Chapter 25
March 9, 1847, London, England
Owein had entirely forgotten about the dinner party Tuesday night, which the now-much-sought-after Professor Griffiths would be attending. The house filled with complementary smells—pork and bread being the strongest. Owein really liked both, especially when butter was involved, but he had to fight the dog side of him to savor anything. It wanted to snork down dinners like food would stop existing on the morrow.
For now, he watched Lady Helen pace back and forth in the reception hall, occasionally directing a passing servant, though the staff seemed preoccupied with the dinner. He’d already heard her say, more to herself than to him or anyone else, “Of course the reading will need to wait until after dinner, as is polite” and “If he doesn’t come, we shall have to issue a new invitation.”
Owein thought the priorities of the matter quite stupid. There was a very real possibility that Lady Cora was going to be hurt in the future—shouldn’t they have taken the tram to the professor’s college and pled for help right there and then?
This isn’t America, Merritt had remarked when Owein asked about it. What nonsense. Why would—what was the word?— propriety take precedence over the well-being of his friend?
Owein and Cora were friends, sort of. Not the same way he, Kegan, and Fallon were friends, no. He couldn’t even speak to Cora, not directly, though when they did speak, she was polite. Kind. Not very open, but kind. She deserved to be protected, and to reiterate, Owein was not happy about the priorities.
He could hear Hulda’s vocabulary leaking into his thoughts. Good. He’d need to sound smart if he ever got a properly functioning mouth. He’d spent a lot of time with Hulda today, helping her check the stones and wards around the house just in case, though none so far had indicated the use of magic (which Lady Helen had strictly forbidden, save for Owein, who’d been granted permission to do so when he needed to use the bathroom, though there was usually a servant about to open the door for him).
Growing impatient, Owein tried to relay his frustrations to Lady Helen, to tell her where her daughter’s life was concerned, propriety could and should be set aside, but of course she couldn’t understand him. His inability to communicate became more and more frustrating with each passing day. So, determined to fetch his translator, Owein trotted into the sitting room to find him.
The room was more occupied than usual; the Leiningens had invited cousins to this party. Owein paused a moment, trying to recall who was who. The older couple was ... Earl. Earl and Earless—wait, no— Countess of ... North ... folk. Norfolk. That was it. Which meant the others, who were very plain-looking but sparkled with gemstones and other things Owein couldn’t name, were the Viscount and Viscountess of Leiningen. Essentially, if he called an English person a Leiningen, he had a very good chance of being correct. He knew the earl also had alteration spells, which was where Lady Helen and Cora had gotten theirs, but they hadn’t dove into the details of it. Lady Helen was too distracted, waiting for Professor Griffiths.
Titles were annoying.
Owein marched up to Merritt and asked, Will you translate for me? But Merritt was engaged in conversation with Baron von Gayl and Viscount Leiningen, something about deep-sea fishing, and didn’t seem to hear him. Merritt, Lady Helen is being—
“Miss Larkin!” came a new voice, and Owein turned to see an older man, well dressed without being overly so, entering the room with a very relieved-looking Lady Helen trailing behind. “Good to see you.”
Hulda came out of the crowd. “Professor, I’m so glad you could join us on short notice.”
“Anything for you,” he said, not seeming to notice Owein’s approach. He smelled like pipe smoke, newspaper, and gingerbread. Not a bad combination.
“We’ll start in just a moment,” Lady Helen announced, smiling for the first time since the tour yesterday.
Owein hesitated, wondering if he should stay with her or seek Merritt’s help again ... or perhaps it was better he stay with Cora. They weren’t engaged, not yet, but that seemed the chummy thing to do. And yet ... Briar and the baron were married and hardly spent time together. What did propriety call for, and where could he get a book on it? Better yet, he could ask Hulda to simply explain it to him, but everyone was so busy .
Owein moved through the room, nearly getting stepped on once. He found Cora speaking to a girl a little older than her, a daughter or niece or something of the earl. In the back of the room, he caught Briar’s voice as she spoke to the viscountess: “—failed to persuade her. I’ve yet to determine what my next course of action will be.”
“I’m surprised you were able to get an audience with her at all,” the viscountess replied.
“Only a brief one.” She sighed. “She said she would consider if Cora reached twenty-five and a body had not yet been found. The ridiculousness of the situation—”
That was about him and Cora, Owein new. But he could hardly interrupt her and make his case, so he turned back around in time to catch Hulda introducing Merritt to the professor.
“Ah, Mr. Fernsby. I’ve heard so much about you,” Professor Griffiths said, shaking Merritt’s hand. His grip seemed tighter than necessary, but Merritt didn’t appear to notice.
“I must say the same. Hulda speaks very highly of you. We both appreciate the time you’ve put into her instruction. It’s certainly helped boost her confidence with augury.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” They still shook hands. This was a very long handshake. “You’re quite a character, Mr. Fernsby.”
They finally dropped hands. “Oh?”
“I’ve never seen a grown man with hair that long.”
That was a lie. Although it was not common, to be sure, Owein had seen plenty of men on the street with hair like that. Most usually wore it in a ponytail, but still.
Hulda rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Well, it wouldn’t make sense to cut it until summer.” Merritt’s tone was easy.
“Pardon?” the professor asked.
“By means of the temperature.”
You wear your hair long in the summer, too, though, Owein insisted, and got a very subtle Not now gesture from Merritt. Owein grumbled, which came out more like a growl.
Hulda interjected, “Merritt and I just discovered a poetry book by an author I’m not familiar with. Have you heard of Ronald Jonstone?”
Lady Helen called them in for dinner, forcing the cacophony of conversations to either break up or be carried inside. Owein was supposed to walk in with Cora, so he waited for her, earning his usual nod and smile when she approached. She didn’t say anything else as they walked into the dining room and she took her chair, while he found his elegant doggy corner set up with the first course of soup. He approached and settled himself, bowing down to have a taste.
And then everything grew very quiet.
Owein glanced up. Everyone who’d been seated rose, and everyone who’d been standing turned statuesque. On four legs, Owein was shorter than everyone there and couldn’t see over their heads and shoulders. He took a step past the soup bowl, curious, before Prince Friedrich broke the silence.
“Your Majesty, we’re so glad you’re able to attend.”
And then everyone bowed.
A strange shiver coursed up Owein’s legs. He padded softly around the table to get a better look.
“Forgive my tardiness, Cousin.”
“But of course you must take the seat of the table! I did leave it clear just in case, didn’t I, Friedrich?”
Owein grew close enough to spot her. A woman about Briar’s age stood at the entrance to the dining room in the heaviest gown Owein had ever seen, with cream and white fabric and intricate trimmings; long, wide sleeves; a full and sweeping skirt; and a wide collar. She was a brunette, though not as dark as the Leiningen women, her hair pulled back simply from her pale face. Her blue eyes, however, were the exact same hue, and they surveyed the room. Two men flanked her, neither offering conversation nor introductions, but thanks to the distinctive blue uniform they wore, Owein guessed they were part of the Queen’s League of Magicians, likely bodyguards.
As Queen Victoria approached her seat at the table, Owein backtracked to his corner, watching with a strange reverence. Not because she was a queen, not really. Owein had never had a queen before; he’d been born and raised in the United States, albeit before they were ever called that. He’d been a house in the middle of the bay when the revolution broke out, and seen none of it. But Victoria had a presence , for lack of a better term. A presence that made his thoughts slow and caused those shivers down his legs. Even among the well-bred English aristocracy, Owein wasn’t used to standing in a room with a wizard more powerful than himself. And the English monarch resonated power .
The men attending her pulled out her chair, and she sat. They took two steps back at the same time, like it was practiced, and remained there. Lady Helen directed that the dinner should begin, and servants brought out the first course to everyone else. Gradually, like sand tinkling down from the top of an hourglass, conversation built up again, quietly at first, then with growing confidence.
It is good to meet you, Owein Mansel.
Owein froze and glanced at Merritt, who was midconversation with Baron von Gayl. So his attention slid around the room to the queen herself, who delicately ate her soup.
You can hear me? he asked.
But of course. Forgive me, I did not want to stall the meal when I’d already arrived late. And I do think it would be discomfiting to the others for us to be seen sitting in a corner staring at each other for an extended amount of time. How are you enjoying London?
Owein positioned himself in front of his cooling soup but didn’t eat. It’s been fine. Cold. But the family has been good to me.
I’m glad to hear it. I appreciate you and your ... nephew, isn’t it? Taking the time to consider my offer.
Trying to sound regal, Owein replied, I intend to accept, Your Majesty. I would have already, if the revised document hadn’t ... gone missing.
Victoria smiled and stirred her soup. Oh yes, I heard about that. But never mind it now. I intend to review the addenda when time allows. I think you will make a splendid addition to this line. And I have complete trust in William Blightree when it comes to moving your soul. You needn’t worry about it. I just ask that, after you’ve returned home, you be ready at a moment’s notice to sail back. A body can only be kept fresh for so long. In fact, I have an offer for you to make it easier on everyone.
Owein’s ears perked.
I’m sure Lady Helen would be happy to house you, but this is my handiwork, and I will take responsibility as needed. I have a little cottage not far from here that you may take for your own while you await a suitable body. Your caretaker may live there as well, if he wishes.
Owein’s breath fluttered in his throat. Stay, here? In England? But Hulda’s work was in the States—neither she nor Merritt would stay here. And Beth was back on the island. Baptiste, too. He’d be closer to the Druids, though ... but other than that, he’d be alone.
Think on it, she said, and directed her attention to Prince Friedrich on her right, who’d asked her a question.
Owein nodded, though she would not perceive it. Nor did he truly mean it, because he already knew his answer.
He would sign the contract. But once that was settled, he was going home.
“We would be happy to host you,” Queen Victoria said as the servants cleared away the dishes from the last course. “That is, on such short notice, Albert and I will not be able to conduct the tour ourselves—”
“Of course not!” Lady Helen interjected, reaching across the table toward Victoria. “We would never expect you to.”
Victoria smiled patiently. “But you are welcome to Buckingham Palace. I always welcome family, present and future.” She glanced over at Owein, offering a subtle wink before standing. “Thank you so much for your invitation, my dear. I’m afraid I cannot stay for any entertainment.”
Lady Helen jolted to her feet and curtsied. “We were honored to dine in your presence again, Your Majesty. Please take care and travel safely.”
Victoria smiled and said her goodbyes. Then, out loud to Owein, added, “Until we meet again, Mr. Mansel.”
The queen’s departure was a scene, with the Leiningen family and guests trotting behind, getting their last words and compliments in as Victoria picked her way to the door. It took long enough that Owein was glad for her late entrance. They’d still be on the second course, otherwise.
Gradually, everyone made it back to the sitting room. It was customary, Owein had learned, for the gentlemen to linger behind and drink port or some such after dinner without the ladies. Owein and Merritt always attended, though neither of them drank. (Owein did try, once, and ended up vomiting it up on the carpet. Thankfully, a little chaocracy spell took care of it before anyone noticed.) And Merritt simply didn’t drink; a habit he’d made over the years, to “keep him out of trouble,” he said.
Tonight, however, the port and manly meeting was passed over for the sake of Cora. Merritt and the baron pulled a bench over for Professor Griffiths to use as a table, and Prince Friedrich carried over a chair right across from it for Cora. Everyone else sat around them, as though the reading of Cora’s potential demise was, indeed, planned entertainment. Owein lingered nearby. He could smell Cora’s nerves; they were sour, like bread dough forgotten on the counter. She clasped her hands together and sat upright, proper and Hulda-like, though her fingers wriggled together, trying to escape the cocoon of her grip.
Professor Griffiths, beneath the light of extra candles, laid out several cards, along with dice numbered with lines instead of dots. He accepted a few strands of Cora’s hair as well.
“Give me a moment.” He focused on the table, eyes moving back and forth, back and forth, only occasionally breaking the pattern by glancing up at Cora’s face, smooth and blank save for a distraught line between her brows. Several minutes passed in hushed silence, and then the professor inhaled sharply. His eyes stopped moving, taking on that blank look Hulda sometimes got. A few seconds later, it ended.
“I did not see a falling ceiling,” he said carefully, a little too much space between each word. “Which does not discount Miss Larkin’s reading. I believe what I saw was farther in the future; Lady Cora appeared a little older. She stood in a room with a balcony overlooking the Thames. There was a man with her, though I’m afraid he’s not one I recognized. Her grandfather, perhaps, judging by the white hair.”
Lady Helen and Prince Friedrich turned to each other. Mouthed something, then shook their heads. “Neither of Cora’s grandfathers are alive, I’m afraid.”
Owein wondered at this. The old man could be another servant—the family had a lot of those—but servants dressed a certain way, and the augurist hadn’t specified, and Owein couldn’t ask. Perhaps it was him; maybe, in the future, he did get a body, but it was that of an older man. Better an older man than nothing, he supposed. How old would he have to be for white hair?
Or maybe the vision was far enough in the future for the man to be Prince Friedrich.
Professor Griffiths nodded. “Nevertheless, she did not seem to be in harm’s way. She did prick her finger on a broken clasp to a necklace,” he added with a subtle smile. “That is the worst I see for her. If I am seeing beyond what Miss Larkin beheld, which I believe I am, then I can assure you that whatever happens in the near future, the lady will survive it well.” He made eye contact with Cora then, and tension visibly left her shoulders. The room, as a whole, released a held breath. Even the house seemed to settle.
“Well then,” Baron von Gayl asked in his heavy German accent, “how about that port?”
He was the house again.
It was night, or it was very dark, it was hard to tell. There were no candles to tinker with, no moonlight on his shingles, no mice scurrying beneath his foundation. No eyes, ears, mouth. Only that means of sensing things the way a spirit does, which is almost like a person’s, but subdued and pulled back, as though in a dream.
Somewhere, in the back of his thoughts, Owein felt this was a dream. But in the depths of slumber, feeling something and knowing it were two different things.
The darkness was impregnable. It was heavy and thick, like castor oil. Like the thump s of the mallet as Baptiste brought it down on a cut of venison, flattening it for schnitzel. Like a heavy cough too wet in the lungs, trying to drown every breath of air. Owein knew that. He remembered. That was how he’d died. Hot and drowning, tucked in the bed he shared with his sister.
But it wasn’t hot here. It was cold. Cold and dark and heavy, and the darkness shifted in, closer and closer, a box built with long iron nails. Closer and closer, tighter and tighter. It meant to crush him. It was crushing him.
The faintest trickle of light flared in his periphery. Desperate, Owein whirled toward it. It was too far to have shape or even color. But it was there. And Owein ran, ran, ran toward it. He ran for hours. Only after hours did he start to get closer, the light bigger.
He blinked, and he was at the cave in the forest. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Kegan’s makeshift bridge had crumbled; there was no way down but to jump, praying his hands caught a shrub, and that the shrub had roots deep enough to hold him.
Hands. He held them before his face. He had hands. They were pale and small. Were these his hands? He couldn’t remember.
The cave coughed in front of him. Kegan and Fallon were gone. The bridge was gone. The sun was setting, threatening to take its gift of light with it.
Swallowing, Owein stepped into the shadows. He closed his eyes; seeing made no difference, anyway. He was used to not having eyes.
He walked into the darkness, heel to toe, keeping his path straight. Reached out his right hand and felt for the back of the cave. Any moment now he would touch it. He would—
Owein awoke, curled on the foot of Merritt’s bed. Moonlight peeked through the drawn curtains. A few desperate embers glowed red in the fireplace. He lifted his head and saw that everything was as it should be; no furniture had sprung to life and danced around the room, no walls had altered, no additional glass broken.
He blinked. He waited. The night continued onward, still and unthreatening. Peaceful, even.
Dogs didn’t cry. Not really. Not unless pollen, a fly, or the like flew into their eyes. But deep inside, a little boy remembered having hands, and he passed out of the cave and wept for sight of day.