Chapter 3
June 14, 1851, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Owein stretched when he woke, his feet pressing against the edge of his narrow bedframe. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, then checked the room for Fallon. He wouldn’t put it past her to be waiting in his room this morning, but a quick glance assured him he was alone. The ajar window let in cool morning air, reminding him he ought to take advantage of it before it got hot. He slipped from his bed and straightened the blankets and pillow, then stripped from his nightshirt and folded it, setting it on the end of the bed. Hulda often praised him for how tidy he’d become; in truth, he’d learned the habit because he hated the idea of Beth cleaning up after him. From his armoire he pulled out a pair of clean drawers, a loose button-up shirt, and brown trousers. His trousers had patches on both knees, though the fabric nearly matched and the mend wasn’t conspicuous. After dressing, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and tucked in the rest of the shirt before grabbing his suspenders and buttoning them into place. He washed his hands in the basin on the little side table he’d built, then ran wet fingers back through his white hair, which was getting a little long in the front and had started to fall into his eyes. Quick use of a comb got it out of the way for now.
He noticed new lessons on his desk, left there by Hulda. Algebra sat on top, so Owein grabbed a pencil—sharpened it with a quick spell—and filled in the ends of the equations. Pulled it aside to find several pages of new etiquette notes, with diagrams. Sighing, he folded the bunch together and stuck it in his back pocket. Brushed his teeth and stomped on his shoes, then clogged down the stairs to the kitchen.
The scents of bacon, eggs, and fresh bread announced Baptiste’s presence before Owein actually saw him, but other than the chef, Owein appeared to be the first to rise. Merritt and the girls tended to sleep in, but Hulda usually rose with the sun. She must have stayed up late last night. It was a Saturday, so she shouldn’t need to go to Providence today. Hulda had formally moved the headquarters for the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms two and a half years ago, but while Providence, Rhode Island, was closer to home than Boston had been, it still made for a bit of a trip, and despite its new location, this office was still referred to as the Boston Institute.
“ Bonjour, Baptiste .” Owein grabbed a plate and helped himself. “ Merci beaucoup. ”
The chef took a knife and gingerly sliced the bread. “Your accent is getting better.”
“Is it?”
“I understand you now.” He laughed.
Owein rolled his eyes and accepted the warm slice of bread. He knew only simple, conversational French, but Hulda insisted the skill would help him once he moved to London. Once upon a time, he’d known simple, conversational Welsh as well, but the years had stripped it from his memory.
“You should come with me, when I leave.” Owein buttered his bread on the counter instead of going into the breakfast room. He didn’t feel like dallying, and the sun rose higher with each passing minute. “Be my translator in case Lady Helen sits me near a French emissary.”
“Ho! Maybe. I will talk to the mademoiselle first. We will not tell Mr. Fernsby.” He winked.
Owein smiled and pulled up a stool, eating while Baptiste set the rest of the food in the breakfast room, then pulled off his apron and made a plate for himself. They chatted about their plans for the day, which weren’t anything noteworthy. Then Owein washed his plate, returned it to the cupboard, and slipped outside.
Aster and Ash greeted him with the kind of enthusiasm only dogs could muster, jumping up and licking his trousers. In the back of Owein’s mind, he remembered the strong, vibrant smells of the island from when he’d had a nose like theirs. Owein curled his tongue and whistled, and the dogs followed him. He grabbed the first stick the island offered him, then threw it as hard as he could. The terriers took off after it. Ash got to it first and bounded back fast enough the air flapped his lips. Aster kept pace, nipping at him the whole time. A gesture commanded Ash to sit, and Owein threw the stick again, letting Aster go after it. He then located one of the dogs’ tug knots and threw that in the other direction, which fully occupied Ash’s attention.
In the small shed behind the chicken coop, Owein grabbed his tool belt and strung it over his hips, checking everything he needed was there before heading to the garden. Aster returned her stick, and he threw it again.
By the time he crouched at the rows of carrots and began pulling out the budding weeds, Fallon showed up in her dog form. She pressed her nose to his shoulder before taking off with Ash, grabbing the other end of the tug knot and pulling the terrier away from the garden. The mutt had a habit of trampling plants, so Owein appreciated the distraction. He heard Mabol shout something inside the house as he worked, occasionally pulling out a weeding fork to work up thorny intruders.
Fallon returned, this time carrying a sun hat in her mouth. Owein took it and plopped it on his head. “Thanks.” It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but the sun already beat down, preparing the island for the power of summer. “You’re welcome to talk to me.”
Fallon glanced toward the house.
“I promise they won’t care.” He wore out the phrase with how much he used it. “What are they going to do, throw you in the ocean?”
Fallon let out a soft whine. While she imitated canines well, dog-Fallon had a language all her own. This whine sounded sarcastic.
Lowering his weeding fork, Owein lifted a hand and ran his knuckle beneath Fallon’s chin. “They won’t care. Aren’t you tired of hiding?”
She huffed at him.
“Besides”—he returned to his work—“I’m pretty sure you could best Hulda in a fistfight if it came down to it.”
Another huff, a dog chortle, really, and Fallon resumed distracting Ash from the garden.
Once Owein finished with the weeds, he headed north. He tried to visit his family’s graves once a week. He’d already carefully recarved their names into their headstones, including his own. It used to be surreal, visiting the small rock inscribed Owein Mansel , but he’d gotten used to it over the years. Kneeling, he pulled back climbing morning glory and took shears to the surrounding grass, trimming it neatly. He could have used magic for it, but side effects aside, it felt more personal to do it by hand. To care for those who’d once cared for him, though, as with his Welsh, his memories of them had faded more than he liked to admit.
“Memory’s such an interesting thing,” he said offhandedly as Fallon perched nearby. “I still have my memories. A few from when I was him”—he gestured to the gravestone—“the ones of the house. I still remember meeting Merritt for the first time. I remember everything as the dog.” The terrier had met its end in England, but he brought his body back to the States with him. It had taken a moment to track it down, and Blightree, the necromancer who’d moved him into this body, had tried to convince him it was unnecessary. But he’d brought it home, whereupon he’d washed and wrapped it and buried it at the end of the row of graves, with a flat stone Owein had chiseled himself simply reading, A Good Dog . “But I don’t have any of Oliver Whittock’s memories. I have his body, his brain , but I don’t know what he knew. I don’t know his family, his interests, his favorite color.” He’d wondered so many things about the boy over the years, but no one in the States had known him. Even Cora had only known him distantly. He met Fallon’s moss-colored eyes, which maintained their color across all her forms. “So memory isn’t stored in the flesh.” He stood, leaning back so his spine could bend the other way for a moment. “Memory is like magic, in that sense. Are you hungry?”
Fallon shook her head, so Owein walked to the Babineaux house. Somewhere between the graves and the house, Fallon took off again, so it was just him when he passed the front window, catching Beth’s eye as he did. She smiled at him, so when he reached the door, he didn’t bother knocking.
“Morning,” he called, tapping dirt off his shoes at the entry as Beth set her son, Henri, in a chair, tying a belt around him and the chair’s back to keep him from falling. She had some overcooked porridge mashed into a bowl, and she spoon-fed it to him.
“Morning,” she replied. “Are the others getting a late start?”
Translation: Would Baptiste be a while?
“He’s on his way,” he said.
She fed Henri another portion. “Would you do me a favor? There’s a step that’s creaking, fourth from the top.”
“On it.” Owein headed for the narrow set of stairs that led up to the bedroom, the only room on the second floor. Beth had left a hammer and nails on the landing, and Owein grabbed the hammer and pocketed a few nails. He found a nail sticking out of one step and smashed it back in with the hammer, then found the creaky step in question. He hammered a new nail into the edge, which helped, but it still creaked when he put his weight on it. So, placing his hand on the stair, he altered it to fit flush with its neighbors. When he pulled back his fingers, the step looked brand new, built by a master carpenter. Owein ignored the tightness on the side of his head, his ear having shrunk in protest of the alteration spell.
Returning to Beth, he asked, “Anything else you need? Garden?”
She smiled at him. “I’m planning on doing the garden today. Henri wants to run around. Don’t you?” She tapped the little boy’s nose with her finger. Fed him another spoonful. Without looking over, she said, “You’re uneasy today.”
Beth was clairvoyant, and though she possessed even less magic than Hulda did, she always read him well. “I’m always uneasy,” he replied. And he was. His new future loomed ahead of him, and he didn’t know what it would entail. If Cora chose another magically suitable suitor, it would excuse Owein from his duties. But she had never suggested she’d been looking for one, and he’d never asked. The idea put a hard ball in his gut, and he was never exactly sure why. If she did choose someone else, freeing Owein from any tie to her and her family ... well, Owein had been talking to a millwright in North Kingstown about an apprenticeship. He’d gone over there several times to work, though he’d need to move to complete a true apprenticeship. Despite being a notable wizard, and despite Hulda’s intense education plan and his love for reading, Owein preferred working with his hands. He had no desire to flaunt his abilities or attend a university. Constructing mill machinery appealed to him. But he couldn’t commit to the apprenticeship until he knew Cora’s choice.
If Cora chose him, his future would be very different from the present he knew. He’d leave the States for England. Join the nobility and the Queen’s League of Magicians. And he and Cora would get married. Marriage. They’d have children! The queen, and the Leiningens, wanted children from him. That was the whole point of the contract—feeding his magic into their already-saturated lines.
Owein looked at Henri. He loved the boy, but he couldn’t imagine having one of his own so soon. So soon.
And if that didn’t add enough pressure, the more Owein learned of the aristocracy, the less he cared for it. Everything Hulda drilled into him, everything he studied on papers like the ones shoved into his back pocket, were so fundamentally different from life on the island. Different in ways he frankly didn’t care for.
He let out a long breath. “I’m fine.”
“You will be.” Beth sat up straighter and met his gaze. “You’ve always handled everything that’s come your way. You’ll do well.”
“Perhaps.” Movement outside the window caught his attention—Fallon, a woman again, wearing her linen dress. The breeze caught her hair as she slipped into a copse of willows and out of sight.
“Believe in yourself, Owein.” Beth pointed the spoon at him. “Half of success is believing you’ll be successful. The other half is remembering to visit on Christmas.”
Owein chuckled. “Of course. Holler if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
Owein swept through the small house, exiting through the back door closer to the willows. A cluster of crickets greeted him as he passed. He ducked under the first curtain of leafy branches, then the second. This copse was stunning earlier in the spring when the willows were in bloom, but the catkins had since dried up and fallen, leaving behind thick foliage and whiplike branches that flowed in the late-spring breeze, creating a world all its own on the island. It was a wonder no one else had ever settled here, magical as it was.
He was about to pass out of the copse when the papers in his back pocket flew from his trousers. He turned as Fallon danced backward, a smile on her face, unfolding them. She started to read.
“You won’t like it,” Owein warned.
“Women enter carriages first and always face forward?” she asked incredulously, raising a fine eyebrow at him. “Really?”
He shrugged. He hadn’t had a chance to look over it yet.
She started to stroll, walking in a circle around him, picking through the sheaf. “I didn’t realize you could only tip your hat to certain persons. How utterly rude it would be for you to be friendly toward a lowly peasant.”
“Huh.” That one did seem odd.
She shuffled the papers, then turned one toward him. The picture was a diagram of a table arrangement. “I will never understand this. How many forks does a person need?” She turned it back toward her and read on. “Why can’t the women enjoy some port?”
“Don’t ask me.” He reached forward, but she pranced away again, keeping the papers from his grip. After a beat, she said, “Did you know there are assigned seats at the table? Depending on where you are, who you are, and who the guests are?”
“I did, actually.” He’d witnessed that firsthand, though during his last and only stay in London, he’d still been a dog, and his place had always been in the corner, not at the table.
She huffed and folded the papers together. “This is ridiculous.”
“It is.”
“Just do what you want.” She handed the papers back. “What are they going to say about it? Their fault for involving themselves with a free man who has a spine.”
“There are rules for things, Fallon,” he explained, patient, watching the way her bare feet stepped through the wild growth like a deer’s, never faltering. She made him think of Greek folklore, the stories of the nymphs.
“Druids don’t need rules for things,” she countered. She acted a little strangely, in a way Owein couldn’t put his finger on, but he went along with it, anyway.
“I am not a Druid, and neither are they,” he pointed out, turning to face her, even as she continued her circle around him. “And Druids do have rules. Everyone has rules. Not quite as ... bizarre ... as these, but there are rules, always.”
Fallon shook her head, ceasing her circle. “I always do what I want.”
He folded his arms. “Not always.”
“Yes, always,” she countered, stepping toward him. “I come and go as I please. I fly and go and attend without any tickets or receipts.”
“You hide your face from my family.”
She faltered, but only for a second. “Because I choose to.”
“And you can’t harvest almonds in the winter, no matter how much you want to,” Owein countered.
“Rules of nature do not apply.”
“You can’t steal bread in the market.”
“I can .” She stepped closer. “I just choose not to .” She looked him over, almost like she was seeing him after a long time away. Softer, she repeated, “I always do what I want. It’s about time I just did what I wanted.”
“Fallon—”
With one hand she grabbed his collar, startling him, and with her lips she silenced whatever he’d been about to say. Owein couldn’t remember the words half-formed on his tongue; the moment her soft, warm lips touched his, thought fled him entirely. His heart thudded against his chest, and his arms lost their strength. The sheaf of papers fell from his hands.
It was a brief kiss; she released him only a moment after seizing him. Owein’s blood whistled through his veins as she gave him a smug look, like she’d just won a game he hadn’t known they were playing. A blush darkened her cheeks, but if she knew it, she acted as though she didn’t. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she said, “See? Always.”
She stepped away from him, toward the heart of the copse, but Owein grasped her wrist. Thought still hadn’t returned to him. Which was probably why he pulled her back and crushed her mouth back to his, kissing her with a primal urgency that shocked him.
If he’d surprised her, she didn’t show it. Her hands swept possessively into his hair, pulling him closer. She smelled like the island, like the ocean and iris and green , like the woods at dawn and clouds just after a storm. Gradually, Owein released her wrist and traced the length of her soft cheek, the skin so perfect and unblemished.
He didn’t know who pulled away first. Maybe Fallon—maybe she could read him the way Beth did and knew it was his first, and that he was uneasy, and that he feared this yearning inside him as much as he craved it. They broke apart, but Fallon didn’t move; their bodies were near flush together when she grinned and said, “I’ll make a Druid of you yet, Owein Mansel.”
That broke the spell.
Her voice cut through his delirium, the mention of Druids returning his thoughts to their conversation about rules and England and the aristocracy—
Owein stepped back, knees stiff. “I’m sorry.” The syllables dribbled over his lips. “Fallon, I’m so sorry—”
Dark brows drawing together, Fallon asked, “For what?”
But Owein shook his head. Wiped a hand down his face and took another step back. His heart thudded too hard in his chest, each beat driving him toward Fallon, while in the quiet spaces between, he heard the echo of Cora . Fallon might as well have heard it, too, for the way her countenance fell.
She knew, but he said it anyway, erecting it like a wardship wall between them. “I’m betrothed, Fallon.”
Fallon shook her head. “That doesn’t matter.”
He put another step between them. “But she does, Fallon. I’m so sorry. I—” He didn’t know what else to say. He was so seldom caught off guard like this. He didn’t know how to handle it.
So with another muttered apology, he turned away and left the copse.
Fallon didn’t follow him. For better or for worse, she didn’t follow. But when Owein took refuge in Beth’s home, heart still thumping, he saw her across the green, bounding away in her dog’s body.
Sometimes Owein wondered if Beth knew Fallon was different, if she could sense her in a way she couldn’t with Aster and Ash. Beth’s clairvoyancy worked on people, not on animals, so by all means, she would be able to read things about Fallon. But if she knew Fallon was more than just another, less-constant, pet, she never said anything about it, and Owein didn’t bring it up. Fallon’s secrets were Fallon’s. And his secrets were his. And now he had an entirely new one weighing on his chest.
He let out a long breath at the thought as he slumped down into a plush chair near the front window, glancing out at the fat clouds rolling over the bay, brimming with shadows—another storm on its way. He could hear the deep timbre of Baptiste’s voice upstairs; he’d probably head back to Whimbrel House within the hour to start dinner. Owein focused on taking deep breaths to bring his heart rate down, as though doing so would mask him from the clairvoyant one room over.
He shouldn’t have done it. Kissed Fallon. She shouldn’t have kissed him. He’d been drawn to her since before he’d turned human again, but he’d never explored anything with her for the very reason he’d given: Cora. He’d signed his name to a contract. But it’d been four years ago, and Cora and England and that contract seemed so very far away, like a vivid dream he’d once had, and every passing day, he forgot another detail of it. He had her in letters, and he cherished those letters, but Fallon ...
Knees on his elbows, Owein dropped his head into his hands, shutting his eyes and closing himself off from the world. Unfortunately, when he did this, his mind painted the hurt expression on Fallon’s face on the back of his eyelids.
He’d always felt a kinship with her, from the very moment he met her in the woods outside Cyprus Hall. There was something refreshing about her disregarding the rules of society, however much Owein argued otherwise. Her nonchalance was contagious. No drama, no politics, no etiquette . Simply Fallon. She was a bird—literally—without a cage.
Cora ... she was very much caged.
Not a cage of her choosing, obviously. No one chose those kinds of restrictions for themselves. She was no longer Victoria’s ward, but her father was a German prince and her mother, the daughter of a marquess. In the vast scale of British nobility—which Owein still couldn’t keep straight—she was a heavyweight, which meant she was leashed by the rules of the aristocracy. The very rules Hulda had been pushing so hard for him to learn.
But Cora was also honest and earnest. He understood now how desperate she must have felt when they first met, because causing harm of any kind contradicted her character. She was good; that much came through in her letters. She was accomplished, well educated, and a lover of books, just like Owein. Fallon could read, but she didn’t delight in reading. She preferred to experience the world as it was, not as it was written.
The two women couldn’t be more different. They even looked different. Fallon was long and lithe and dark, and from what Owein recalled, Cora was pale and small, though, he supposed, her hair was dark.
Cora had been assigned to him. And Fallon ... Fallon had chosen him.
Owein pinched the bridge of his nose and opened his eyes. A gust of wind from the growing storm rattled the window behind him. Storms didn’t frighten Fallon; she basked in them.
He wanted to bask in it, too.
He stood and headed toward the door, but before he lifted his hand to the knob, he heard Baptiste say, “ ?a va mon amour? ”
Owein turned around, spying Beth halfway down the stairs, Henri balanced on her hip, Baptiste following her. She’d paused there, hand on the railing, searching inwardly. After a few seconds, she came downstairs. Owein was sure she’d sensed his feelings and would ask about them, and like in the copse, he didn’t know what he’d say. Yet her eyes weren’t drawn to him, but toward the window Owein had been sitting beside.
“An uneasy feeling just now,” she murmured, searching. Owein followed her gaze but saw only the island and the storm.
Baptiste came up behind her and placed a large hand on her small shoulder. “Perhaps it is a bad storm.”
But Beth shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She frowned. Shifted Henri higher on her hip. Her grip on the boy tightened, and suddenly Beth’s trepidation became Owein’s.
“What does it feel like?” he asked.
She worked her lips, as if trying to form her thoughts into something coherent, and failing. “Something is out there. Something ... bad.”
Baptiste pulled back. “I will go.”
“Let me.”
Both Babineauxs turned toward Owein, who still watched the reeds and willows dance in the wind. Baptiste was physically stronger, yes, but—
“We both know I’m the better choice” was all he said. All he needed to say. Finally pulling his eyes away, he met Baptiste’s gaze.
Baptiste frowned but nodded. “Let us know what you see.”
Owein opened the door. The wind pushed on it, nearly sending it into the wall behind, but Owein’s grip held, and he stepped onto the short porch, closing it behind him.
He hadn’t gotten very far when a dark canine trotted up to him. Ash, Aster, and Fallon all looked remarkably similar, but he knew Fallon instantly. She hadn’t run from him, only waited. Something about the fact soothed him, despite his rising anxiety about Beth’s words.
“Beth sensed something off,” he explained, grateful to have something else to focus on. “She doesn’t do that often.” He followed the trail between the two homes, Fallon trotting beside him. “I can’t think of the last time she did that.” He considered. “Stay a dog. You have more bite in this form than the others. Just in case.”
The quickening breeze tousled his hair, first out of his eyes, then into them. Owein scanned the island slowly, north to south, south to north, occasionally checking over his shoulder. The oncoming storm had silenced the wildlife, making his search feel more ominous.
“Maybe it is just a bad storm,” he muttered to himself, though he found little comfort in it.
He walked and walked, searching. Peering through the trees, listening to the wind. The storm completely blocked the sun now, casting everything in shades of gray. And—
Boat.
Off to his left, Owein could just barely make out a small two-passenger boat on the shore, not unlike the little skiff they still used if the larger dory was already out. Two oars lay across it—it was the oars that had caught his attention first—both their vessels were kinetically enchanted. Not near the dock. The dock had been built in a convenient spot for anyone coming to the island from the north; Blaugdone was too out of the way for visitors from the south. So why hadn’t this person used the dock?
Who would need to come here, anyway? Sadie Steverus and Myra Haigh used hired boats on their infrequent visits. Could this be the man Hulda had foreseen?
Owein’s stride quickened. He stepped off the trail, searching, holding his hair back to keep his vision clear. A minute later, Fallon growled. Owein turned and spied a man thirty paces away, wearing a dark hat and a dark cloak. Pulse racing, Owein approached cautiously, keeping his eyes glued to the newcomer, who had his face pointed toward Whimbrel House.
“Hey!” he called, ten paces closer. “Who goes there?”
The man’s head turned slightly. Owein didn’t recognize him. He was a white man who looked to be in his late forties, with a large nose and gaunt face. Tall but startlingly slender. Wind swept through the dark hair at the nape of his neck, matching the dark stubble splotching his face.
Owein stopped at fifteen paces. Put out his hand to make Fallon stop behind him. “What business have you here?”
The man regarded Owein coolly before walking toward Whimbrel House.
“Hey!” Owein ran now, stepping onto the trail leading to his home, blocking the stranger. “Who are—”
A gale whipped between them, stealing his words and the stranger’s bowler hat, tossing it into the air and toward the wild corydalis. Owein froze, taking in the odd state of the man’s hair. Not that it was unwashed and heavy, which it was, but the color. Not just black, like the cloak, but white, too. White in random streaks and patches all over his scalp, not characteristic of the patterns of aging.
White patches like his dog’s body had grown, when he and the canine had shared it.
A low growl emanated from Fallon’s throat. Owein stepped in front of her, blocking her from the newcomer.
“Who are you?” Owein demanded, magic prickling in his fingertips. The wind fluttered the man’s cloak, showing his clothes beneath—tattered and patched, loose. The clothing of a poor man. A beggar.
The man took another step forward, and the wind pressed against his back, sending his scent in Owein’s direction. He caught the smell like he would have as a dog; he’d remained sensitive to scents after his life as a terrier. This odor wafted strong and sour, smelling of leather and unwashed body, but he detected something else in it. Something incredibly familiar that Owein’s nose recognized before his mind did. Something very much etched in his memory, because it was the first thing Owein had ever smelled as a dog. He’d been so disoriented, his spirit sucked from Whimbrel House and shoved into a new body, a body that could feel and fear and smell .
Blood withdrew from his limbs, sending chills across his skin. His mouth went dry. “Fallon,” he whispered. “Get help. Now. ”
She hesitated only a second before bolting for Whimbrel House.
It couldn’t be. It wasn’t him —Owein was looking right into his face. The face of a stranger. But the white hair ... and it smelled like him.
This man smelled like Silas Hogwood.