Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Chapter 16

March 4, 1847, London, England

Merritt took a seat in one of the Leiningens’ two drawing rooms—the yellow one beside the conservatory. Brown-tinted ivy hung outside the window, and as the enchanted lights came on, Merritt heard it murmur, Suuuuunnnnn.

Soon enough, he thought, without relaying the message. He needed to save those delightful communion side effects for Owein. Though if you could whisper of any murder plots, I’m all ears.

The ivy didn’t respond.

A servant finished stoking the fire, curtsied prettily, and excused herself without a word. Cora sat in an armchair near the ivy’s window, close to the fire. She smoothed her pale-blue skirt, crossed her ankles, and rested her hands on her lap. A dark, carefully curled piece of hair bounced as she nodded her thanks to Merritt. Owein sat on the floor about two paces from Cora, just in front of the fire. Anabelle sat closest to the door and pulled out some knitting.

“I’ll try my best to be invisible,” Merritt offered.

Cora’s blue-eyed gaze shifted to Owein. “What would you like to talk about?”

Merritt expected Owein to look to him for help, but he simply answered, Does it ever snow here?

Merritt relayed the message.

“Yes, though we had more storms when I was a child.” Cora folded and unfolded her hands. “I saw a few flakes this winter, but they never stuck.”

It snows where I’m from, but not as much as inland, so I’m told.

“I’d like to go somewhere very snowy,” she said with a tip of her head. “Just for a few days. Where it reaches up past my knees and there are hills for sledding. Not too long. I don’t really like the cold. But I do think it would be rather novel.”

Or skiing.

“I think I’d be too afraid of skiing.” Cora glanced out another window, as though she could see snowy hills through its panes. “And I don’t believe it would suit with a skirt.”

You could wear trousers.

Cora blinked. “My mother would be beside herself.”

I won’t tell her.

A faint smile touched Cora’s lips. “Maybe it would be nice, to get away from her reach.” She hesitated, glancing up toward Anabelle, but the maid was far more interested in her knitting than the half-formed secret. “But whether we’d go somewhere like Austria, or deeper into the US? Austria would be closer.”

What’s Austria like?

A distinct tickle made Merritt cough as he translated the words. Anabelle rose instantly and tugged on the bell pull. Over a slight ringing in his left ear, Merritt said, “Pardon me.” His voice croaked. “Just a moment.”

Cora offered him a look of sympathy. “It must be frustrating, to lose the ability so quickly.”

“Were it just Owein and I,” Merritt rasped, “it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t need to hear my voice.” Realizing how that sounded, he added, “Not that this is a bother at all. It is what it is.”

At the door, Anabelle murmured, “Some tea for Mr. Fernsby, if you would.”

“I’ve a few effects that make me quite cross,” Cora offered, seeming unsure whether to address Owein or Merritt. “Conjury is harsh; it takes something of equal value to whatever you conjure. I can only conjure stone, and there’s plenty of that around here, so it’s not particularly useful. But if I were, say, to conjure a rock the size of my fist, it might, oh ... take that quarter log over there in retribution, or perhaps the pins out of my hair.”

“Really?” Merritt’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Of course, there’s a way to do it,” she went on. “I could get a handful of sand and then trade that sand for a stone of what the universe considers ‘equal.’ It’s not always by weight or worth. Or perhaps it would be, if I had a little more of the blood in me.”

Merritt nodded; this was the most he’d ever heard Cora speak.

“But the air is the worst.” Cora folded her arms, then checked herself and let her hands fall daintily into her lap.

The air? Owein asked.

The ringing amplified.

“Lack of breath,” Merritt whispered, “if I recall correctly.”

The door opened, and a new maid brought in a small tea service. As she set it down on the nearest table, Cora said, “More than that—”

“Lady Cora is asthmatic,” Anabelle interrupted, dismissing the maid with a nod and taking on the tea service herself. She didn’t ask Merritt what he cared for, but the little bit of cream and sugar she added to his cup were fine enough for him. He nodded his thanks as he took the warm cup and sipped. “To use her magic, more than a puff, would threaten her life.”

Owein shifted onto all fours. Really? You shouldn’t use it ever.

Merritt held up a finger to Owein, begging for a moment to recover before sending more words his way. The tea was hot; he sipped it gingerly.

Owein watched him impatiently. Unfortunately, the muteness would take a good moment to wear off.

In the interim, Owein padded to the unoccupied couch against the wall perpendicular to the ivy window. Slipped behind it and pulled out a letterboard not dissimilar from the one Hulda had crafted him in the States. Had Hulda helped him find one? But she hadn’t had the time ... Perhaps the family had put it together, wanting Owein to be able to communicate if Merritt wasn’t around to translate.

He didn’t miss the faint flush on Cora’s cheeks as Owein dragged out the chart and smoothed it out as best he could. Was she embarrassed by the ordeal?

Owein began tapping out letters with his paw. H - A - S - I - T - E - V —

“I think I need to retire,” Cora said suddenly, softly. “I’m so sorry. I think the smell of the tea is making my stomach ill.”

Owein paused midword.

She stood and offered a quick curtsy to the both of them. “Anabelle, if you would inform my mother I’ll be resting upstairs.”

The maid nodded, then stepped aside and held the door for Cora’s uncomfortable exit.

Merrrrrriiiiiitt.

Merritt was vaguely aware of a strange tugging sensation on his arms as his dreams—which he was already forgetting—blended and bled from his thoughts. Words formed in his head that weren’t his.

Merritt! I’m bored. Let’s go play!

Opening bleary eyes, Merritt took in the bedroom illuminated by bright sunshine pouring around the edges of the heavy curtains. He stared at it for a couple of seconds before rubbing his eyes and propping himself up on one elbow. “What time is it?”

Owein jumped off the bed, ran across the room, and jumped back on again, shaking the mattress. Clock says ten forty-five.

Groaning, Merritt rolled over and stretched. He’d stayed up late last night with Hulda in that same yellow drawing room, talking through other possible magic sources for the collapsed room, though the lack of further incidents had her strongly favoring worn beams in the house itself, which was probably why Merritt had been able to sleep so soundly. They’d meandered on to the topic of the wedding, of course, and Merritt’s family. Though he owed his biological father, Nelson Sutcliffe, a great deal, he hadn’t invited him, nor any of his half brothers, to the wedding. He wouldn’t make it awkward for his mother, should she find a way to attend. And his half brothers still didn’t know he was their blood relation. Merritt understood Nelson’s desire to keep his family happy and intact, of course, but it felt like one more man penalized Merritt for something he’d taken no part in.

For now, Merritt would honor Sutcliffe’s wishes. Just not Peter Fernsby’s.

He desperately hoped to see his mother and sisters at the wedding. Desperately wanted it to be the doorway from a life with no family to a future with two—the Fernsbys and the one he’d begin with Hulda.

Owein grabbed his sleeve and tugged; Merritt wore only a long nightshirt, now that there was no immature ghost within the walls threatening to merge his bed with his housekeeper’s and leave him in an awkward entanglement with no pants on. I’ve been waiting forever for you to wake up. Let’s play!

“You’ll put a hole in it,” Merritt grumbled, unsure if the rasp in his voice was from sleep or communion. Stifling a yawn, he sat up, tangled hair falling into his face.

Owein’s tail beat against the mattress, and a soft whine emanated from his furry throat.

Merritt glanced at the bright sunlight around the curtains. Was it rude to sleep in so late? No one had come to wake him, so hopefully he was all right on that point. He stretched again.

Owein whined.

“Question,” Merritt said. “You’ve lived a great deal longer than me, albeit in a multitude of bodies.” He swept hair back from his face. “You’re centuries old.”

Owein dipped his head. His tail beat against the blankets impatiently.

“So why do you still act like a child?”

The tail stopped.

Sighing, Merritt reached out and stroked between Owein’s ears. “I don’t mean it negatively. I just wonder. I understand you died at twelve, but your consciousness has never stopped. Yet you still seem very much a boy.”

Owein shifted on the bed. Glanced around the room.

Rubbing a crick in his neck, Merritt offered, “You don’t have to answer. Just a thought I—”

It’s easier, Owein said, quietly, in his not-voice. It’s easier to deal with it, when I’m just a kid.

Carefully choosing his words, Merritt asked, “What’s easier?”

Owein’s dark, canine eyes met his. Dealing with the ... hurt.

The mattress seemed to suck down on him. Getting up on his knees, Merritt put a hand on either of Owein’s shoulders. “Owein, I’m so sorry.”

Owein didn’t respond. But if Merritt had learned anything over the last year, it was the importance of getting things off one’s chest, not bottling them up and letting them simmer until the glass shattered.

“Nightmares?” he tried.

Owein took several seconds to think. I was alone for a really long time.

Merritt nodded. Waited. Waited a little longer.

Owein settled down, laying his chin between his legs. I was always alone. Sometimes someone would come by, every twenty or thirty years, but they could never hear me. It’s different, inside the house. Different without eyes and ears and ... skin. I saw and heard and felt things in a strange way. Distantly. And it was always dark, even when the sun was up. Even after Silas put me in this body, the darkness followed. And it hurts.

Merritt ran his palm down the length of Owein’s spine. Once, twice, three times. His heart felt heavy, like it needed to slumber.

I don’t know how to grow up, he finally finished.

Merritt considered this for a long moment, wanting to say the right thing, if there even was a “right thing” to be said. I think, he began in communion, not trusting his voice to hold up, it’s like a child—a young child—thinking there are monsters under his bed. And he hides under the blanket, and the monsters disappear.

Owein’s gaze lifted to his.

Children are very forgiving, he went on. You hurt them, and moments later it’s forgotten. Children always look forward to the future because they don’t yet value the past. There’s certainly something alluring about the idea. But you do have a past, Owein. And yes, it is a dark one. I’d like to think I have an expansive imagination, but I can only imagine how hard such a past must have been.

Even though Merritt had spent a good many years alone before moving to Blaugdone Island, he’d never been completely solitary. He’d made friends. Expressed himself. Moved. Being trapped on Blaugdone Island in a house must have felt little different than imprisonment. In truth, it said a lot of Owein’s character that he wasn’t more psychologically damaged.

But you are too smart and too old to believe a blanket will muffle the bad. You have to face it. And it’s going to hurt. Honestly, it never stops hurting. Even with all the balms one could hope for, the hurt carves your soul and leaves a scar. But, Owein ... you’re not alone anymore. That twelve-year-old boy who got sick and fled into the walls of Whimbrel House will always be a part of you, but you and I are together now. Always will be.

Another soft whine. Owein lifted his head. Hulda, too? And Beth? Baptiste?

Merritt smiled. Hulda, certainly. I’m not letting her go anywhere. I can’t make promises for the others, but I’ll eat my shoe if Beth ever leaves you behind.

Owein leapt to his feet and licked Merritt’s face.

“Ugh,” Merritt rasped at the same time Owein complained, Scratchy.

Wiping off the slobber, Merritt felt his stubble. Shaving was such a pain. If Hulda allowed it, he’d become a hermit on Blaugdone Island and grow out a beard to his chest. Anything past the nipple line would be excessive.

After shaving, dressing, brushing his teeth, and combing his hair, Merritt headed into the hallway, Owein on his heels.

“I wonder what we’ll do if the food’s already put away.” His voice had mostly returned to normal. “Is it uncultured to go straight to the kitchen?”

Owein huffed, considerate enough not to tax Merritt’s communion further—until they reached the bottom of the stairs near the reception hall, where Owein exclaimed, I have to pass water.

Merritt gestured toward the front doors. Fortunately, the terrier didn’t request Merritt’s presence this time, and simply went on his own, using magic to melt one of the double doors and slip into the cool March ... afternoon? Was it noon yet?

Fortunately, upon entering the breakfast room, Merritt was pleased to see he wasn’t the only late riser. There was food atop the table, and Baron von Gayl and Lady Briar sat across from one another, both of them eating. Briar had nearly finished her meal; the baron appeared to be working on recent seconds.

Briar looked up as Merritt entered, her icy blue eyes sharper than they’d been when last he’d spoken to her. “Mr. Fernsby.”

Merritt nodded, thinking his name a greeting, but as he reached for a chair, Lady Briar continued.

“How is it that you can continue to live under this roof with the knowledge of how hurtful your presence is to both me and my sister?”

The baron lowered his utensils. “Again, Briar?” His voice wasn’t harsh, but pleading.

Briar ignored him, never taking her glare from Merritt.

Merritt grasped the chairback with both hands. As kindly as he could manage, he replied, “You have made your feelings abundantly clear. Unfortunately, your sister has not yet expressed a similar sentiment.” Not where he could hear, anyway, but that was beside the point. In truth, this was Owein’s decision, not his.

Briar’s lips pressed into a thin line. Setting her utensils atop her plate, she threw her napkin onto the table and escorted herself out, leaving the dishes for the staff to clean up.

Merritt let out a long breath and pulled out the chair.

“I’m very sorry,” the baron offered, German accent polishing his syllables. “She’s very passionate about this.”

“My condolences as well.” Merritt sat and reached forward for a cherry pastry. “It must be hard hearing it, considering your ... circumstances.”

The baron—Ernst—shrugged. “It is what it is. I knew from a very young age that I would marry to create a magic lineage, not for love. I never expected anything different.” He looked at the door Briar had left through. “I think the same for her, but she had ... hope. I’ve tried to win her over. Really and truly. But not yet.” He sighed.

“Have you tried battling a necromancer in a dank basement?” Merritt asked.

A bite of egg stopped halfway to Ernst’s mouth. “Pardon?”

Merritt cleared his throat. “I asked if you’ve tried reading. Her favorite books, perhaps.”

“Ah.” He chewed the egg, swallowed. “She does love reading. It feels too ... slow for me. But I could try.” He shrugged. “By the way, Mr. Fernsby. What is your occupation?”

“I’m an author, actually.”

Ernst laughed. “But in truth.”

Merritt mimicked the same shrug.

Ernst blushed. “My. I’m sorry. I thought you were joking.”

“Your question did have excellent comedic timing.” Merritt smiled. “But I do think the books might help.”

Ernst took a full minute to consider this, long enough for Merritt to grab a sausage—two, that was—and an egg for himself. He’d just cracked the shell when a scurrying of clipped-clawed paws sounded outside the door.

He looked up. “That must be O—”

He paused as a young hound scrabbled through the door. Not Owein. The dog came right up to Merritt’s side and snuffed around, then jumped up so its paws were on his thigh.

“Maksim, no!” shouted an adolescent boy in the doorway, scrabbling much as the dog had. “I’m so sorry,” he said to Merritt. Then, noticing Ernst, he went red in the face. He bowed at the waist. “My apologies, sir. He’s just in training and got away from me. Took ’im to the kitchen for a treat. Which he will not be getting now.”

The hound sniffed at Merritt’s plate, completely undaunted by the threat.

“Not a problem.” Merritt pushed the enthusiastic animal down. “Pups are like that.”

“How old is he?” Ernst asked.

The boy grabbed Maksim’s collar and hauled him toward the servants’ door. “Nearly a year, sir.” His eyes shot between Ernst and Merritt. “Don’t tell Mr. Coldwell. Will you?”

Merritt imagined Mr. Coldwell was the kennel master.

“It will be our secret.” Ernst grinned. “Now hurry out before Lady Helen sees you. She is far less forgiving than I am.”

The boy nodded and dragged Maksim toward the door, but the pup must have gotten a whiff of sausage, for it pulled free and jumped at the table, turning its head sideways to grab at Briar’s forgotten morsel—

A loud crack sounded through the room, giving everyone but the dog pause. Merritt stood, knocking back his chair. Dust fell from the ceiling.

The crystal chandelier quivered.

“What is—” Ernst began.

And the ceiling fell down.