Chapter 31
March 11, 1847, London, England
He opened his eyes to blurs. Blinked, and the blurs changed shape. Blinked again, and saw color .
The ceiling was yellow, with white wainscoting crossing it and delicate blue flowers painted along the panels. He stared at it for a long time, trying to understand it. Trying to remember the color of the flowers’ leaves. Oh, right. Green.
The room didn’t smell like much. Rooms always smelled like something, so the lack of scent was jarring. Woke him up a little bit. Something was ... different. Not wrong, just different. He was too big, too long. His skeleton wasn’t shaped as it should be. Had he used an alteration spell and forgotten about it?
Memory assailed, and he winced. His body had been crushed. He recalled ... pressure more than pain. Panic. Wind and weakness. He wiggled his toes. They were still there, but with no fur between them.
Though he was very tired, very heavy, he found the strength to lift his paws, then stared at them longer than he had at the color green, trying to comprehend them.
Hands. He had hands. Ten digits covered in pale skin. He wiggled his thumbs first, then forefingers, middle and ring fingers, pinkies. Turned them over and studied his nails. They were very clean. Turned back and traced the paths on his palms.
He was on a narrow bed of some sort, maybe a table. He noted absently that it was digging into his shoulder blades. So, carefully, bit by bit, he sat up. The room spun despite his slowness, sending a wave of dizziness through his skull. He cradled his head, finding hair there. Pulled his hand away.
He was . . . human.
He looked down at himself, at the simple nightgown he wore, which was almost the same off-white as the tablecloth beneath him. He had a flat chest and a stomach, hips and legs and bare feet. He stared at the feet. Wiggled his toes.
Smiled.
“I’m glad to see you awake,” said a prim British voice to his right. Owein turned to find two people seated in chairs against the wall. Blightree and ... oh yes. Queen Victoria.
“We’ve had quite the episode, haven’t we?” She tapped her hands on a small chest in her lap. The wood was painted ... red. He could see red! “But your guardian has signed the documents, and I intend to keep you both to your word.”
“Cora?” Owein asked. He didn’t have a voice—it was a rasp, the way Merritt sounded when he used too much communion. “Merritt?”
“They’re both hale enough.” Reaching over, the queen took Blightree’s hand. “And will be no worse for the wear once my dear man has recovered from his services to you. It’s a big and rare spell combination, moving spirits about.”
Blightree patted her hand. He looked a little queasy, a little sad, but well enough.
To Owein, Victoria asked, “How are you feeling?”
He blinked. Touched his chest. “Different.” There was a little more voice this time.
Victoria handed the chest to Blightree, then crossed the room, her long skirts swishing, to a pitcher of water. She poured just a little into a cup and handed it to him.
It felt strange, holding a cup. Having thumbs. Owein brought the water to his lips. The first bit drizzled down his chin, but instinct took over, and he drank. He remembered, distantly, drinking like this. Not from a cup this fine, but he’d been human before.
“I’m afraid that, while you do fascinate me,” the queen went on, “I’m not able to stay.” She retrieved the chest from Blightree and held it tightly. “This item is very powerful and is not meant to be used by young girls who have not fully harnessed their magic.” She clucked her tongue.
“What will ...” Owein coughed. “What will happen to her?”
“To Cora? She’ll be on strict probation for the next year at least .” She sniffed with displeasure. “You should be more concerned for the guards at the tower. I’ve the mind to behead the lot of them, but then what can one do when the culprit has a luck spell that turned their heads?”
Owein jolted. Victoria offered a close-lipped smile. “Regardless, their consequences will be severe. Cora ...” She considered a moment. “Cora is young and stupid. I’ve spoken to her directly, and I do believe it is sheer stupidity that caused all this.” She waved a hand, not caring to clarify. “It is fortunate for her that she is so high in society. Were she not, I would not be so lenient. But she is family. Of course, I will still make sure she rues this day. I’ve not yet determined the extent of my wrath.” She tapped a finger on the box. Quieter, she said, “Even I wouldn’t dare to use this artifact, or any of them, unless the situation were dire. I am a strong wizard, Mr. Mansel. But these were created for the first of us, those imbued with the fullness of magic and the abilities to control it. I think they will be taken out of the public eye indefinitely.”
He considered this. “Will you give her a chance?”
“Hm? You’ll need to clarify. More water?”
Owein shook his head. “Cora. She was so miserable. About the ... marriage.”
Victoria exhaled slowly through her nose. Tilted her head slightly to the side as she regarded him. “I am impressed that the central victim to her crimes has such mercy.”
“She didn’t mean to hurt me, I don’t think.” Crushing bones, panic, the room spinning and growing dark. Owein shook himself like he would have as a dog, and it came out as a half shudder, half convulsion in his new body. “Just ... scare me away,” he finished.
“Can you be so sure?”
Owein shrugged. The gesture felt both queer and familiar to him. “I’ve lived a long time, Your Majesty.”
She smirked at that. Took a moment to collect her thoughts. “I am not without heart. In truth, Briar had almost swayed me.” She glanced back at Blightree. “I was fortunate enough to marry someone I love. I certainly understand the appeal, though I would have entered matrimony regardless. Such is the duty of the ruling class.” She raised an eyebrow. “But I will make an amendment, for your sake. If Cora finds another suitor who will add to the noble bloodline by the time she is eighteen, I will disregard her obligation to you. You will, of course, keep the body.”
Owein looked down. Flexed and unflexed his fists, tightened his stomach. He was hungry. “Thank you. She’ll be happy to hear it.”
“I intend for her not to be happy for a good while. Perhaps I shall take her on as a ward.” She turned, directing the idea to Blightree. “Let her follow me around and do my bidding for a year or so. Give her a true taste of responsibility. I think she’ll not complain about her duties after that.”
Blightree nodded. “It is a sound idea.”
“I am, again, terribly sorry for your loss.” Walking over, she clasped his hand.
Owein wiggled his toes again. “What was his name?”
“Pardon?” asked the queen.
“His name.” Owein pointed to himself. “The one who sacrificed so that I could live.”
Blightree’s eyes watered. “Oliver. Oliver Whittock. Thank you for asking.”
Owein nodded. “Thank you, for helping me. For giving me a voice again. And hands.”
A few tears spilled over the necromancer’s face as he smiled. “My dear boy, you are very welcome.”
It was fascinating how efficient a household could be, despite the collapse of a good chunk of the house itself. Merritt supposed that was a benefit to living in a mansion. Even when entire rooms collapsed, there was still space left over.
The kitchens had been unharmed, and so Merritt and Hulda were able to get a simple lunch. Prince Friedrich, also with bandages poking out of his sleeves, dropped in for a bit to speak with them, to apologize, and to see how everyone fared. But duty called, and he soon departed again. There was a lot of hustle and bustle about the arrival of Queen Victoria and an alarming number of people from the Queen’s League of Magicians—in part to reacquire the bead and clean up the social mess, as nobility cared far more for the social ramifications of their deeds than the physical ones. As neither Merritt nor Hulda had a drop of royal blood in them, they weren’t privy to exactly how the issue was being handled, but Merritt was sure that, once everything calmed down, Lady Helen would tell them all about it, whether they wanted to know or not.
And so, needing to take their minds off the suppositions and unknowns, Merritt located a chess board and set it up, which was how he learned Hulda was a far more adept chess player than he was.
“Check,” she said. Merritt moved his king over one square. She did the same with a rook. “Check.”
Merritt moved the piece back.
“Really, Merritt, just surrender.” Exasperation weighted her words.
“In true war, this is how an army stalls so reinforcements can come in,” he countered.
She looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “You’ve no reinforcements. Check.”
He moved the piece over one square.
“For heaven’s sake. I forfeit.” She knocked down her king with a flick of her finger.
Merritt grinned. “And that is how I never lose at chess.”
Folding her arms, she rolled her eyes. “You’re intolerable.”
“You’re stuck with me, my dear.”
“Unless I travel somewhere that doesn’t uphold Druidic law. Russia, perhaps.”
He set up his pieces again. He’d chosen the black, despite knowing that meant Hulda would go first. He had always liked the black pieces, for one reason or another. But he paused, a polished pawn in his hand. Black like Owein’s undercoat. He sighed.
“Don’t suppose we can scatter these and have you take a peek, hm?” He placed the pawn on the board.
Her hand stilled as she set down a bishop. “I’m afraid to.”
The door opened just then. A maid slipped in, nodding quietly to them before fetching their tray. She slipped out just as quietly.
Merritt returned his king to his square in the back. “Your turn.”
Hulda moved a knight out front. Merritt copied the move. She pushed out a pawn, and he mirrored it.
“You’ll lose, that way,” she said, pushing out another pawn.
“We’ll see.”
The door creaked again, perhaps the maid returning for the pitcher.
“I guarantee it.” She moved another pawn. He copied her. She captured his pawn with her first knight.
“Ah,” he said, and inched out his rook.
“Hello.”
They both startled. Merritt’s knee hit the corner of the chess board, knocking down several of his soldiers. A footman had entered the room, albeit without the jacket that went with his uniform. A foot boy , rather. The lad was an adolescent, with the slightest bit of baby fat still in his cheeks. Dirty blond hair swept just over his eyebrows, trimmed short in the back. His eyes were gray, chin on the sharper side. He’d have a well-defined jaw when he was older.
He smiled hesitantly. “I suppose I do look a little different.”
It was the accent, more than the words, that made Merritt’s heart break apart and reorient itself. It wasn’t quite British, not quite American, but something other, something learned a long time ago, warped only slightly by environment, because until now he hadn’t had a voice to warp.
Hulda stood. “Is ... Is that you, Owein?”
The boy lifted his hands, studied them, turned them over. “It feels odd, being this tall. But yes, it’s me.”
Merritt stood as well. “Tell me something only Owein would know.”
They both glanced at him.
Merritt shook his head. “I’m sorry ... I just want to be sure.”
The boy considered for a moment. “Sometimes you hum ‘Turkey in the Straw’ when you get dressed. And you tried to feed me an onion at Christmas, but Beth smacked it out of your hand and jammed your middle finger.”
Merritt laughed. Tears filled his eyes with each chuckle. He crossed the distance between them in four strides and threw his arm around the boy. The top of Owein’s head came to Merritt’s clavicle.
“Owein ... it’s really you.” Hulda came around, and when Merritt released him, Hulda turned him to her. Pushed his hair off his head. Looked him over for ... signs of injury? Likely just to assure herself that he was real, hale, and whole. “Did it ... hurt?”
“I don’t remember,” he said. “But it fits a lot better than Merritt did.”
Merritt grinned and wiped his eyes. “I did get one thing out of it.” He looked around. Grabbed a cup off the table with the pitcher and brought it over. “Let’s see ...”
He concentrated on the cup, feeling a rumble, almost like a growl of hunger, zip up his torso. The cup shuddered in his hand and melted just enough to bend out of shape.
Hulda gasped. “Chaocracy! Why didn’t you tell me?”
He blinked a few times to dismiss the confusion curling through his thoughts and reorient himself. “I was trying to melt it,” he said with a frown. “Not enough magic, I suppose. But I felt the way you did it, Owein. It sort of contextualized things for me. I, um ...” He set the cup aside. “I can see why they want you.”
Owein folded and unfolded his hands together. “I’m not ready to do any magic yet. I’m still getting used to ... this.” He gestured to his whole self. “Maybe we can take the cup home and mail it back?” His voice jumped midsentence.
Merritt grinned and wiped his eyes. “Ah, the joys of puberty. You haven’t gotten to experience that yet. What a way to greet humanity.”
Owein cleared his throat. “You’re welcome, for not stealing your voice anymore.”
New tears brimmed, but Merritt ignored them, instead hugging his uncle once more. “I think I’m going to miss our private conversations,” he said, kissing the top of his head. “But I’m so, so happy to have you back.”
Owein, despite having only been technically human for a couple of hours, was exhausted. Blightree said that was to be expected; his new body and old spirit had both undergone a lot of stress. His reintroduction to everyone was also tiring. Half the Leiningens treated him like a newcomer, and not like he’d been living at their house for the last week and a half. But it felt wrong to sleep when there was a very important issue to discuss, and an important person to discuss it with.
Her door was unlocked. Owein rapped softly with a knuckle—he could do that now—and cracked the door open. “Cora?”
Her room was dark, only one drape drawn. She sat on the far edge of her bed, facing away from him, hunched over. He’d never seen her hunched before. She always sat up so pristinely, with a spine Hulda would envy. Turning her head just enough to glance over her shoulder, she asked, “Who’s there?”
Owein stepped into the room. “I wanted to talk to you before I leave.”
She turned more, looking at him, her brows knit tightly together.
Owein glanced down at himself. “You didn’t know him, did you?”
“Who?”
“Oliver Whittock.”
It took her a moment. Then her eyes widened and her lungs took in a sharp breath. “He’s the one ... You’re ...”
He reached her and held out a hand. He’d decided that might be the best way to do it. “Owein Mansel. It’s nice to meet you again.”
She stared at his face for several seconds, then weakly took his hand. “You talk funny,” she managed.
He shrugged.
Pulling her hand away, she dropped her head. “I’m surprised you want to talk to me.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so they lingered there in painful silence for a minute. “The queen ... she said she’d make an amendment—”
“I know.” She whispered now. “My mother told me.”
More stiff silence.
“Thank you,” she finally added. “I’m sorry ... I’m so sorry. I was so scared. I still am.” She opened her hand to the circular scar on her palm. “I won’t let him heal it.” Blightree, she meant. “I need to remember this.”
“We’re okay,” he offered. “All of us.”
She shook her head. Her lip quivered. Once she’d steeled herself, she said, “I never meant to hurt you. Not really. I wanted to shake up that room to scare you off, but I did so much ...” Her gaze lingered on the scar on her palm. “I didn’t think I’d be able to do so much damage. It scared me. That’s why I bought the next spell. And Maksim”—the hound who’d been injured, she meant—“I thought he was you. The room was mostly empty. I thought I’d scare you, and it would be so obvious you were the target that you and the others would run right back home ...” Her voice creaked into nothing. She sniffed. Owein waited while her throat cleared, but when she spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “But he moved, and I hurt him and the baron. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t trust myself anymore.”
“Cora—”
“But Briar gave me courage,” she continued, barely audible. She didn’t lift her head, wouldn’t look at him. “I thought I’d try one more time. That carriage was so big, I thought for sure it would hit the one next to it and stop, but it didn’t. I’m glad ...” She swallowed. “I’m glad you were so fast, Owein. I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”
You almost did, he thought, thinking of the storm in the drawing room, but he didn’t voice it. He didn’t think she needed to hear it.
“Thank you,” he offered, taking a step back, giving her space. “For giving me a body.”
She still didn’t look at him. “It wasn’t me. None of this was me.”
“I know. But you’re part of it.”
She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I suppose so.”
She said nothing more, even after a few more difficult minutes. So Owein turned and started for the door. He’d just reached it when Cora said, “Owein?”
He glanced back.
“Can I ... write to you?” She still didn’t look at him. “Not ... now. Not for a while. But I think ... once things are more normal, once I’ve fixed them ... maybe I would like to.”
“Yes,” he answered simply. He didn’t think the response needed embellishment.
She said nothing more, and neither did he. Owein slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind him, and carried his weary body toward the guest bedrooms. Paused and dug deep to find the energy to do a little more.
Taking the stairs down to the sitting room, he found Hulda and Merritt speaking quietly to a red-eyed Lady Helen. Their words cut off when he got close; he no longer had the invisibility of a household pet. Still, Lady Helen gave him a close-lipped smile. “I really am so glad for you, Owein. I can’t wait to see what you grow into.”
He looked from her to Merritt, then back again, unsure whom to ask. “I wanted to talk about the contract.”
Merritt rolled his lips together. It felt like he wanted to say something the others couldn’t hear, but his communion spells only worked on plants and animals, and Owein was neither of those anymore.
“Merritt signed it.” Hulda spoke hesitantly—they had told him this earlier, before he’d reintroduced himself to the Leiningens. Owein understood her confusion.
“I know. But ...” He chose to focus on Lady Helen. “I would like to sign it myself.”
She stood a little straighter. “You would?”
He nodded. “You made a promise to me, and you kept your end.” He ran his hands down his footman’s shirt—it was all they’d had on hand that would fit him, though it was a bit large. “I want to keep my promises, too. I want to sign it.”
He had just over four years to get used to the idea of marrying someone. Strange, thinking about the time. Four years would have gone by very quickly if he still lived within the walls of Whimbrel House, yet it seemed like an eternity now.
The Leiningens had some rough edges, but Owein was learning everyone had rough edges. Granted, some were rougher than others, but even those might smooth out, with enough time and care. They were a nice family. Yet even if they hadn’t been, Owein would have kept his promise. He didn’t need Merritt’s help to do that.
And so, under witness of Lady Helen, Hulda Larkin, Merritt Fernsby, and Mr. Blightree, Owein approached the contract once more. Holding a freshly dipped quill, he wrote his name in shaky, unpracticed letters right under Merritt’s.
In the morning, they sailed back for Rhode Island.