Chapter 9
June 18, 1851, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
“Like this,” Owein said to Mabol in the wild grass not far from the northeast coast of Blaugdone Island, the June sun hot against his shirt and hair. Though the watchmen had begun patrolling the bay two days ago, he, Fallon, and the others kept their own watch, and everyone felt the heaviness of lack of sleep mixed with simmering anxiety. It was only two o’clock now, cheery and sunny, which certainly didn’t seem conducive to another attack. That was, perhaps, one of the reasons Owein found himself able to teach the art of hair braiding to his nine-greats-niece.
He demonstrated on Fallon, finger-combing her long black hair toward him, enjoying the way the thick strands felt in his hands. Fallon liked people playing with her hair, basking in the tug and tickle on her scalp. He’d done it before countless times, but today it felt different. Today it made him think of the greenery of her scent and the softness of her lips under his, and how much harder it had become to ignore his feelings now that he’d shown his hand. Hulda had gotten her a longer dress, still simple in design, which Fallon currently wore, though she’d torn off its sleeves, insisting it was nonsense to wear sleeves in the summer, and they made her alteration magic harder.
She had a point, Owein thought, although he could tell Hulda silently struggled with the fashion faux pas.
“ Oh, ” Mabol said, for the third time, and regathered the fine yarn locks on the doll supported between her knees. She pinched them into three uneven hanks and clumsily twisted them together.
“How do you even know how to braid hair?” Fallon asked softly, twisting the head of a dandelion between her fingers.
Owein thought for a moment. How did he know? “I had a lot of sisters,” he answered. Something he and Merritt had in common, he supposed.
Oliver had sisters. He’d learned that much from Cora. Had he known how to braid hair, too?
Owein plaited Fallon’s hair down to its ends, then knotted a long piece of grass around it to hold it in place.
“She’s beautiful,” Mabol announced.
“She is,” Owein murmured, earning himself an approving glance from Fallon, only for him to realize Mabol had been referring to her doll, which she held up triumphantly. The mess of yarn did somewhat resemble a braid.
“Very good,” Owein offered.
Fallon stood up suddenly, squinting over the bay, one hand blocking out the sun. “Watchmen?”
Owein stood as well and peered out. A boat was sailing in. A larger one. Too far out to recognize. Definitely headed toward them.
“I’ll check.” Fallon leaned back against Owein, a silent request for him to undo the line of buttons down her back. It was a good thing Hulda was away at BIKER during the days—she’d hate this, too.
Owein’s fingers moved quickly, parting her dress to reveal a V of dark, smooth skin. He hadn’t quite finished when that skin mottled in color and lifted into feathers. Within seconds, the hawk shed its garments and hobbled forward, joints of both legs and one wing twisted from the effect of alteration magic.
Mabol clapped her hands. “I want to fly!”
“If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to talk to birds one day.” Owein scooped her and Fallon’s dress up in his arms and pulled them toward the house. “But that will be the extent of it.”
Magic often revealed itself in a person around puberty, but not always. Mabol had already shown some accuracy in predicting the future, as she had with Merritt at the breakfast table not long ago.
A minute later, Fallon took to the air, recovered. Owein tugged a giggling Mabol over his shoulder and situated her on his back as he watched the bird grow smaller and smaller in the sky.
The front door of Whimbrel House opened. “Who is it?” Merritt called, arm still tight in its sling. When Owein glanced back, Merritt added, “Winkers told me.”
If only that mourning dove could be trained to scout the way Fallon did. “Larger boat headed this way. Fallon is investigating.”
“Mabol, will you see if Beth needs help with the laundry?” Merritt suggested.
Owein let the girl slide down to her feet. Clutching her doll, she diligently marched inside while the two men waited.
Fallon glided back into view minutes later. Owein rolled up his sleeve a few times before outstretching his arm. She landed on the folded cuff, her talons only just poking into his skin, instead of flaying it open. No matter how gentle she tried to be, a hawk’s talons dug into his skin, sharp as knives.
Merritt tilted his head a moment before his expression slackened. “Englishmen?”
Owein wished he could hear Fallon’s thoughts in this form, but Merritt’s communion spells had come into the family line after Owein had entered it. “Silas?”
The hawk shook her head.
“Four of them.” Merritt headed toward the dock, clasping Owein’s shoulder with his usable hand as he went. “Let’s see what they want.”
They took the trail quickly, then watched as the boat, free of kinetic charms, it seemed, drew closer. Sure enough, there were four people there, one older, three close to Hulda’s age.
Grasping the railing, Owein leaned out, searching, then paused. “Is that ... Blightree?” William Blightree, the queen’s necromancer, was the man who’d pulled Owein’s spirit first from the crushed body of a dog, then from Merritt’s body, and into his current body, previously occupied by Blightree’s own nephew, Oliver Whittock.
Merritt shaded his face. “I ... I think it might be.”
They stepped back as the men docked; Fallon flapped off Owein’s arm, snatched her dress, and flew into the nearest copse of trees.
“Mr. Blightree.” Merritt nodded. “You’re unexpected. I’d offer you a hand, but I don’t have one to spare.”
“I see that.” The necromancer stood, his knees a little shaky, either from age or the journey there. Owein noted the other three in the boat—the first was a tall man with short light-brown hair and a rectangular face who looked to be about forty. He smelled like pipe smoke. The second was a woman, perhaps in her late forties, judging by the streaks of gray running through her brown hair and the lines around her eyes. The third, a broad-shouldered man with shoulder-length chestnut hair and a crooked nose. All three wore blue coats. If he remembered correctly, the insignia on their breasts was that of the Queen’s League of Magicians. Owein reached forward to grasp Blightree’s hand as the broad-shouldered man in the boat steadied him. He pulled the necromancer up, then stepped back to give the new arrivals space.
Blightree’s gaze lingered on Owein, taking in his patched work pants and loose shirt, one sleeve still cuffed. He smiled, though sadness weighed down the heavy lids of his eyes. “It’s good to see you, Owein.”
Owein nodded. “But why are you here?”
“It’s good to see you, too,” Merritt interjected, almost as though in correction. “Do you need anything to drink?”
Owein side-eyed him. “I think questioning the sudden appearance of four wizards from Victoria’s court is a little more pressing than hosting duties.”
Blightree chuckled. “He’s right, of course.” As the other three stepped from the boat, Blightree introduced them. “This is Lord Loren Pankhurst, Mrs. Viola Mirren, and Mr. John Mackenzie, of the Queen’s League, as you guessed.” His tone sobered. “We’re here on command of the queen herself. To apprehend my unfortunate cousin, Silas Hogwood.”
Fallon joined them in the house, first arranging pillows on a chair so Merritt could sit comfortably, then turning out another chair for Blightree to sit in. She ignored the other three guests and joined Beth in the kitchen to help with the tea service, which Beth only did when they had guests, especially unexpected ones. It left Owein unsure of what to do with himself, and he ended up hovering between the living room and the reception hall, eager and anxious, not far from one of the red-bagged wards Hulda had hung up, whatever good they might do. Give them a split second’s warning before Silas murdered them in their sleep, perhaps, but Owein didn’t voice the thought. Blightree had apologized for not alerting them beforehand, a decision they’d made both because they traveled faster than a missive would, and so as not to tip off Silas Hogwood, should the man still be lurking around.
Anything else they didn’t know, Merritt updated them on.
Fallon returned and took the farthest chair, though there was plenty of space beside Mrs. Mirren on the sofa. Fallon didn’t love the English, and she didn’t mind if they knew it.
“This is a friend of ours, Miss ... Fallon,” Merritt offered by way of explanation. “She’s visiting from Ireland.”
Mr. Mackenzie said, “ Tá súil agam nár chaill tú Corpus Christi, ” his accent decidedly Scottish. “ Déanann na héireannaigh féasta maith. ”
Fallon frowned. “I might care if I were Catholic, Mr. Mackenzie.”
The man looked properly chagrined. Owein didn’t speak Irish, but it sounded like the Scot had asked after Corpus Christi, a Catholic holiday that would be celebrated tomorrow.
Lord Pankhurst and Mrs. Mirren exchanged a look as though they had picked up on something Mr. Mackenzie hadn’t.
Seeing Beth crossing the reception hall, Owein attempted to relieve her of the tea tray—bohea tea, if he sniffed it out right—but she balanced it in the crook of her elbow and swatted him away. “I will do that, thank you.”
He sighed. “Do you sense anything?”
She clucked her tongue, but paused just outside the living room, considering. “A lot of worry. We’ve been in a cloud of it all week.”
Owein followed her into the room, watching as she wordlessly set the tray on the short table in its center and poured tea into cups. He eyed the seat beside Mrs. Mirren before drifting toward a corner of the room and leaning against the wall, fixing his cuff before he folded his arms. He didn’t feel like sitting. He didn’t think he could keep still.
“She’ll be home in a few hours,” Merritt was explaining. Hulda, he meant.
“And this is from him?” Mrs. Mirren indicated the sling.
“Aye.” Merritt ran a hand over the bandaging pinning his arm to his side. “Honestly, if Owein hadn’t been here, we’d be corpses, the lot of us.” He glanced toward the door, perhaps ensuring the children weren’t nearby. Beth gave him a nearly imperceptible nod, assuring him they were fine. With Baptiste, most likely. The chef had stepped up with tending the little ones, since Merritt’s movements were so limited.
All of them looked at Owein. The unabashed stares stoked a strange desire to seep back into the walls that had once been his.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Mrs. Mirren offered a smile. It appeared genuine. “I was told specifically to ensure your safety during our visit.” She reached into a bag at her feet.
Owein pushed off the wall. “By the queen?”
Mrs. Mirren shook her head. “By Lady Cora.”
The answer was obvious; Owein realized that. But something about hearing it aloud struck him. Perhaps, in a strange way, Cora had become something of a storybook character to him—real only on paper. Having a stranger speak the young woman’s name gave her a sudden presence. He felt it in the room as though she stood there now, beside him, and Owein found himself wondering yet again if she looked any different, if her features had aged, if her hairstyle had changed. Parts of her had already faded from his memory, though he clearly recalled her eyes. Blue, bright, and red rimmed. At least, they had been the one and only time he’d beheld them as a human.
While Owein didn’t know for certain where Cora’s heart lay, it pricked his that she cared for his well-being.
Mrs. Mirren hauled a polished wooden box from her bag, about the size of Owein’s head, and presented it to him. “She sent me this to give to you. Didn’t trust the post.”
Owein started across the room, then hesitated as he lifted his eyes to Fallon. She frowned, but her expression was otherwise unreadable. Inhaling deeply, he continued to Mrs. Mirren and took the box from her. It was well made, new, and sported a numbered lock on the outside of it, with six spinnable digits. The whole thing was wrapped in white ribbon, under which was secured a small note.
Owein glanced again to Fallon before turning to Merritt. “If I may.”
Merritt nodded, and Owein swept from the room, wishing to read the missive in private. He’d asked for the conjurer’s bead—was it inside this device? He heard nothing rolling around within the box, but perhaps it’d been secured.
“—help you locate this watchman, whose information we’re digging up—” Lord Pankhurst’s voice said, but Owein took the stairs up, two at a time, and the conversation faded from hearing. He would get the abridged version when Hulda returned. If Merritt hadn’t already contacted her with their linked communion stones, he would be doing so soon.
In the privacy of his room, Owein thumbed at the lock, then threw an alteration spell at the box’s lid, seeking to expand it and create a hole in the center. The box quaked slightly, but resisted the spell. Confused, Owein tried to break it apart with chaocracy, only to receive a similar response.
Pulling the letter from the ribbon, he tore through its seal.
Don’t try to open it with magic, the first line read, and he snorted, chagrined. Did she know him so well? The box is warded. The code for the lock is the date of my first letter to you.
Owein turned to the armoire. February 1848, but he couldn’t recall the exact day. He’d kept all of Cora’s letters for reasons he couldn’t—or at least wouldn’t—explain, and he pulled them from the back of the armoire, selecting the bottom collection, tied with twine. Wiggling the lowest letter free, he unfolded it and checked the date: February 9, 1848.
Returning to the lockbox, he dialed 8-9-1-8-4-7, but the lock didn’t budge. Then, recalling Cora was British, he tried again with the day first and month second, and the lock sprung. Within, however, was a second letter and nothing more. What, then, had been the point of the box?
He opened this envelope with more grace. Cora’s perfect handwriting unraveled in front of him, tight everywhere, as though she’d been under great stress for the entire duration she’d written it.
Dearest Owein,
I am so, so terribly sorry. I cannot express how sorry I am. Both for what has happened with you and your family and that I am unable to fulfill your request. Please understand me; even if I slept in the vault where the conjurer’s bead is kept, I would not send it to you. I would not hurt you in such a manner. Do you remember that horrible day in the drawing room? The awful things I did? I was overwhelmed by the power of that simple little orb. It took ahold of me like nothing else could. I felt as though it had reached into my soul and gripped a steel hand around it. I could not stop myself. The thrill of endless power became sour and unbearable. I wanted to stop. I wanted to drop it, but it forbade me from doing so. I still have the scar on my hand from where I clenched it. I still have nightmares of that afternoon.
Owein’s grip loosened on the paper. He hadn’t known. Not really. Nightmares. Oh yes, he understood that torture on a deep level. His own dark dreams had haunted him relentlessly after he’d regained his first body of flesh and blood. Even now they came to him on occasion, though without the same sting they’d once carried. What sort of nightmares haunted Cora, and how often did she dream them?
And here Owein hadn’t thought twice before asking her to revisit the trauma of her past. No wonder she’d sent this letter in a locked box. She wouldn’t risk another soul reading the words she’d written solely for him.
Tense, he sat down at his desk and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. Dipped his pen. Hesitated over the parchment long enough for a droplet of ink to splash onto its surface. He stared at it a long moment, transfixed by the blackness of it, feeling for the first time in years his own darkness stirring in the recesses of his soul.
He didn’t even address Cora by name, merely wrote.
I would do it for my family.
But I understand. I do. But I’m so weak, Cora. Silas Hogwood should be a corpse drowned in the ocean, but he’s not. He is an infection that won’t die, because I couldn’t kill him. Not this time, and not before, either.
Everyone tells me I’m so strong. I’m so powerful. The whole reason we met is because I’m such a novelty in magic. But I’m not. Not like I used to be. For five years, I haven’t been strong. I’ve been mortal, with mortal limitations and mortal consequences. For centuries I was so much more than that. I was magic incarnate. I was everything, and I was endless. No consequences, no backlash, no hesitation. I could do whatever I wanted instantly and perfectly. Had I known what Silas was when he first walked through my door, I would have crushed him so completely his soul would have had nowhere to go but hell.
His eyes stung. Pulling his pen back, Owein closed them and took a deep breath, steadying himself.
After several minutes, he continued.
I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dismiss your experience. I understand. Both your choice and what you’ve been through. Not perfectly—none of us can understand another human being perfectly, can we? I will not draw you back into that darkness. I will not ask you again.
Thank you for looking after me. The Queen’s League is here, which provides a semblance of relief. I suppose I should speak with them and attend the matter at hand.
It sounds so simple, written out like this. Why can’t it be simple, Cora?
The pen twitched in his hand.
Have you chosen me, Cora? he wanted to write, but stalled. Will you send for me, or have you met someone else?
Would she send for him, or would her parents? The queen?
God help him, he was afraid to ask. Especially now, with so much else weighing on him. So, instead, he signed, Yours, Owein , and folded the letter into thirds. Put it back into the warded coffer, because truthfully, he didn’t feel like sharing with prying eyes, either. Only after taking a deep breath did he secure the lid. Only after securing the lid did he notice the bottom of Cora’s letter.
PS: Thank you for the corydalis. I will cherish it.
A smile tempted his lips. Had it been a normal day under normal circumstances, it would have emerged fully, but the weight of his reality made it hard to smile. Securing Cora’s letter at the bottom of the stack he kept in his armoire, he put the lockbox under his arm and headed back downstairs.
“—is the idea,” Blightree was saying as Owein approached the living room, light on his feet so as not to disturb the conversation. “We’ll keep the watchmen posted, if only for appearances, though who knows? They may come in handy. And we’ll keep the fires lit and the lights on to give every semblance of occupation. Then, when Silas returns, we’ll spring into action.”
“When,” Merritt repeated. “Not if .”
Lord Pankhurst extended empty hands. “We’re familiar with his history, Mr. Fernsby. I think it very likely, even if your wife has yet to foresee it. Though I do recommend she continue to try. We want every advantage we can take.”
Merritt wiped his hand down his face. “She’ll want to be here for this.”
“I don’t mind fetching her,” Mackenzie offered.
“We can repeat the information,” Blightree assured Merritt. “But it’s imperative for your families to vacate the island as soon as possible; Mrs. Mirren can escort you to the mainland under cover, in case he is watching.”
So the Queen’s League meant to lay a trap for Silas. Bait him back to the island, where other wizards would be waiting to entrap him.
Owein asked, “Will the four of you be enough?” He wasn’t familiar with the spells Mrs. Mirren, Lord Pankhurst, and Mr. Mackenzie possessed, but he didn’t think Blightree’s were especially offensive.
Patiently, Blightree nodded. “We are only the first; more of our comrades are coming to the bay.”
“I’ll write to the Druids as well,” Fallon offered, knitting and reknitting her fingers together on her lap. “We can help.”
Mrs. Mirren said, “I would be more than happy to relay your message.”
Fallon’s limbs drew in, like she was a drawstring bag closed tightly. “I will do it myself.”
Lord Pankhurst said, “Unless you’ve access to enchanted transport, Miss Fallon, your missive is unlikely to reach your kin in a timely manner, and they will be unable to travel here within a window that would be of any use to us.”
Fallon’s dark brows drew together. She said nothing, which was better than the very possible alternative of her tongue turning to a switch against every Englishman—and Scotsman—in the room. The Druids guarded their locations, their names, their very existence very closely.
“Is there,” Blightree began, cutting through the tension in the room, “a safe place for you to stay?”
Merritt pulled his eyes from Fallon, seeming curious about the exchange. “BIKER,” he answered, “but that’s expected, isn’t it? Not sure if an expected place is safe. Though ...” He considered. “We do have an open invitation with Hulda’s sister in Massachusetts.”
Owein bit down a groan. He couldn’t stand Danielle Tanner. She was so ... flamboyant. And acted as though Owein was of an age with Mabol. Incessantly.
Merritt glanced out the window as well as he could, given his injury. “Hulda will be home soon, and I need to sit down with my staff.”
“Of course.” Blightree nodded. “We’ll make ourselves as small as possible. And, Mr. Fernsby, if I may”—he leaned forward in his chair—“I’d be happy to assist you with that break in your clavicle.”
Merritt let out a sigh of pure ecstasy. “My dear William, you are very welcome to it.”
Owein stepped into the room then, quietly passing the box to Mrs. Mirren. “If you could see this returned to her as swiftly as possible.”
The wizard merely nodded. “Of course.”