Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Chapter 29

March 11, 1847, London, England

There was nothing better than waking up in the morning next to the man you loved, especially when he was in the nude.

Hulda rolled toward him and buried her face into the side of his neck, blotting out the sunrise pouring through the windows. She was usually up and about this time of day, but given that she hadn’t slept particularly well last night, she determined it would be all right to repose for another hour or so. Truthfully, the time she had spent sleeping had been quite peaceful, merely fleeting, as Merritt had ensured thrice the loss of her maidenhood. As she adjusted beside him, she noted she would be somewhat sore today, but found she didn’t mind in the slightest.

And to her delight, two of her more sultry earlier visions had come to pass last night. She greatly anticipated experiencing the others firsthand.

Merritt groaned beside her and stretched, arching his back, before looping an arm around her, his hand instantly going for her posterior. “Morning,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

Warmth bloomed in her chest and filled her to her toes. She brushed unruly hair from his face, then traced the line of his brow, down the length of his nose. It was all so surreal. She was a married woman. This man was her husband. The sequence of events ... it was all so unexpected, but she’d learned to be surprised with Merritt.

“Morning,” she whispered, occupying herself with his face and his hair. He dozed off a bit longer, though Hulda found herself suddenly wide awake. She didn’t mind. She was simply ... happy.

When Merritt began to rouse again, she took the opportunity to slide from the sheets, which earned her a surly growl from Merritt. She located her glasses, cleaned up at the washbasin in the corner, and got dressed, leaving her hair down for now. By the time she got the Druids’ communion stone, Merritt was sitting up, blankets around his hips, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Hulda watched him a long moment, memorizing his every facet, feeling warmer and fuller with every passing second.

He caught her eye. “Is something funny?”

“Just admiring the view,” she offered, earning herself a grin. Refocusing, she activated the rune on the communion stone. “Sean? Owein? Is everything all right?”

The reply came quickly. “Hi!” bellowed a child’s voice, a boy, on the other end. “Yeah, we got mallow candies! And we’re roasting them over the fire!”

“Mallow candies?” Merritt asked.

“Pate de guimauve,” Hulda provided. “Kegan?”

Merritt nodded.

“I’m very happy to hear that,” she said. “Is Owein—”

She heard him barking in the background, which answered that question. Everything was fine. She sighed in relief.

“He says he’ll be back on time. We’re leaving after the mallow candies,” Kegan said. “Bye!”

The rune flashed, and the magic cut off.

“Ah, the concision of children.” Hulda set the stone on a shelf where it would be easily heard if it activated again.

“Should we send word to Cyprus Hall?” Merritt asked.

“Perhaps. We did make it difficult for them to send word to us.” She dug into her bag, setting her hairbrush aside, and pulled out a small box wrapped with ribbon. Tied into the ribbon was a pen with a dragon carved along the top. She handed the bundle to Merritt. “Happy birthday.”

He lit up. “What’s this?” He pulled the pen free from the knot and turned it over. “This is extraordinary. It’s got a little jewel for an eye.”

“It seemed whimsical.” She tried to hide a smile and failed miserably.

“Thank you.” He put it in his hand, holding it as if to test it. He had a funny way of writing where he laid his thumb straight, perpendicular to his index finger, as opposed to down with the other fingers to better grip the utensil, as Hulda had been instructed to do in school. She had never commented on it. He moved to put the pen in his pocket, realized he still wasn’t wearing any pants, and set it aside. Pulled the ribbon free from the box while Hulda held her breath. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Nonsense.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “If you don’t care for these, we can return them for a different design.”

He opened the box. Inside were two gold-plated cuff links. They were simply made, in the style Hulda preferred—she’d never seen Merritt wear cuff links, so she could only conjecture his opinion on the matter. Simple, slightly oval, with a matte finish.

“I thought,” she added as he slipped one out of the box, “you might wear them to the ... other wedding.”

He grinned. “I think they’ll make me look quite dashing.” He carefully set the cuff link back, stuck a knuckle under Hulda’s chin, and guided her over to kiss her. “Thank you.”

She grinned. Rose and returned to that hairbrush, noting Owein’s letter beside it. She should deliver it. Tidy up in case Miss Richards or the like decided to check in.

Merritt dressed while she brushed her hair. Remembering her intentions for last night, she dug out a particular receipt book from her black bag, the one that held all her notes on the strange goings-on at Cyprus Hall. She turned the page and jotted down new information regarding the carriage house over a diagram for folding petticoats, along with what she’d learned from the constable, courtesy of Owein. Merritt kissed the side of her neck as she was finishing. “I’m going to find something for breakfast.”

“I believe there’s a small kitchen downstairs,” she offered, and he sauntered off to locate it.

Alone, Hulda retrieved her dice and set the book out on her lap, letting her vision go out of focus, blurring her writing. She rolled her dice carefully, trying to keep them on the book while not moving her eyes from her writing. Tried unsuccessfully for about five minutes, then turned the page back and began again, thinking over the events in her mind the way Professor Griffiths had instructed her to. The rolling of the dice became a rhythm, like the tapping of impatient fingers. She lost one off the side of the book but didn’t stop to retrieve it. Just rolled the dice, seeing beyond their blurred markings, keeping a somewhat steady tempo with the scoop and drop, scoop and drop.

Her neck was beginning to ache when her augury seized upon a pattern of threes. She saw the Leiningens and Mr. Blightree around a pedestal with an unfurled scroll upon it covered in neat, tight penmanship. Mr. Blightree held a quill, and Owein approached.

The vision faltered. Hulda desperately tried to hold on to it—

A pen scraping the bottom of an ink vial.

A shod foot as it came down, as though running.

A bead, or perhaps a marble, rolling across the floor.

William Blightree, with tears in his eyes.

Hulda blinked, and the vision dissipated. It was that same premonition she’d had twice before. Flipping back a page, she found where she’d written down the details. Only the first time had included Mr. Blightree weeping. Why had her augury left that off?

Her breath caught. Had that clue already come to pass? Was it no longer the future?

Distantly, she heard a thumping noise. Tilted her head to better hear it, then set the receipt book aside and rose, heading into the hallway. The thumping was coming from the back door of the building. It was about nine in the morning; perhaps a LIKER employee had lost his or her key. As Hulda approached, she heard footsteps on the floor above her, signaling the presence of other employees, though they were likely too far from the door to hear the emphatic knocking.

Why not use the front door, if the back was locked?

Hesitant, wishing she’d brought her black bag with her, she reached the door. Carefully turned the knob and opened it—

Morning sunlight temporarily blinded her. Raising a hand to shield herself, she saw a boy of perhaps seventeen years of age wearing a page uniform. He seemed relieved to see her. “I’m sorry, is there a Mr. Fernsby or Miss Larkin staying here? I was told to try this location.”

“I ... yes. What do you need them for?”

He fetched a crisp letter from his bag. “I’m to deliver this to one of them. Straightaway. He said there isn’t much time.”

“Much time?” Hulda reached for the letter.

The page pulled it back. “I must give it directly—”

“I’m Hulda Larkin,” she said, and snatched the letter, breaking the seal with her thumbnail. Inside was a hasty scrawl without a signature. As she read, a chill swept over her as winter rain.

Please come to Cyprus Hall at once. We have a body.

Hulda spoke through the communion stone as she rushed down the hall to find Merritt. She passed a few employees on the way but didn’t bother masking her speech; they could make of it whatever they wanted.

“We need Owein back as soon as possible. They found someone. Tell him they found someone, and time is of the essence!”

She turned a corner and nearly knocked a tray of bread and tea out of Merritt’s hands. “Whoa there.” His smile dropped at her expression. “What happened? Owein?”

“They found a body for him,” she said.

They both left the tray forgotten in the hallway and rushed upstairs. By the time they’d finished packing and exited the building, Sean, the hawk, and Owein came bounding up the road, the first flushed, all three out of breath. Owein panted hard, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Merritt said in response to an unheard question. “But we’ll find out.”

“Thank you,” Hulda said to both Sean and Fallon. “Thank you for everything.”

They hailed a coach, Merritt doling out a larger-than-necessary sum to the driver with the instruction to “drive like an American.”

The man whipped his team, and they rushed down the London streets en route to Cyprus Hall.

A footman was waiting in the drive when the carriage pulled in, and he bolted into the house, leaving the front door ajar. When Merritt stepped out, he heard him call, “—here! They’re here!”

Was this really happening? Nerves ran marathons around his limbs and somersaulted his heart. He had assumed there would be so much more time—years, even—before someone was found. What were the chances that a workable vessel had been collected already, before the determined fortnight was even up? It seemed too easy, too planned. Licks of nausea curled up the sides of his stomach. All the calm, blissful feelings from the morning were gone.

Lady Helen rushed through the vestibule to meet them. “I’m so glad they found you! We sent at least a dozen missives. Come quickly.”

She ushered them to the blue drawing room, where a pedestal with a scroll was set up. The family was gathered there, minus Briar and Cora. The morning light hit the windows in such a way as to give the space a blue cast in addition to the blue furnishings, making it feel like it was much earlier—or much later—than it was. Baron von Gayl and Prince Friedrich stood as they entered.

But there was no body.

“I don’t understand,” Merritt said.

“The contract.”

Merritt whirled around to see Blightree behind him, looking as though he’d aged twenty years. He had heavy bags under his eyes, and his expression had the sort of gauntness one saw only in the very frail or very hungry. His clothing was a mite disheveled as well.

The man clasped his hands before him. “You must sign the contract before I can do anything with the transfer. I’ve finished redrafting it, and the queen has approved Miss Larkin’s changes.”

Merritt glanced back at the pedestal. On the ride over, Hulda had mentioned seeing a vision of one—was this it? “But ... who? Is it really sound to do this now?”

“I can only preserve the body for so long,” Blightree murmured. “I assure you, the family has been rewarded handsomely. It will be a strong body, and a good age, too—only fourteen, just a little older than Cora.”

Hulda grasped Merritt’s elbow. “But ... is there not a way to salvage the boy?”

Blightree’s head hung like an anvil had been set upon it. “I would spare the lad if I could. I’ve tried.”

“But surely—” Merritt began.

“The boy is my nephew,” whispered the necromancer.

The man might as well have stabbed Merritt through the heart with a rusty bayonet. Hulda gasped, and her hold on his elbow tightened.

Oh no. A soft whimper escaped Owein.

Blightree nodded with effort. “He drowned.” Tears brimmed in the corners of his eyes. “I was called away last night. I tried to revive him; my magic can keep his heart beating, but his soul is already gone. He won’t open his eyes or respond. I never thought ...” He sniffed. Pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. “But at least some good can come of it.”

“You should be mourning,” Hulda said.

But Blightree shook his head. “There is time for that later. As I said, time is of the essence.”

Briar and Cora appeared then behind him, Briar with her lips pressed into a resolute line, Cora with her head down. Their hands were clasped together, but Cora seemed to be dragging behind like a doll. Blightree was close to the royal family. Had they known, perhaps even befriended, his nephew?

Owein shifted closer to Merritt’s side. The tension felt thick as cold butter. Merritt didn’t sit, but hugged the wall, Owein at his heels. Hulda grabbed his elbow.

“I never noticed,” she whispered, taut as the high string of a violin, “that the carpeting doesn’t reach the walls.”

Merritt blinked. “Pardon?”

“And the cream shades in the carpet,” she continued. “That cluster vision I had when meeting with Professor Griffiths ... it happens in this room. The lighting ... The lighting made me notice it.”

Merritt recalled the vision; she’d let him read it out of that receipt book she’d been marking up. Nothing in it was harsh or violent, but she’d said it felt important. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” he offered by way of encouragement.

She nodded vacantly, then perched on the edge of the closest chair, back erect. Blightree pushed past all of them and stood on the far side of the pedestal. He dipped a large quill into an ink vial. It was nearly empty, and the tip of the pen scraped along the glass bottom.

Hulda jolted. Merritt touched her shoulder, but she wouldn’t break the silence. She couldn’t commune with him as Owein did, so she simply overlapped their fingers.

“The time has come. Prince Friedrich?”

The prince stepped forward. The room was not overly large, but it still felt like minutes passed before he reached the pedestal. He dipped the pen and began scrawling his name at the bottom of the scroll.

“Stop.”

Prince Friedrich’s hand stopped midletter. Merritt held his breath and looked around the room, trying to determine who had spoken. At first he thought it Briar, but when he found her, she was focused on her sister, who sat beside her, hands clenched into tight, white fists.

“Cora, what is the meaning of this?” Lady Helen asked.

Cora stood and lifted her head. Red rimmed her eyes, and her jaw protruded with clenched teeth. “I said stop ! Stop this!”

Her father set down the quill. “What outburst is this? You know—”

“I know what you’ve said!” she shouted, sounding like a completely different person with her voice raised. Gooseflesh prickled Merritt’s arms. “I know what I’ve been told , but you would never listen to me. Neither of you ever listen to me!”

Lady Helen’s hand swept to her breast.

Tears rimmed Cora’s eyes. “I don’t want to be forced into a marriage like Briar!”

“Cora,” Briar warned.

“Especially not with a barely literate dog!” she screamed.

Owein reeled back.

“He’s not a dog ,” Merritt countered. “Not in tru—”

“It’s demeaning!” she shouted over him. She whirled on Blightree, taking her plea to him. “Please, I’ll do anything else. Just don’t make me sign this contract. Don’t sign away my future!”

Lady Helen bolted to her feet. “Stop this at once, Cora! This is unseemly!”

“No!” she screeched, and pallor overtook her mother’s face. “All I ever do is what I’m told. Sit quietly and take it all with a smile. I’m not a decoration to be painted however you choose. I’m a person!”

So am I, Owein protested, but Merritt didn’t voice it.

“That is enough .” Prince Friedrich fumed.

But Cora spun toward Merritt and Owein. “Why couldn’t you have just left? When the roof fell, you should have just left! It was obvious you weren’t welcome!”

“Cora!” Briar grasped Cora’s forearm.

Cora ripped away, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If you had just left, no one would have been hurt!”

“What are you saying?” Lady Helen cried.

“You,” Hulda whispered, squeezing Merritt’s fingers. “You’re the one who did it.”

“You may go to your room if you insist on acting like such a wretch,” Prince Friedrich spat. “Your signature is not required.” He picked up the pen.

Pure panic resonated within the young woman. Merritt stepped forward, ready to take control and calm down the situation, but Cora acted first.

“I said no !”

She flung out her hands, and gusts as strong as those in the carriage house swallowed the room, sending furniture, vases, pictures, busts, and the contract flying.

Merritt dropped to the floor, pulling Hulda with him. Baron von Gayl shouted, “Get down!” and threw himself over Briar just as a fireplace poker flew over their heads. He raised his hand as an urn sailed toward them and, with a kinetic spell, directed it into the wall, where it shattered into dozens of pieces, swept into the gusts like a torrent of knives.

Owein inched out, and the urn resolidified, only to run into the far corner and shatter again. Cora stood in the center of the room, the center of the storm itself. She stumbled back as the baron tried to seize her with a kinetic spell, but it dissipated as quickly as it had formed. In the back of Merritt’s brain, somewhere, he recalled the Leiningen family possessed spell-turning, a wardship spell that nullified other magic.

“Stop!” Lady Helen could barely be heard over the rushing air. She put out her hands and tried to use her own wind magic in the opposite direction of the building tornado, but she quickly dropped to the floor, wildly out of breath, as was the cost of elemental air spells.

But that was the thing. How is she doing this without faltering?

I don’t know. Owein barked. Several flying items returned to their original places, order to chaos, but the gusts only ripped them away again. When Prince Friedrich grabbed Cora’s ankle, a head-sized stone appeared above him and dropped, crushing his hand into the floor. Cora danced away, putting her hands over her ears. The wind, somehow, increased.

Hulda shouted something to him, but the gusts carried it away.

Merritt threw up a wardship spell, and the sound of the gusts pummeling it was more deafening than the storm itself. The force quickly knocked it down. “What?” he yelled, then winced as a chair swept into him. He tried ducking back to where the wall jutted out a little, pulling Hulda and Owein with him.

A hole opened in the floor beneath Cora—Owein’s doing—but she spell-turned it before she fell. A lump formed on Owein’s back, universal punishment for using alteration magic.

“The bead !” Hulda yelled. “I saw a bead in the vision. She must have it. There’s nothing else!”

“What bead?!” Merritt gripped her close as a large portrait whipped by them.

“The conjurer’s bead, from the Tower of London!” She had to scream at him to be heard, especially as sconces ripped from the wall. The chandelier tore from the ceiling, and Merritt threw up one, two, three invisible walls to hold it in place, which made the bruises from the chair ache all the deeper.

He remembered that bead. Lore said it could negate the effects of magic. He recalled how simple it had looked. Was that because it’d been a fake?

Cora was a member of the royal family. Surely she had some access to the Tower of London. Had she seized it for herself? It seemed the only explanation. She must not have used it in the carriage house to “prove” her innocence.

The carriage house. The breakfast room. The bedroom. Good God, she was going to kill them all.

Shielding himself with another wardship spell, Merritt crawled forward to see Cora. He couldn’t hear her over the noise, but she was sobbing, tears swept into the wind. She was only thirteen. Surely she couldn’t want this .

Maybe she’d known Merritt and Owein had moved rooms. Maybe she’d only meant to scare them.

Her fists were still pressed to her ears, like she was trying to drown out the terror she was creating. Fists. Could she be holding the bead?

Another hole opened beneath her; this time she fell a ways before spell-turning it, again without consequence. The floor entrapped her leg just above the knee.

And suddenly stones appeared everywhere, stones as small as a shoe and as large as a donkey. Too heavy to be swayed by the wind, the heavy stones dropped with loud thud s. One barely missed Briar. Another crushed the chair Hulda had been sitting on.

“You have to stop this!” Merritt bellowed, but his voice, too, drowned in the storm. “CORA! LISTEN TO ME!”

A great thump sounded behind him, and he caught the tip of a whine before the gale whisked it away.

For a moment, despite the torrent, time seemed to stop.

Hulda screamed. Merritt turned around. Owein’s paws reached toward him over the carpet, slowly staining it red as blood seeped into the fibers. Owein’s back half Merritt couldn’t see. It was trapped under a boulder.

Merritt stared at his uncle, and his entire body flashed cold.

No.

He slammed himself into the boulder. It didn’t move. Debris whipped by, cutting into his clothes, his skin, leaving hot, angry marks behind.

No.

He slammed into it again, but the blasted stone was too heavy. Hulda pushed as well, but it wouldn’t so much as budge. The sharp edge of a picture frame sliced into Merritt’s shoulder, sending a spurt of blood into the breeze.

NO.

Screaming, Merritt shoved the boulder bodily, and it collapsed into sand. A stone consumed by chaos.

Merritt dropped on Owein. The wind swept the sand and blood—so much blood—away. A scream echoed in the room, and distantly he knew it was Cora. Maybe she wanted to stop. Maybe she couldn’t stop.

But Owein. Owein was dying.

Merritt picked up the half-crushed dog in his arms. Threw up a wardship spell and walked toward the front of the room. The wind knocked his wall down. He threw up another one, and another, until his body grew so weak from use of magic he collapsed to his knees, not far from where Blightree was barricaded into the wall by a broken sofa.

“Help him!” Merritt cried. “Blightree! HELP. HIM. ”

The old man crawled out, staying low to the ground. A shard of glass whipped by and cut a long line on his balding head, but the necromancer didn’t seem to feel it. He put a hand on Owein, whose chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms. He panted, his tongue a lifeless worm. The skin under his fur was slick with sweat and blood.

“I can’t!” Blightree called back. “My magic works only on humans!”

“He is human!” Tears whipped from Merritt’s eyes.

But Blightree shook his head.

“Then move him !” Merritt screamed. “Put him in the new body!”

“It’s not here! And we can’t leave!” Another boulder fell from the ceiling, shaking the room.

Merritt grasped Owein’s head in his hands. Hold on, Owein. Hold on.

Owein didn’t answer. His breaths were growing short.

No. It couldn’t end like this. Not like this. Not when they were so close—

Merritt lifted his head. Grabbed Blightree’s wrist. “Put him in me!”

“What?”

“Put him in me!”

The necromancer blanched. “I ... I can’t! I don’t know what will happen! Two spirits in one body—”

“I don’t care!” he bellowed. “We’re losing him, damn it! Put him in me now !”

The ceiling around the chandelier gave way, and the crystals slammed into the wall behind them.

Blightree placed both his hands on Owein, one on his neck, one on his ribs. He closed his eyes, and the pressure around them seemed to grow heavy, like they were sinking into a lake, deeper and deeper, the pressure increasing with every foot.

Then Blightree stiffly grabbed Merritt’s hand, and a sense of supernatural wrongness overtook him, like his spine was being tapped, or his body stretched from the inside out. For a moment, Merritt felt very, very old, like he’d turn into sand just as the boulder did. All of Owein’s years, added to his own.

And then . . . power.

That flare of chaocracy he’d felt when the boulder dissolved increased tenfold. It buzzed through his fingers and to the tips of his hair. And something new, something big —alteration spells, like everything around him was nothing more than putty, waiting to be shaped by a master’s hand. The power pushed and pushed, unsure of its new vessel, unsure of where to go.

Hello, Owein, Merritt thought.

And released it.

He pushed it all out of him at once, uncaring for the consequences. It burst out like it had on the island, when Merritt had pulled trees up by their roots and turned the sky to violet snow. It swept through the room, reorienting the toppled, fixing the broken, breaking the fixed. The walls caved in and warped as alteration spells shrunk and reshaped them. The drawing room crumbled and reoriented itself over and over. The outer wall tore away entirely, sending Cora’s building wind with it.

But still the storm raged. Cora was on her knees, screaming, sobbing, and the hurricane spun around her, merciless and unending.

Remember when I had my nightmare? whispered a voice in the back of his mind. A voice with a peculiar lilt to it. Remember when you tried to stop it?

Merritt didn’t understand. What was he doing? Where was he? Why were his legs twisting backward?

It’s okay, the voice assured him. I remember.

Merritt’s arms moved of their own accord, coming before him, hands pointed not at Cora, but just behind her. The chaos pulled from the walls and centered at that spot, tearing up carpeting and making debris dance like little puppets. Peals like struck glass sounded as one, two, three, four, five wardship spells boxed around the building chaos. The magic inside spun and twisted, growing angry. Growing bigger and bigger and—

The box exploded outward, a magical bomb, slamming into Cora’s back and knocking her prone. A spherical bead rolled from her hand.

The wind slowed; people covered their heads as debris fell. Coals from the fireplace pattered black against the carpet. Shards of glass from windows, mirrors, and picture frames glittered in a great cascade. Fluff from torn cushions snow-flaked drowsily.

Cora lifted her head, then her hands. Her right hand looked as though the ancient talisman she’d gripped had burned it. She cried as she looked at her palm, then smiled in relief.

A loud crack , almost like thunder, ripped through the room. The ceiling split overhead, sending a large chunk of house down onto Cora.

“Look out!” Merritt/Owein shouted. Lady Helen rushed forward. Cora covered her head.

The chunk of wood and mortar froze a few feet above the ground. Baron von Gayl shielded Cora with his body, his left hand up and shaking with the effort of a kinetic spell to stall the chunk from crushing them both.

A new gust, this time from Briar, shoved the great hunk off to the side. The young woman, covered in dust, ran to the both of them. “Oh, Ernst, thank you. Thank you.”

The fullness was too much. Merritt/Owein dropped to his knees and vomited, then promptly passed out.