Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Chapter 17

March 5, 1847, London, England

A quiver and crack like thunder reverberated through the library where Hulda and Lady Helen were talking. Hulda’s heart seized. Her skin pebbled beneath her dress. Her eyes met Lady Helen’s round ones.

In an instant, they were both rushing for the door, cutting through the lobby to the breakfast room. Dust clung to the air like fog.

Hulda coughed. “Is anyone in there?”

Wind shot from Lady Helen’s palms, blowing back the cloud as they approached the door.

“Hulda!”

Hulda’s bones turned to ice. “Merritt!” she screamed, and rushed in. Lady Helen barked for her to wait, but Hulda was already inside, stepping over broken pieces of wood and stone. She collided right into Merritt, who looked like he’d just come in from a snowstorm. Rubble sprinkled his head and shoulders, but he was upright. He looked all right.

She grasped his arms. “Are you hurt?”

He turned away as Lady Helen’s gusts blew in, whipping through the air, blowing away most of the debris covering him.

“You’ve got to come quick!” cried a servant boy within the room, climbing over a large chunk of the ceiling with oddly smooth edges. “The baron and Maksim! Hurry!”

Cora sobbed into her sister’s lap at the far end of the visitors’ morning room, where everyone had gone while Mr. Blightree saw to the baron’s injuries. Owein had heard the rumble and come in as the servants began crowding around the breakfast room.

Just like the bedroom ... though the damage wasn’t as bad. This time there had been injuries, however.

The chunk of ceiling that had fallen from the corner, right past the servants’ entrance, had crushed the baron’s arm. Skimmed the shoulder of a boy who worked in the kennels. Shattered the back leg of the dog he’d been trying to lure outside.

It was the damage to the dog that had upset Cora the most. “She loves those dogs” was all a very choked-up Lady Helen could manage. The leg would have to come off; Blightree couldn’t use necromantic healing magic on an animal. Might have been better to put the animal down, some people were saying, but Cora promised through streaming tears she’d nurse the hound back to health, and her parents had relented, for now.

Owein wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He wanted to stay by Cora, see if he could comfort her ... especially if she loved dogs so much. But her sister didn’t like him , so he hesitated to approach. Lady Helen and Prince Friedrich spoke in quiet tones near the door; she occasionally dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and he occasionally reminded her the baron would be just fine. Merritt had gone with Blightree, despite insisting he was unharmed.

Hulda came in just then. The hem of her skirt was white with dust, and Owein could smell the debris even before he trotted over. She nodded at him, then turned to the Leiningens with a gray cloth in her hand ... or maybe it was red. Owein couldn’t be sure.

“I found this in the rubble,” she murmured, handing it to Cora’s father.

Prince Friedrich turned it over. “A spell?”

Oh, Owein recognized it now. Hulda had hung little bags of spells around him when he’d still been a house. To keep him from breaking things. This looked like one of those bags.

“It’s unlabeled, but I believe from the color and residue that it’s an alteration metamorphosis spell, specifically of shape change.”

Owein’s ears perked. I have that spell. Not that anyone could hear him. And not that it mattered; he wasn’t the one who made the ceiling cave in. Or the floor, from the viewpoint of the bedroom situated above the breakfast room.

The bedroom ... oh. No one in the breakfast room had noticed anything amiss, so someone must have used a spell in the bedroom to make the ceiling come down!

Owein pawed at Hulda’s dress. Maybe I can smell who did it.

“It’s a packageable spell, often used in construction and demolition for debris management.” Hulda’s voice had a cool edge to it. “It would explain why the piece that fell had such rounded edges. Someone used it on a specific piece of the floor, changed the edges so they no longer fit with the whole, and, well ...” She clasped her hands together.

“Very purposefully done.” Prince Friedrich’s tone sounded low. “Who can purchase spells like this?”

“Anyone with a license,” Hulda answered. “Or with the right connections. I could inform LIKER, but this strikes me as subterfuge rather than any enchantments within the house. Cyprus Hall isn’t haunted; if it were, by a spirit other than the marquess, we’d see much more activity than this. This damage was caused by a purchased spell.” She gestured to the cloth in the prince’s hands. “I am fairly certain this spell is not what collapsed that bedroom, however. Too much widespread damage. Surely it was something else entirely.”

Prince Friedrich stood. “Either way, I’ll send word to the police.”

The door opened again, nearly hitting Hulda’s backside. Merritt stepped in; his hair was damp as though he’d washed it, but he was in the same clothes from this morning. The smell of dust and mortar made Owein sneeze.

Merritt, tell her I’ll smell for it, Owein pressed.

Merritt held up a hand to him. “Baron von Gayl is doing just fine. He’ll be tired from the healing spells, as is Mr. Blightree, but he’s hale.”

Briar stood, and Cora, her eyes swollen, stood with her. “I’m glad to hear it,” the former said.

Excusing himself, Prince Friedrich left. Probably to contact the police.

“Smell for what?” Merritt asked.

Owein pawed at the carpet. Smell for the person who did the spell. In the bedroom.

Merritt paused. “That’s not a bad idea.” He relayed the message to the others.

Lady Helen perked up. “Yes, yes! Right this instant. I want to know who is hurting my family!”

Or who is hurting mine, Owein thought, only realizing he’d projected the words when Merritt’s gaze met his. Because Merritt was the connection between the two incidents. He’d been in the breakfast room when the ceiling fell, and the room that had collapsed had been originally assigned to him.

Lady Helen opened the door. Owein forced himself to hold back so as not to trip her—running out into the hallway was something a child would do. But as soon as the way cleared, he hurried after her, not entirely sure how to get to the room in question. He followed her up the stairs, through one hall, then another. The bedroom was dusty but undamaged other than the hole in the floor, utterly unlike the first bedroom. The windows were still intact.

Owein sniffed around, sneezed. Sniffed and sneezed. Sniffed again, even when the dust hurt his nose. But all he could smell was dust and Lady Helen.

He didn’t need to have words to express that his efforts had failed. He saw it in the slump of Lady Helen’s shoulders as she stood safely by the door.

“It was worth a try,” she offered, and dabbed her eyes once more with the handkerchief.

One of the perks of living in London and being an aristocrat was the timeliness of police. The inspector himself came to answer Prince Friedrich’s summons. Hulda introduced herself early and made herself available, expressing to the men what she herself had gleaned—that the house was very unlikely haunted and that the second incident was the result of a purchased alteration spell. She supposed it was fortunate that the repair crew had not yet begun work on the damaged guest bedroom, as the devastation was available for the police’s further perusal.

While the officers interviewed the family and servants, Hulda retreated to the guest drawing room. She pulled a crochet project out of her bag but found herself unable to focus on it.

Why hadn’t she foreseen this happening? Or anything else, oh, useful to the situation?

One of the reasons she’d been employed at BIKER was due to her magic, diluted as it was. And it did come in handy from time to time. Indeed, it was that same diluted power that had first alerted her to Silas Hogwood’s crimes. Still, it was impossible to rely on her gift. What was the point of being an augurist if the majority of future glimpses she saw were pointless? Wouldn’t it be just dandy if she could foresee the culprit now and save them all some trouble?

Hulda set her yarn aside and stared at the weak fire in the finely decorated hearth. The damage to the guest bedroom was different from that of the breakfast room. Given the broken windows in the guest room, it was possible the damage had been done from a spell originating on the exterior of the house. Not so with the breakfasting room. Someone had deliberately unleashed magic in the room just above it. The Leiningens had no guests outside of Hulda, Merritt, Owein, and, she thought with a shudder, William Blightree.

So logic suggested that one of them might be behind the attacks—attacks that could very well be aimed at Merritt.

A sick, heavy feeling crawled through her chest like an obese slug. She shook herself. All is well. He was unharmed.

Returning to her bag, Hulda pulled out a receipt book. She’d taken notes in the margins of it. It wasn’t the most enticing receipt book she’d read, so she wasn’t particularly disconcerted at the idea of marking it up. She wrote down a few more details she’d gathered while following the police about, then turned back a page—to where she’d listed the spells of every known magic user in Cyprus Hall. Granted, one of them might possess an unknown talent. Merritt had been an unknown until recently, after all. She must also take into account that the spell had been purchased, not made, and anyone with a license or influence could have acquired it. Indeed, it needn’t be a magic user at all.

One of the servants? Hulda wrote in tiny letters in the corner near a drab cinnamon bread recipe. Everyone was being interviewed; perhaps she could pull some strings and see the police reports herself.

She considered her notes on the guest bedroom, her mind recalling the devastation there. Who had spells that could have caused such damage?

Owein and Merritt, both. But neither had the motive, and truthfully, Merritt’s chaocracy was finnicky, much like Hulda’s own augury. Besides, such an act would require a surge of magic so great it would have left the user addled long enough for a witness to notice. Neither Owein nor Merritt had felt such symptoms.

William Blightree was a necromancer, though he must have some kinetic ability if he claimed he could transfer Owein’s spirit. But did he have enough strength to destroy an entire bedchamber? Hulda would need to come back to that.

Baron von Gayl had been bred like a show poodle to excel at kineticism. He certainly would have the spells necessary to do a great amount of targeted damage to a room. But he also wouldn’t have broken his own arm—nor could he have been in two places at once to do so.

Were there two culprits at hand, then?

Hulda shook her head and turned back a page. Baron von Gayl and Lady Briar hadn’t arrived at Cyprus Hall until the day after the demolition of the guest bedroom. It couldn’t have been them.

Unless it was.

It was an errant thought, but one Hulda lingered on. They’d arrived the next morning. Might they have concealed the true time of their arrival to enact their scheme? Lady Briar was certainly against any marriage contract between her sister and Owein. According to Merritt’s account, she’d pledged to do anything to prevent the nuptials. Lady Briar would also be familiar with the rooms her mother customarily used for guests. And unlike Lady Cora, she hadn’t seemed apoplectic about the injuring of the dog.

That last bit was speculation, but Hulda had come to find her speculation was often, more or less, correct.

Since Lady Briar didn’t seem keen on her husband, his presence in the breakfast room might not have impeded action. But what could she have against Merritt? He was Owein’s caretaker, yes ... Would Merritt also be signing the contract, since he had guardianship of Owein? But how could Lady Briar have been aware of that fact before coming to Cyprus Hall?

Hulda’s thoughts drifted to Mr. Adey. The royal family did have their ways.

She jotted down a few of her ideas. Still, the elder sister didn’t have much to gain by eliminating Merritt, unless she was entirely off her head. Other than, perhaps, providing an advantageous body for Owein.

Hulda’s pencil stilled. The marriage contract hinged on that, didn’t it? And what better body than one whose blood was infused with magic? It would certainly help with the enchanted lineage. Then again, Lady Briar seemed to object to arranged marriages altogether. If anyone were considering killing Merritt for his magic-limned corpse, it would be Briar’s parents.

That heavy, sluglike feeling returned, only this time in her stomach. Hulda pressed a fist into it, sure she was going to be sick.

Perhaps this is too much speculation. She closed the book. Besides, Lady Briar had made it clear she had no interest in helping the contract along, and the only spell she retained that could create that sort of destruction in the guest bedroom was her wind spell. To use it so forcefully would mean risking her own life, since elemental spells of air took one’s breath away in compensation. She’d suffocate, as would her sister, who was an asthmatic.

There was Lady Helen, whose air spell would be more potent than either of her daughters’. But why would she destroy her own house? She was quite disconcerted by all of it, and Hulda didn’t believe her to be an excellent actress, merely a distressed noblewoman.

After shoving everything back into her bag, Hulda rose and strode for the door. She’d share all of this with Merritt and get his thoughts on it. Perhaps even lend it to the police. She was no detective, but surely she was digging in the right hole.

She’d just exited the room and started for the stairs when her path crossed with the last person she wanted to encounter: William Blightree.

She nodded and continued on her way.

“Miss Larkin.”

Her manners halted her step before her self-preservation could form remonstrance. Cursing inwardly, she turned around. “Yes, Mr. Blightree? I’m terribly sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry—”

“Yes, of course. I’ll walk with you.” He gestured ahead of them.

Hiding a cringe, Hulda continued on her way, hoping to outpace him.

She did not.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” Mr. Blightree said, his smooth, cordial voice causing the sensation of ants beneath her bodice.

“Oh?” She didn’t look at him.

“It’s just ... and please, correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to have upset you.”

Hulda paused and turned to him, caught off guard. He wasn’t a large man—indeed, in these shoes, Hulda was a finger’s breadth taller. He had a benevolent face and balding head, but she could see the Hogwood in his eyes and the curve of his mouth.

“Not at all.” Hulda put on her stiffest mask, trying not to sound flustered. “Indeed, we’ve barely had a chance to acquaint ourselves since my arrival.”

He nodded. “This is true. Then perhaps I imagine it ... but, Miss Larkin, even now, you seem discontent.”

A flush threatened to crawl up her neck. Hulda forced her spine to relax. Well, better now than never. “I admit I’m aware of your relation to Silas Hogwood.” There. She’d said it.

“Ah yes.” He rubbed his chin, seeming not at all surprised at the statement. “That one does come up a fair bit. First cousins, we were.”

Sensing opportunity, Hulda pressed, “Might I ask how you were related?”

“His mother was my aunt,” the necromancer answered honestly.

Hulda considered this. She was well aware of Mr. Hogwood’s pedigree; his mother had been a solid necromancer. Everything else he had came from his father’s side.

“And,” she pressed, “if you’re the one to be performing this potential body switch, you are also a kineticist?”

He looked impressed, of all things. “Indeed, I have a fractional ability with movement, as well as in psychometry, for detecting magic. My real skills lie in necromancy.”

Fractional ability. So the man was, essentially, a pure necromancer. And necromancers couldn’t break bedrooms ... assuming he was being truthful on that front.

“He is,” Mr. Blightree went on, “a dark spot in the family history. Necromancy is considered by many to be a dark art, but it also does a lot of good ... such as healing the poor baron’s arm.”

Hulda dipped her head in hesitant agreement.

“I hope to give it a better name. And the family a better name, though fortunately I don’t bear the title of Hogwood .” A weak smile touched his lips. “I, uh, assume you know the story of my cousin.”

“Indeed, Mr. Blightree. I was involved in it.”

She waited to see his reaction—surprise. Interesting.

“I didn’t realize.” He rubbed his hands together. A few age spots mottled them. “I ... I was called in after they found his ... cache, if you don’t mind my bringing it up again. It was rather ... unsettling, what he did.”

Hulda let out a long breath through her nose in hope of better disguising it. She had a suspicion that Merritt was right—Mr. Blightree was simply a kind old man, here to enact his queen’s will. She’d keep an eye on him, however. She’d learned not to be too trusting with those she didn’t truly know.

“Then, while I have you”—Hulda resumed their walk toward the stairs—“I want to know what might go wrong, when and if you move Owein’s soul. How is the search coming? I am well aware the royal family is powerful, but we will not accept a body taken .”

He nodded. “Neither will I. When your life is as dedicated to the workings of life and death as mine has been, you learn not to trifle with it. In truth, I think the likelihood of Cora marrying another suitor is high. If we haven’t found a means of making Owein presentable by, oh, the time she’s twenty-five, I think another pairing will be arranged.”

Hulda clasped her hands together. “Owein will not live that long in his present body. Unless you intend to stave off its aging.”

But Mr. Blightree shook his head. “Alas, my abilities only work on mankind. I can do nothing for animals, however much I wish it were otherwise.” They reached the stairs, and he took a firm hold on the railing. “Had a horse once. Loved that beast. He was fast and noble and everything good. Couldn’t do a thing for him when he broke his leg.”

Her posture softened. “I’m sorry.”

“Twenty years ago now.” He took the stairs slowly; Hulda matched his pace. “But I will do my best, for the queen and for your family.”

“Thank you.” And she meant it.

They reached the base of the stairs; Hulda heard the police chatting in the reception hall up ahead. As she neared, she spied Merritt and Owein loitering near the entrance. The former noticed her and hurried toward her. Mr. Blightree gave her a congenial nod and went off to join the family.

“Well,” Merritt offered, combing a hand back through his hair. “There’s not much new to report.”

A few strands of hair came loose on his fingers; he shook them off his hand. As they drifted toward the floor, however, a pattern formed between the delicate threads, throwing Hulda into a vision.

In it, she saw Merritt standing in the depths of a forest. Hanging off his neck, pressed together chest to chest, was a woman she didn’t recognize, naked as the day she was born.