Wizard of Most Wicked Ways (Whimbrel House #4)

Chapter 8

June 16, 1851, Portsmouth, Rhode Island

Hulda had run herself ragged on Sunday with the exercises she’d learned from Professor Griffiths, an augurist in London, some years ago. She’d written a great deal, focused and unfocused, tossed sticks and dice and consulted tea leaves. She’d walked out on the island where Owein prowled and Fallon, Fallon , soared through the air, keeping watch, and found torn pieces of fabric she recognized as Silas Hogwood’s clothing, then brought them inside and repeated her exercises, over and over until her head ached. When her augury kindled, she recorded everything she saw down to the last detail, even when it didn’t seem pertinent. For instance, she saw Hattie throwing food in the dining room, but noted the sun was high when she did it. So she knew there would be a peaceful afternoon in the near future, when the house was still standing and Hattie, at least, was still alive.

After that she had a good cry in the sunroom and got back to work.

She went to bed late, nursing a splitting headache, but with a sliver of confidence. After piecing together subtle clues in her foresight, she determined Whimbrel House would be safe for, at least, the next three days. She’d had two visions of Silas, one that felt nearer and one that felt farther, and while she couldn’t identify exactly where he was or what he was doing, he was in a city both times. Not here. Not on Blaugdone Island.

It didn’t abate the fear.

Merritt stayed in bed all day; Hulda assured it. She also made sure he ate when he was alert, and then drugged him heavily in between, ensuring rest and healing. She tried to focus on the future and not the past, as was her specialty. Still, every time she spied a contusion, she saw him flying through the air again, crumpling up against the house like a sack of onions, his desperate wardship spells turning his bones to eggshells. It was a miracle he wasn’t more broken. A miracle he was alive.

She loved him so fiercely it hurt. A future without him was not a future she could abide.

Still, per his wishes, she did not give him any of the heavier medications on Monday morning. He had insisted on coming to the city with her and the kids, and while Hulda called him a fool, she was inwardly glad for it. She needed him near. As though keeping him near would ensure his protection. As though bad things could only happen if she looked away. Before they left, Baptiste came upstairs and helped him sit up, then bound him even further, ensuring his right arm would not move, nor his left arm above the elbow.

Ultimately, they all went to Portsmouth, including the Babineauxs and Fallon. The Druid woman had avoided Hulda and Merritt, even when Hulda sought her out to question her, and to thank her. Even now she avoided them, maintaining her hawk form and staying perched on Owein’s shoulder—he’d thickened the fabric with an alteration spell so her talons wouldn’t dig into his skin.

“I would be happy to lend you some garments” was all Hulda said. If Fallon replied, Merritt did not translate it. But there were more important matters at hand than Owein’s paramour. Much more important matters.

Owein went straight for the post office with little word. Beth filed her own police report, then offered to take Hattie with them on their errands to lighten Hulda’s load. Hulda graciously took her up on it. She then filled out a police report, as Merritt couldn’t write. She scribed everything as he spoke to the constable, who seemed rather alarmed by their story and the fact that it matched the one Beth had just given. Neither of them held anything back. Yes, they were wizards. Yes, the fight had involved magic. Yes, they believed the attacker to be the necromancer Silas Hogwood in the body of another man.

That last part was slightly more believable when Hulda explained she was the director of BIKER.

To her relief, they were taken seriously. Hulda offered what little she knew of Silas Hogwood’s future whereabouts from her visions. The constabulary had a telegraph, so she sent a brief message to Ohio, where Myra would intercept it.

He is back. Man behind the glass. Assault on island. Need to speak.

At that point Ellis began to cry. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Hulda began rocking her. “I’m going to step outside.” There was a bench near a little park where she could sit and collect herself.

Merritt nodded, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. “We should buy some ammunition.” His tone turned dark. Catching it, he cleared his throat and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be right out.” Pulling his wallet from his pocket, he turned to their oldest daughter. “Mabol, can you count these coins for me?”

Focusing on her breathing, Hulda slipped out of the constabulary as Ellis’s fussing grew more insistent. Patting the babe on the back, she made it to the bench, set down her faithful black bag, and unbuttoned her dress so the babe could eat. She’d need a change after this, which Hulda hated doing in public, but she’d figure out something. Merritt certainly wouldn’t be changing any diapers anytime soon. It was all up to her.

Closing her eyes, Hulda drew in a deep breath to steady herself. We’ve gotten through worse, haven’t we? But she wasn’t sure she believed the sentiment. It was different now. The children made it different. Made it desperate. It took all Hulda had not to let her emotions spiral. She’d always had a knack for objectivity, for logic. Where was that propensity now?

At the very least, from what Hulda understood, Silas Hogwood couldn’t be the same Silas Hogwood she’d known. The wizard with more magic than Queen Victoria herself. She’d done a lot of reading on Silas Hogwood, both during her original assignment to Whimbrel House and after discovering Myra’s illegal experimentation on his body in Ohio. Mr. Hogwood—though he didn’t deserve an honorific, she thought—had a rare mixture of spells that had allowed him to draw magic from another person into himself. Lethal for the victim, yet not permanent for the thief. What had allowed him to keep the magic was a water spell, which he could have gotten only from an enchanted house in England. That spell had allowed him to preserve the bodies of his victims, and in so doing, he’d managed to keep the magic he stole. But souls only clung to the magic they were born with. When Hogwood had died the first time, he’d lost the extra magic.

Meaning he had only what he’d been born with, which was still a great deal. But unless he stumbled upon another house or artifact or nonliving thing with an elemental water spell, he would be unable to preserve any spells he stole. And there were no enchanted homes in North America with water spells, she knew. Hulda tried to find peace in that.

They would need to send word out to Marshfield to confirm, or attempt to confirm, Merritt’s idea about this watchman. Perhaps if they could identify the body Hogwood had stolen, it would help them locate him. If that soul was still in there ... if he could overthrow Hogwood ...

Letting out a long breath, Hulda searched the area around her—the gravel on the road, the weeds growing up around the bench feet, the copse of trees to the north—searching for a pattern that might enlighten her on her situation. Not that these patterns would be of any use to her. They generally needed to be connected to a person for her to see that person’s future. It was simply how divination worked.

As though in ironic pity, Ellis unlatched long enough to spit up, and in that, Hulda’s magic saw the impressive bowel movement the child would be having later that evening. Sighing, Hulda cleaned herself up with a handkerchief, and Ellis suckled away contentedly once more.

Footsteps announced Merritt’s approach. He held a heavy jute sack in his free hand, his face strained with the effort of it. Mabol pattered beside him, her hand clenched on the lip of his trouser pocket. Hulda stood to help him, but Merritt shook his head, winced, and dropped the bag beside the bench.

Hulda’s heart thudded. “Ammunition?”

“Papa got gun food,” Mabol announced.

Hulda rolled her lips together before asking, “Do we need so much?”

With a grunt, Merritt lowered himself beside her. “You tell me.”

Her eyes stung. “I wish I could—”

Regret instantly filled his blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Hulda, I didn’t mean it like that.” He clasped his hand over her knee.

She swallowed. “We’re all a bit ... harrowed.”

“What’s harrowed?” Mabol asked.

“It means dealing with big things,” Hulda explained.

Mabol considered this a moment. “Like Baptiste. He carries big things a lot.”

Merritt laughed, then gritted his teeth, almost, but not quite, stopping a hiss.

Hulda swallowed a sore lump in her throat and clucked her tongue. “We shouldn’t have brought you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dad’s going to eat all the chickens,” Mabol said.

Hulda’s gaze shot to her oldest. “Did you foresee that, or are you fibbing again?”

Mabol frowned and stared at the ground. “Fibbing.” A pause, and then, “I’m just harrowed.”

“We can leave after Owein returns.” Hulda lifted her head, glancing at passersby, terrified she might recognize the haggard man from the island. “Though I’d like to get a few wards.” Hopefully she wouldn’t have to make them herself from the supplies kept at the offices. That would take time, and BIKER wasn’t guarded. Not yet. Perhaps she could send a courier to Sadie and have the secretary deliver some wards to her in another spot. Then again, the office was quite a distance away, and Merritt was in obvious pain. No, she decided, she’d have to purchase them like everyone else. There was a small, antiquated shop that might have something useful not far from here.

She should have given Owein Merritt’s communion stone. She felt like a target, sitting here in public.

Please hurry, Owein, she thought, pushing the desire into the ether as though it were a spell.

They all felt safer with him.

Owein ignored the looks he usually got when he went into the city, thanks to his headful of white hair contrasting with his young face. Though, perhaps they were more entranced by the hawk sitting on his shoulder than anything else. When they arrived at the post office, Fallon flew up to the roof to wait for him—there wasn’t an easy place for her to transform, though in crowds, Fallon usually preferred to be a bird. The people in the cramped building recognized him, but still asked, “Fernsby?” when he walked in. Scents of paper, ink, and coffee wafted over him.

“Please,” he responded. The Fernsbys, Babineauxs, and his one Mansel all shared a box; he needn’t specify he was picking up for all three. He leaned against the sternum-high counter while the worker stepped into the back room to collect the mail, tapping his letter to Cora against the palm of his hand, a small way to burn off the nerves buzzing through him. When the postal worker returned, he set a small stack of letters at Owein’s elbow and held out his hand. “London?”

Owein nodded, handed over the letter, then reached into his trouser pocket for his wallet. “Quick couriering, please.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“I know.” He shelled out the coins. Merritt was generous enough to give him a monthly allowance to supplement his inconsistent work with the millwright. Owein hated being a burden in any sense, however, so he took odd jobs on the mainland when he wasn’t needed on Blaugdone Island—usually farm labor or, on occasion, tutoring. He should contact the millwright and let him know he wouldn’t be in for a while. How long, Owein wasn’t sure, and that made the nerves prick up anew.

Desperate for something to do while the postal worker stamped his missive to Cora, Owein thumbed through the mail. The first was from Scarlet Moore, Merritt’s oldest sister, whom they’d celebrated Easter with. A small smile ticked up the corner of Owein’s mouth; she always addressed her letters to the Fernsbys and Mr. Mansel, including him in the missives. The second was to Merritt Fernsby from his publisher; it felt like a check. The third was an advertisement, the fourth a letter from a Hiram Sutcliffe to Merritt ... Owein knew Merritt’s biological father was a Sutcliffe, but his name wasn’t Hiram. Curious. The fifth—

Owein paused at that one. It was addressed to Hulda, though not by name. Specifically, ATTN Director, Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms . Odd. BIKER mail always went to Providence. Whoever sent this must’ve used the wrong address on file.

“Anything else?” the postal worker asked.

Without looking up, Owein said, “I need to send a telegram to the constable in Marshfield, Massachusetts.” He’d do that on Merritt’s behalf.

“Do you know the name?”

“I don’t.”

The postal worker stepped away, and Owein guiltlessly tore open the letter. He’d been a house eavesdropping on his occupants for over two hundred years. As Benjamin Franklin would say, old habits died hard.

It was brief, on official stationery.

To whom it may concern:

Your grant for the Study of Posthumous Genetics in Wizardry has been awarded. You will need to file the appropriate forms for the third and fourth quarter 1851 with the Congressional Committee for the Continuation of Wizarding, along with your revised proposal for the funds, to formerly accept this grant. Filing must be completed by October 1, 1851. Questions can be fielded through your contact for previous years.

Sincerely,

R. A. Statton

Foundation for Education in Wizardry

Interesting.

Owein knew Hulda had her hands in some interesting scientific ventures when it came to wizarding; he’d offered assistance at BIKER multiple times over the years, and no safe or locked drawer could keep him out if he wanted to see what was in. Hulda was very careful, however, and the few pieces of evidence he’d found about her research were vague, just like this one. He knew she had a laboratory somewhere that wasn’t in Boston or Providence, but he didn’t know where. He also knew it had something to do with synthesizing magic.

Hulda did not know he knew, and he never asked after it.

The postal worker came back with paper and a pen. Owein returned the letter to its envelope and, with a flicker of restore order, resealed it. He wrote down his telegram to Marshfield, keeping it brief, asking about any follow-up reports regarding the incident that happened with Silas Hogwood nearly five years ago. It was likely a dead end—Myra Haigh had cleaned up so thoroughly after the incident the constable likely wouldn’t know what he was talking about. But he had to try. Try, hope, and wait.

Owein reunited with the Fernsbys just down the street from the constable’s office, where Merritt was tossing pebbles into a gopher hole with Mabol and Hulda had Ellis on her shoulder, patting her back. Owein handed the stack of letters to Hulda before saying, “I sent the telegram to Marshfield.”

Hulda sighed. “Thank you.” Balancing Ellis in the crook of her elbow, Hulda thumbed through the letters. Owein knew when she’d found the one for BIKER because practiced apathy stole her expression, and she slid it into the black bag she carried everywhere with her. Then her eyebrows rose at the next one. “Merritt, do you know a Hiram Sutcliffe?”

Merritt, about to throw a pebble, stilled. “I do, why?”

She held out the letter to him.

Mabol pouted as Merritt crossed the distance between them and accepted the letter, opening it without checking the address. It looked short, and he read it quickly.

“He’s my brother.” Merritt passed the folded parchment to Hulda. “Half brother. Apparently he was a late bloomer like me. Wardship.”

Curious, Owein stepped behind the bench so he could read over Hulda’s shoulder. It was, indeed, brief. Hiram claimed he’d been struggling with the same spell Merritt had, and when the struggle had come up with his father—Merritt’s biological father—he’d gotten the truth, along with Merritt’s Portsmouth address. He was asking for help.

Owein did not envy him.

“Will you?” Hulda asked. Help, she meant.

“Of course.” He winced, accidentally pulling on his bandages. “I’ll send a telegram and invite him to the house.”

“I’ll send a telegram,” Owein interjected. “You can’t even stand without hurting yourself.”

Hulda folded the letter back up. “Is that safe?”

“I can hardly travel.” He sighed and looked at Owein. “Mention there’s been an assault. If Hiram wants to wait, he can wait. And thank you, Owein.”

Owein nodded.

Hulda straightened. “Merritt, I wonder if that’s who I saw in my vision. There was something familiar about the man. Familiar facial features— your features. It would make sense if it were a relation.”

“He comes, then.” Merritt’s tone was optimistic, but the heaviness of worry still hung overhead, unspoken.

“Let’s get some wards and meet up with Beth”—Hulda stood and resituated Ellis in her sling—“and send Owein or Baptiste for other supplies. You need to ... not move.”

A low grumble was Merritt’s only protest. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” She stood. “Mabol, darling, walk with me.”

Mabol frowned. “I want to be carried.”

Hulda frowned. Glanced at Owein, who nodded. “If you go with your uncle, you can be.”

This seemed to satisfy the child, for she dropped her pebbles back to the road and hurriedly crossed to Owein. He crouched down, letting her climb on.

“My knees used to be able to do that,” Merritt said wistfully.

Owein smiled and headed back for the post office, scanning the road for a man with a white-patched beard the entire way.

Three days ago, Owein would have insisted he was good at waiting. He’d spent, literally, hundreds of years waiting. Patience was his grandest virtue. And yet this sort of waiting made his skin prickle and palms sweat. Gave his legs too much energy. Sitting in that damn boat on the way back to Whimbrel House nearly killed him. Pacing now, on the island, didn’t settle him. There was a difference between waiting in the bones of a house, wondering if any person, or even an animal, might trespass and amuse him, and sitting vulnerable on a detached piece of floating earth, wondering if a nightmare returned to life was going to try a second time to murder everyone he loved.

He was aware islands didn’t actually float. But he wasn’t as good at metaphors as Merritt was.

Fallon, human, in her linen dress, watched him, chewing her lip. He hadn’t noticed when she’d transformed, only noted her presence, still and serene, contrasting his nervous stomping as he widened the already existent trails through the flora. She let him pace back and forth like that for ... long enough that the sun dipped into the horizon. Owein had a hard time comprehending the passage of time today.

He owed her an explanation, another apology, and a long talk, but his mind was so tangled up in Silas Hogwood he struggled to focus on anything else.

“We’ll keep watch,” she offered. She could see over the entire bay when she got high enough. As she’d reminded him again, and again, and again.

Finally, Owein slowed. Rubbed his eyes. “You should get some rest. You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re tired.” It wasn’t a question. Fallon had been scouting even more than he had, something he was both grateful for and ashamed of. If anyone needed a break, she did. She opened her mouth to say something else, then paused, looking past his shoulder. “Who is that?”

Owein turned, seeing a boat nearing the island. He stiffened.

Fallon offered, “I can transform—”

The boat carried two occupants. Owein stalled her with a hand. “Watchmen. Those are watchmen, from Portsmouth. I’ll get Merritt.”

“I can—”

“Fallon.” He stepped toward her. Cradled either side of her face. “Please sleep. That way at least one of us will be alert tonight.”

Her expression softened. “Or, since there are watchmen and the sun is still up, we can both rest and both be useful later.”

Sighing, he forced his shoulders to relax. The muscles around them felt like horseshoes. Fallon noticed, for she pushed his hands away and dug her fingertips into them. Owein winced, then groaned, then yawned.

She had a point.

“I’ll get Merritt.”

“Then come with me.” She ground out a knot. “I won’t ... I won’t try anything, again.”

Owein’s shoulders slumped. “Fallon, it’s not that I don’t want ...” He ran a hand back through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

“I know.” She smiled at him, or perhaps at his unfinished words that, admittedly, held a masked sort of promise. She kissed him on the cheek. “I know.”

He looked from her, to the watchmen, to the house. Let go of the shoulds and maybes for a moment and allowed his spine to relax. “As long as we can see the house. I know a good spot.”

She released him, and he jogged to the house, though Merritt was already coming out onto the porch, having seen the incoming vessel himself. After speaking with him and ensuring the others didn’t need him, Owein led Fallon to a weeping cherry sprouting from soft loam, not far from the dock.

It was surprisingly easy to fall asleep in her arms.