Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Chapter 14

March 4, 1847, London, England

Merritt awoke to the sensation of falling.

He gasped, his mind taking a beat to identify where he was—not Whimbrel House, but Cyprus Hall. Shadows engulfed the ceiling overhead; the curtains were drawn against the depth of night. And he was sinking.

Merritt bolted upright and a little to the left as the too-soft mattress bowed beneath his weight. His comforter, shifting into a thick liquid, stuck to his hand like bread dough.

“Owein!” he barked, scrambling back with what little purchase he had. He smacked into a still-solid headboard and rolled onto the floor from there, a few drips of blanket coming with him. “Owein, wake up !”

His shoes danced across the carpet—which shifted from burgundy to navy to white—as though they had invisible legs. He crawled away from the bed, spying Owein at its foot. Where the trunk had gone, Merritt hadn’t a clue. But the dark terrier huffed and whimpered, his legs quivering like they were trying to run but the joints kept catching on something.

“Owein!” he shouted louder. “Wake—”

A box the length of his forearm flew at him, pelting him in the shoulder hard enough to knock him over. Merritt shook himself and leapt to his feet.

The trunk. It was the trunk, now a fraction of its original size.

Before he could call Owein’s name again, a cup came soaring toward his hip; he dodged, and the ceramic shattered against the wall behind him. Next came the basin and pitcher; the first flew wide, but the second sailed straight for his head.

It broke into three uneven pieces against an erected wardship spell. Another time, Merritt might have prided himself on his quick handling of the magic.

Owein whined. Anything that wasn’t nailed down or over two hundred pounds flew into the air—portraits, combs, clothing, dust clods, a chair, and so on. They flew back and forth, faster with each pass. In moments they’d reach a deadly speed.

Merritt threw up a wardship spell to block a hatbox, palms held out, then another connected to it to deflect the chair. He pushed the magic away from himself, feeling the strain in his bones. His shoulder, where the shrunken trunk had hit, began to ache as he added a third section to his invisible wall.

“Hulda!” he bellowed. “I need help!”

A key grazed his crown. A fourth section of wall began corralling the orbiting objects closer to Owein. None struck him, but the shards of teacup whipped with alarming speed, and his shoes were flashing mulberry. The carpet beneath Owein began to bubble and pop, but still the terrier slept on, jerking and wheezing. One of his ears had gone bulbous, and his back legs were too long—his body changing in response to his unconscious use of alteration spells.

“Good heavens!” Hulda called, likely from their shared doorway. The only thing Merritt could see through the flying mess was a blip of candlelight.

Merritt’s knees creaked as he put a lid on the bespelled box. He felt the items pelting the wardship magic as if he were personally embracing it. The flying stuff soared faster, until he could barely make out individual items, and then—

The box blew with a great boom ! Clothing and ceramics and furniture exploded in all directions. Something broke the window. Merritt fell onto his backside and put his hands over his head; fortunately only a few socks and his notebook collided with him.

The stillness after the burst was deafening. Everything settled. The only sound was Merritt’s own heartbeat and a rustle as a breeze from the hole in the window sucked at the curtain.

Merritt? Owein hobbled in the mess, his legs not quite returned to normal. He whined again, spinning around. Where are we? What happened?

The chaocracy-induced confusion would wear off soon enough. After crawling over, Merritt put a hand on Owein’s neck. “We’re safe.” He let out a long, shaky breath. “We’re safe.”