells—when she said, “Belinda, bring the light closer!”

The lady’s maid hurried forward, holding the candle high. The hallway was mostly clear, though up ahead some stone had broken off the left wall and spilled into the hallway. Since Belinda was the only one with a light, she led the group. They’d just reached the pile when more footsteps sounded behind them—one set belonged to a man Owein didn’t recognize, one to a haggard Prince Friedrich, and the last to a baffled Lady Cora.

Owein’s heart squeezed a little at the sight of her. Then he sneezed more dust from his nostrils.

“Goodness!” Cora’s hands pressed into either cheek.

“Whatever happened?” Prince Friedrich asked as he and the other man met up with Belinda. Both were carrying candles, which cast more light on the destruction. Merritt tried to open the door nearest the rock pile. It didn’t budge. He slammed his shoulder into it.

Owein barked, using an alteration spell to shrink the door, so when Merritt hit it a second time, it burst open. He stumbled back, gasping, waving his hand as more dust assaulted him.

Lady Helen hurried forward.

“Careful!” the male servant warned.

Several gusts of wind left Lady Helen panting. “It’s absolutely horrid.” She took Belinda’s candle and peered into the room without stepping into it. “Oh, Friedrich, half the ceiling has fallen!”

“How?” The prince moved forward, only for the male servant to stop him.

“I must ask you, Ladies Helen and Cora, to retreat,” he pleaded. “It’s not safe.”

More footsteps sounded down the hallway; probably more servants coming. Padding forward, Owein peered into the room. It was dark, hard to see, but he could make out clusters of mortared stone scattering the floor. Some larger chunks had fallen onto the bed, snapping its frame.

“Is anyone in there?” Cora cried.

Lady Helen, finally retreating, shook her head. “No. No, dear. No one. But ...” In the flickering candlelight, she looked pale as milk.

“But what?” Merritt asked.

Helen’s wide-eyed gaze fell to Owein before shifting to Merritt. “But ... this was meant to be your room.” Her voice quivered with each syllable. “Mr. Fernsby, I’d initially intended you to be here .”