Wizard of Most Wicked Ways (Whimbrel House #4)

Chapter 12

July 2, 1851, Cambridge, Massachusetts

Days had never passed so slowly. When Merritt wasn’t working on his book, he was entertaining the children, and Hulda exhausted herself with dice, teacups, and divining rods, trying to foresee dangers in their future. Even when Owein had been a house alone on the island, days had never dragged this slowly. Back then, he could turn himself off, in a way. Slumber without sleeping. It wasn’t a cure-all; no amount of sleep can repair years of loneliness, with only ants and the occasional rat to keep him company. But waiting for word from the Queen’s League of Magicians was excruciating. They all took turns with the communion stone that connected them to Blightree—him, Hulda, Merritt, and even Fallon. The latter had introduced herself briefly to the Tanners and then avoided Danielle and John completely, though she enjoyed running around with the younger boys. Owein spent most of his time with the children and with Fallon, often outside, to avoid interrogation from Danielle.

He only went back to that pond with Mabol or Hattie in tow, and only during the day. Otherwise, he shadowed the groundskeeper, desperate for work to get his mind off the waiting, though physical labor distracted him by half at best. Fallon proved the sole person who could truly divert him, either with conversation or the soft press of her lips. He was eternally grateful she’d come, even if her new closeness tore at him when he thought about it too much. But his mind could only handle so much stress, and after a few days, he let it go. Gave himself permission to be happy, when everything else was so ... fraught.

Hulda, who had grown sharp and antsy being away from BIKER, finally announced after a late arrival to dinner that Blightree was calling them home. “None of the lures have worked.” Her shoulders slumped, and poor posture on Hulda Larkin Fernsby was never a good sign. “They’ve searched for him, readied the island for him, but there’s been no sign of Silas Hogwood, nor Charlie Temples.”

“Charlie Temples?” Owein asked.

“The watchman whose body Silas is ... borrowing.” Hulda frowned at her own choice of word. “They found out who he was. He has, indeed, been missing these past five years, ever since ...”

She paused, glancing at her wide-eyed sister, her alert brother-in-law, and their sons, who were more interested in their pheasant than in the conversation of adults. Still, Owein didn’t think the details of Silas’s initial demise had been shared with the Tanners.

“Ever since Silas became a problem,” Merritt filled in for her, dabbing the corner of his lip with a napkin. He didn’t look up from his plate. “Perhaps we should focus on the positive aspects of the situation. Maybe he’s lost interest in the island and moved on to bigger fish.”

Danielle asked Hulda, “Have you foreseen anything else?”

“Nothing of note. Not involving him.” She worked her hands together. “I’ve dedicated every morning and evening to it. But nothing yet. Which should please me, but it doesn’t. I want to know.”

Owein did, too. Still, he was grateful to go home, which they did the next morning, sending word to the Babineauxs, though Beth and her family planned to stay away a little longer. Owein couldn’t blame them, but his heart cracked further.

By the time they dragged the family to Narragansett Bay, the children ornery and everyone tired, Owein wanted nothing more than to flee into the wild of the island by himself, to recollect his thoughts and figure out what his next steps would be. But Blightree, Mr. Mackenzie, Lord Pankhurst, and Mrs. Mirren sat everyone down to go over all the information they already had, and the repetition of it grated on Owein’s nerves, building up a pressure like he’d experienced in the brief moments when he’d shared Merritt’s body. Fallon tried to assure him with a hand on his knee, but it wasn’t enough.

He got up and started pacing the length of the room.

“Oh, Mr. Mansel.” Mrs. Mirren reached into a satchel, paused, and searched through a second bag by her chair leg. “A letter came for you.”

His steps halted immediately. “To the house?”

She shook her head. “We’ve been in Portsmouth, trying to lay crumbs.” She sighed, but held out a crisply folded missive.

“Thank you.” He took the letter and swept from the room, not bothering to excuse himself. Not bothering to shelter in his room, either; he sat on the stairs in the reception hall and broke the Leiningen family’s seal, sending bits of brittle wax to the floor. Beth wasn’t there to sweep them up. The reminder of her indefinite absence soured Owein all the more.

My Dear Owein,

Yes, you are not what you were. Your magic is not limitless, nor will it ever be again. I understand your frustration. But is it not a remarkable thing, to have it gone? To be mortal once more?

I was tempted to mail back to you previous letters you’ve sent me, from earlier on in our correspondence. Has the ability to touch the grass grown so monotonous already? Or to smell the sea breeze, or describe the blue sky as beautifully as you do? These are all things we as mortals take for granted, because we have always had them. I certainly do. I take for granted the most wonderful things, like storms and chocolate and warm embraces, because they have always been there. But your experience is utterly unique. You know what it is to be without. Would you give up the true sounds of laughter and music to effortlessly alter color within four walls? Would you lose the weight of your nieces in your arms for the chance to hurt one man without hurting yourself?

Owein took in a shuddering breath and rubbed his eyes. She was right, of course. He knew she was right. It was a comfort, and yet it wasn’t, because there was still no solution to their problem. Owein didn’t believe for a second that Silas Hogwood was finished with them. The Queen’s League didn’t, either. He could hear it in their voices, see it in the lines of their shoulders and the doubt when they met each other’s eyes. If they believed the island safe, they would have left by now. He would be back. It was merely a matter of when.

I am glad you are human again. I am sorry for Mr. Blightree’s loss. I always will be, just as you are. But I am glad it brought you about again, that it’s given you a voice with which to speak and a hand with which to write to me. Your letters are the highlights of my weeks here, where everything so easily turns monotonous. You remind me of my privilege and encourage me to do better. To be better. I wish I could be beside you now, to help you through this time, to lend a hand where I can, but duty forbids me from leaving, however much I beg to. You know my mother.

He did, indeed. He wondered if Lady Helen was the way he remembered her, a woman who’d accepted and even doted on a boy trapped in the form of a canine, or if this new form would make her think of him more as Danielle did.

I worry for you. You are capable, however much you may feel otherwise. But I worry for you. Please take care of yourself. I will never forgive you if you deprive me of the chance of seeing you again. And you are well aware of my excellence in holding grudges.

A sore chuckle bumped up his throat.

I’ve written out my thoughts on Frankenstein. You are free to refute or expand on them. Let us not allow a deranged murderer to hold up our little cross-Atlantic book club.

Sincerely,

Cora

The following two pages were filled with thoughts on the Mary Shelley novel for him to peruse. Tonight, perhaps, when he was less wound up, the household had settled, and he was on watch.

He walked up to his room, keeping his steps light, and closed the door behind him. Picked up a sheet of paper and dipped his pen to start his letter, then found himself staring at the empty page before him as though nothing in the world existed but that off-white grain, and he’d gotten lost between the fibers.

A drop of ink fell from his pen, splashing the paper just off its center.

I need to tell you about Fallon. The words burrowed through his mind, but his fingers only twitched around the pen as the ink spot slowly spread. She’s a Druid. I’ve mentioned her before—

Only once or twice. He had a letter in his armoire from Cora talking about how much Druids fascinated her, though she’d never met one, only read about them, and how they were often a point of politic contest.

Owein lowered his pen. Felt his pulse in his neck. Redipped the pen and brought it to the upper corner of the paper. Stalled again. Another drop of ink fell, unformed, to the page.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t write the words, whatever they were supposed to be. A confession, perhaps. A question. His heart. He couldn’t tell Cora about Fallon.

Just like he couldn’t tell Fallon about Cora. Yes, Fallon knew who she was. Yes, she knew about the contract. But that’s all Cora was to her—a contract. And all Fallon was to Cora was a name on a page in an older letter.

Owein set the pen down and pressed his face into his hands. God help him, it hurt no matter what he did. If Silas were out of the picture, maybe he could sort it out better.

If you were here, Cora, maybe I could sort it out. Or maybe you’ve used your clause and are too afraid to tell me, just like I’m too afraid to mention any of my uncertainty to you.

What a mess he was making. Every hope was laced with fear, every joy with sadness. He remembered living inside the walls of this house and watching Merritt and Hulda struggle with their feelings. Did they realize how easy they’d had it, with just the two of them to worry about?

Regardless, he couldn’t write to Cora now. There were too many words in his head for him to piece together a coherent sentence, so he left the ink-stained paper on his desk and retreated back downstairs.

“We’ll stay in the area,” Blightree was promising as Owein returned, refolding Cora’s letter and slipping it into the back pocket of his trousers. “We’ve a few others patrolling the area—Lion, whom you saw on your arrival, and a few soldiers on the southern bay. More of the queen’s men will head this way, and we’ve of course alerted both national and local governments. There are watchmen stationed throughout Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and Connecticut with detailed descriptions of Charlie’s person and Silas’s magic. They are on the lookout for both. It is an international affair now. Our presence alone makes it so, but the United States is well aware of the danger that is Silas Hogwood.”

Hulda worked her hands again. She’d been doing that a lot, judging by how pink her knuckles had become.

“I’m happy to hear it.” Merritt leaned forward in his chair. “Thank you, truly, for all of this.”

“We have good reason to protect your family.” Blightree again glanced at Owein. “Not only for your connection to the Leiningens, but to the Boston Institute as well. And I personally find you quite amiable.”

Merritt smiled. “The feeling is mutual, my good friend.”

“A boat is approaching,” Mr. Mackenzie commented, his gaze out the window.

Lightning shot down Owein’s spine. Everyone in the room stiffened; Mrs. Mirren and Hulda rose instantly. While the others moved to the window, Owein rushed for the door, opening it, blinking as his eyes adjusted to sunlight. Fallon raced past him, shrinking in her dress until she flew out the neck hole as a hawk, listing to the right as the toll of alteration magic clipped her wing. She circled out, then back again. Swooped toward the house, catching the railing of the porch with her talons and flapping her wings.

Behind him, Merritt said, “It’s not him. She says it’s not the same man.” He listened a moment. “And there are two of Blightree’s men with him.”

Mrs. Mirren scoffed. “ Blightree’s men, indeed.”

Owein set his jaw. “Can he body hop?”

Merritt considered. “If he could, I think he’d have arrived sooner, and in better shape.”

“The magic binds him to his form,” Blightree agreed from the doorway. “Unless he kills himself and Charlie in a suitable house and repeats what he did before.”

A shock of cold banded across Owein’s shoulders at the notion.

Lord Pankhurst stepped off the porch, hand going to a pistol on his belt. “Are you expecting visitors?”

Merritt moved to the end of the porch and squinted. A soft smile touched his lips. “I nearly forgot,” he said. “I am, actually. Stand down, my good man. I do believe the man approaching is my brother.”

Merritt met a very apprehensive Hiram Sutcliffe on the path from the dock, assuring the English wizards escorting him that he was not a threat. There were only two buildings on the entirety of Blaugdone Island, with Whimbrel House directly across from the small northern dock, but Hiram Sutcliffe looked lost, his steps hesitant, his head constantly turning, as though he struggled to take in each butterfly or wisp of breeze. He visibly relaxed when Merritt pulled him away from the blue-uniformed men and women packing his porch and led him along the well-trampled path to the empty Babineaux home.

“I apologize for the guard,” Merritt offered. He thought of shaking his half brother’s hand, but Hiram technically knew him. They’d gone to the same school, though Hiram had been three grades behind.

“I didn’t realize it was such a big deal,” Hiram admitted. “I should have written ahead.” He glanced at Merritt like he was a ghost. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has.” Merritt smiled, in part because it felt more awkward not to, and in part because he had wanted to get to know his half brothers ever since he’d discovered the truth about his parentage five years ago, give or take.

He guided Hiram to a pair of simple chairs on the Babineauxs’ small porch, an overturned crate for a table set between them. The younger man sunk into the farther chair with a sigh of relief.

Merritt lowered himself into the other seat cautiously, as though moving too quickly might startle Hiram away. “Thanks for coming out. I know it’s a journey.”

“Thank you for seeing me.” Hiram rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, know this is, well, unexpected. Not the magic part. Well, yes, the magic part. That was quite a surprise. I’m too old to be discovering such things.”

“I was about the same age,” Merritt offered.

Hiram planted his palms on his knees and squeezed. “But ... all of it. I mean ... I didn’t know about you. None of us did. Dad did, obviously.” He cleared his throat. “And now I guess all of us know.”

Suddenly solemn, Merritt asked, “How is your mother?”

“Uh.” He laughed dryly. “She’s been better. It was a surprise. She never expected ... you know? None of us did. Dad, he’s a pretty straitlaced guy. It’s not really ... It was a surprise for all of us. It still is.” He looked at Merritt then, eyes shifting back and forth. “You know, I see it. When he told me, I didn’t believe it at first. Merritt Fernsby? That clown always cracking jokes in the back of class?”

Merritt smirked.

“But I see it.” Hiram leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees, refocusing on a weed coming up through whitewashed planks. “You’ve got our nose. All of us have that nose. That bump.” He ran his index finger over his. “When’s your birthday?”

That caught him off guard. “March 11, why?”

Hiram’s lips ticked into a shiver of a smile. “I wondered, on the way here. You’re younger than Newton by just a few months. Older than Thad and me. I guess ... there’s Scarlet and Beatrice, right? But they’re not ... they’re just Fernsbys.” He rubbed his eyes and let out a curse.

Merritt touched Hiram’s shoulder. “You all right?”

Pulling his hands away, Hiram blinked rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Sort of. It just means ... he did it when Mom was pregnant. It’s just ...” He shook his head.

Merritt’s chest tightened. He’d never done the math to realize. Oh, Mom. Did you know? “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “What do you have to be sorry for? Not like you had a say. You wouldn’t exist otherwise.”

The man who raised Merritt would likely prefer it that way, but Merritt didn’t make the comment. This wasn’t about him , not really.

“Newton’s been acting as an intermediary between them. My parents, I mean. He’s always been even tempered,” Hiram went on. “But Thad won’t even look at Dad, let alone talk to him. He’s in a bad spot. Taking it harder than our mom is. Newton’s still in Cattlecorn. I’m close by. We’re all pretty close by, what with the kinetic tram.” He knit his fingers together and clenched them.

Pity swelled in Merritt. He’d at least had a few years to digest the revelation. Hiram was still reeling. “Do you want to tell me about the wardship?”

“God, yes.” Hiram sat up straighter. “Let’s just talk about that.” Steadying himself with a breath, he went on: “It came on all of a sudden, almost six months ago now. I locked Heather in the pantry for a solid day. Right after sunup until dusk, and I think it only came down because I was so exhausted . I didn’t know what to do.”

“Heather?”

“My wife,” he clarified. “I was talking to her—don’t remember what about—while she was in there, and then suddenly she couldn’t get out and I couldn’t get in. You know”—he laughed—“I didn’t even think it was magic. Magic’s all but dead. I thought ... I mean, a ghost is more believable, ain’t it? Newton’s the one who said, ‘Maybe it’s magic.’ He came over after I hurt myself trying to bust through the spell with a hammer. He’s close by. We’re all pretty close by.”

“What with the kinetic tram and all,” Merritt supplied.

Sheepishness softened Hiram’s features. “I said that, didn’t I?”

“You’re nervous. It’s fine. It’s new.” Merritt brushed a fly off his knee. Glanced up just in time to see Fallon, still in her hawk form, dive in a perfect line to the island. A beat later, she took off again, a mouse clutched in her talons. “I was really confused when it happened to me. Came at a stressful time, too. I had a tutor come in from Boston trying to help me, but ... it was a mess.”

He glanced at the younger trees on the island, replacements for the ones he’d ripped out in his unexpected, potent bout of chaocracy when he was thirty-one. It still boggled his mind, that. He had so little of that magic in his system, and even at thirty-six, he struggled to use it at all. It was too diluted, too confusing. All the magic built up over three decades came out all at once, and ever since, he could barely bend a spoon. “Wardship was actually the easiest for me to get a handle on.”

Hiram’s eyes widened. “You have more ?”

“Communion, yes. Took me a long time to get that one under control.” Now he only heard the voices of nature if he wanted to, unless they were speaking directly to him, as in the case of Fallon, or, often, Owein’s dogs when they were bored, or Winkers telling him to get away from her nest. “A little chaocracy, but not enough to note.”

Hiram whistled. “Wow. Think I have those?”

“My wife would love to dig through your family tree for any notable markers. She works at the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I’ll get you her card before you leave.”

Hiram ran a hand back through his hair. “Maybe one thing at a time. So. Wardship?”

Merritt leaned back, considering. He hadn’t had a lot of time to prepare, what with the reappearance of Silas Hogwood. Sitting here, looking out over the reeds and cherries, life felt normal again, minus the occasional blue uniform passing by the house or sailing in the bay. “For me, the magic was tied to my emotions. For wardship, specifically to my protective instincts. It would flare up when I felt them. Have you experienced anything like that?”

“Honestly, I’ve only been able to repeat it a few times.”

“What were you doing when you locked—Heather, was it?—in the pantry? Can you recall any more details?”

Hiram drummed his hands on his knees. “Not really.”

“Try,” Merritt pressed.

Hiram continued drumming, but he closed his eyes. “It was early. Already milked the cow, though. We were talking ... about something. I don’t know what. I think her parents were coming in. I remember her panicking about what to serve them.” He smiled. “But at least I knew she wouldn’t starve, it being the pantry and all. We had a lot to do; they live in Vermont, and we hadn’t seen them since the wedding. We don’t have kids, you know, and that’s always been a sore spot for Heather. Only been married a few years, but it’s a sore spot for her, because kids should come sooner, yeah? So she wanted the visit to be perfect for them. I think she feels like a failure, and she wanted everything to look perfect for them at the house, for stones to be laid in the walk and all sorts of stuff. At least, that was the issue at hand before it became being locked in a pantry by a magical buffoon.”

Merritt considered this. Thought back to Gifford, the scholar from the Genealogical Society, and how the man had helped him. He had no clinical research on hand for his half brother to read, however, and he’d never found the research all that useful, besides. “Do you get along with her parents?”

“Oh, sure. They like me well enough, anyway. I think.” He swallowed. “I mean, Heather says they like me. I don’t ... I don’t know. It’s just, her pa was real quiet when I asked for her hand. Real quiet for a long time, like he was thinking about any other options they had. Heather’s the oldest in her family. And sometimes he still gets really quiet like that. And her mother looks at me a certain way. I wish I could show you. But if I did, you’d probably think I was imagining things. She tells me I’m imagining things. Heather, I mean.”

That was when Merritt noticed the fly had returned, but it wasn’t flying. Just sitting midair, running its front legs together as flies do.

“Hiram,” he murmured.

“But yeah, sure, they like me well enough. Didn’t like Heather moving to New York, but that’s New York’s problem, ain’t it?” He laughed softly.

“Hiram.”

“Yeah?”

Merritt gestured to the fly.

It took Hiram a beat to see it. “What about it?”

Patiently, Merritt leaned forward and knocked his fist on the small wardship spell that had formed, startling the fly away.

“Huh.” Hiram paused. “Oh, I did that, not you. Yeah?”

Merritt nodded. “I have a feeling we’ve something in common.”

Hiram drummed again. “You think I’m protective of my in-laws?”

“I think your wardship might be connected to your emotions. To your ... self-consciousness, specifically.”

“Oh. Oh. ” Leaning forward, he ran a hand over the spell. It was only about a foot across. “How do I get it to stop?”

“Practice,” Merritt jested, but seeing Hiram’s crestfallen countenance, he said, “Uh, try not being self-conscious. Think of something you’re really good at?”

“Something I’m really good at.” He considered a moment. “I’ve always been a fast runner, for what good it is.”

“Adding a caveat defeats the purpose, I think.”

He nodded. “I’m a good runner. Pretty good with numbers, too. Um, let’s see ... Heather says—” He suddenly flushed. The hand that had been on the wardship spell fell, the magic having dissipated.

“I won’t ask.” Merritt chuckled.

Hiram rubbed the back of his neck. “Ha, thanks. This ... This has been helpful. Real helpful.”

“I’m glad because I was worried I’d be no help at all,” Merritt admitted.

Hiram shook his head. “When you’re feeling better, you should come home. Meet Heather. Maybe reintroduce yourself to the others ... Thad will come around. And my mom ... she doesn’t blame you, you know. I don’t know how she feels about Rose. Uh.” The flush returned. “No offense.”

“It is what it is.”

Hiram looked him over again. “You’re like Newton, you know? Real mature about it all.”

Merritt snorted. “Oh, believe me, it’s taken me time to come to terms with our colorful reality. Maturity is not one of my strong suits.” Hulda could testify to that. Though something about the notion gave him an idea. “If you have time, I’d like you to meet someone.”

“Your wife?”

“Her, yes. I’ve a few little ones, too. Your nieces.”

Hiram lit up, and Merritt’s insides warmed. Brother, he thought. Maybe his family would continue to expand. Maybe he wasn’t simply a one-time tutor for a stranger in need.

“But there’s another person you’re related to. It’s quite the story, if you want to hear it.” Merritt heaved himself off the chair. Hiram followed. “Back at the house. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Heather’s not expecting me back until tomorrow,” Hiram confessed. “It’s a little out of the way, this place. I, uh, already got lost once.”

They talked easily, Merritt happy to let his younger brother dominate the conversation as they trekked toward Whimbrel House, Merritt scanning the grounds for a head of brilliant white. However, upon arriving, it seemed that Owein had already absconded, and not a soul seemed to know where he’d gone.

Owein sat with his back against a willow tree in the copse not far from Whimbrel House, the heel of his boot crushing a grape fern. He had one knee up, his forearm propped on it, and idly watched the sun-splotched shadows of leaves shift across the wild grasses and earth around him. Ash plowed through the willow’s whiplike branches and deposited a slobbery ball at Owein’s hip, tail wagging excitedly for its return. Aster, lying beside him, lifted her head, but sleep enticed her more than exercise, and she laid it back down. Owein couldn’t blame her; he’d always been more tired as a dog than as a human.

Owein snatched up the ball and threw it, watching the bundled leather soar through the willow leaves and out of sight. Ash took off for it gaily, startling grasshoppers as he went. Owein waited for Ash to return, but the dog didn’t reappear. Likely caught a whiff of a squirrel, or maybe a snail. Canine minds were so simple, yet so remarkably fast. Easily distracted, motivated by instinct more than anything else.

Leaves rustled and wings flapped overhead. Without looking up, Owein said, “Dress is behind me.”

The hawk soared down to the other side of the willow; she’d been on surveillance duty for hours. The natural sound of bugs, Aster’s snores, and the rustling of willow branches masked the stretching and popping of alteration. A minute passed before Fallon stepped out. Either she’d taken her time getting dressed or she’d had a particularly unpleasant malformation as a result of her magic. The worst Owein had ever experienced was the twisting of his gut. For a solid minute two years ago, he’d felt sure he would die from it.

“Trap didn’t work,” Owein commented. He yearned for the ball to throw. It occupied him. Any distraction was a welcome one.

“Not with them crawling all over the place like ants,” Fallon retorted. “Then again, between them and the watchmen, maybe—”

“Silas is dangerous.” Owein lifted his shoe off the grape fern and brought his knee up with the other. “Even if he can’t steal magic, he’s still powerful.”

“So are you,” she countered softly.

He forced his jaw to relax. “The only time I’ve ever felt truly helpless was with Silas.” He thought of the shock of having a new flesh-and-blood body for the first time in two centuries, after Silas had sucked his spirit from the walls of Whimbrel House. The confusion of being trapped alongside the soul of an animal ...

He’d barely even registered the trek to Marshfield. The pain of Silas’s magic coursing through his bones, trying to scrape his spells free.

Shivering, he continued, “Even with Cora, I knew I could protect myself and get away, if I needed to. I still had autonomy.”

Granted, his autonomy had ended very suddenly when the ceiling had collapsed on the back half of his body, but before that, he hadn’t been truly vulnerable.

They sat there, quiet, a long moment. A spider dangled down from a web above Owein’s shoulder; he pinched the filament and tossed it toward the grape fern. Fallon resituated herself, kneeling facing him, unbound hair wild around her shoulders, a line of worry pressed between her eyebrows.

Swallowing against a tight throat, Owein confessed, “I don’t know if I’m enough.”

“You’re not alone.” She matched his hushed tone. “We have a small army on this island. Most of them with a spark in their blood.”

“But they won’t always be here. Silas waited nearly five years to return. What’s another five to him? And if we do kill him, what then? Maybe he’ll just hop to another body, like he did before.”

Fallon shuddered. “Not if there’s no body for him to hop to.”

“There’s no guarantee. He’s too strong.” Reaching over, Owein absently petted Aster’s side. “We have a woman who can literally see the future on our side, and there’s no guarantee .”

He wasn’t being fair, he knew it. But these were his thoughts, his burdens, and he needed to express them. Needed someone to help him hold them up, and Merritt’s magic made him too fragile, Hulda was too anxious, and Beth was too absent to lend a hand. They’d already affirmed that Owein had kept them alive the first time. But what if he couldn’t do it again? The cost of failure was everything .

He was about to apologize when Fallon said, “I know where Hulda’s facility is.”

A shock straightened Owein’s spine. “What?”

She glanced away. “The facility. The BIKER one, where they do the experiments. I know where it is.”

It took ten seconds of stunned silence for her to meet his gaze. He searched her face, the green wheels of her eyes, the curve of her nose, the tightness of her forehead. “No one knows where that is.” He’d never found any information about its location, only circumstantial evidence that it existed. “Hulda ... I don’t even think Merritt knows where it is. Legally, he can’t.” Not with the United States government involved.

She shrugged. “I followed her once. A couple of years ago, when I was headed back to Ireland. I wanted to see what she was in such a huff about. It’s in Ohio, southwest of Columbus. Kind of near that other state? With the K ?”

Owein realized he was fish-mouthing. Wetting his tongue, he asked, “Kentucky?”

“Yeah, that one. I ... I think I could find it again. I’m pretty sure.”

Owein stared at her. Hulda never spoke about the facility. Even her prickles got prickly if anyone so much as brushed against the subject, so Owein snooped about on his own. He knew the facility had a medical license, it had just received new funding, and it studied the genetics of magic and the potential synthesizing of it. Hulda didn’t keep a lot of paperwork for it in BIKER headquarters, but he’d found some; she didn’t use magicked locks the way Cora did.

Owein didn’t know more than that, but what he did know was if anything could help him fight Silas Hogwood, it was in that facility.

He let out a long breath. “I ... How long would it take us to get there?” Leaning forward, he sketched out a rough outline of the eastern United States in the dirt between weeds. “How close to Columbus?”

Fallon rolled her lips together. “Not very close. I don’t know anything else in Ohio but Columbus.”

He drew in rough approximations of state lines and tried to remember the maps of public transport. “There’s a kinetic tram line that runs from Portsmouth to Baltimore.” His finger created a track in the dirt from right to left, “and I think a train should run from there to Cincinnati. A regular train, nothing enchanted. After that, it would be a horse or a coach. Something privately hired; the facility wouldn’t be in a major city.”

“It’s not in any city,” Fallon confirmed. “It’s in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t even any trees. It’s really small, from above. Maybe bigger inside? I didn’t try to get in.” Beside his map, she drew an uneven square, plus a smaller, rounder building beside it. “Like this. She went in a door here.” She marked an X on the south side of the square. “I could scout ahead to make sure.”

“They won’t let us in,” Owein said. “Whoever is there.”

“Since when has that been a problem?”

She sounded sincere. And she had a good point. Magic like Owein’s ... take away its natural consequences, its only real limitation was the imagination. And one could come up with a lot of interesting ways to use the same handful of spells when trapped alone with them for hundreds of years. He could find a way in. He was sure of it.

“If you want to go,” Fallon continued, touching his arm, “you should go now, while the English wizards are here. I wouldn’t have told you if they weren’t here. I wouldn’t want you to leave the others unprotected.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” He wasn’t surprised she’d spied on Hulda—Fallon was as bad about eavesdropping as Owein was. But they’d always been very open with one another.

She bit her lip. Hesitated. “I didn’t know if you’d be upset. And it didn’t really matter if I knew where it was then. But it matters now, doesn’t it?”

Owein studied his makeshift map. “Sixteen hours, I think,” he said. “We could get there in sixteen hours, if we don’t sleep. Or eat.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “If we push, we can be there and back in three days, if the coaches run on Sunday. It’d be exhausting, but we could do it.”

“They’ll be mad.”

“Who?”

“Merritt and Hulda.”

Owein swiped away his map. “Merritt and Hulda aren’t my parents.” He stood, brushing off his hands, then his trousers. Still, he considered the ramifications. Fallon was right—it would have been too dangerous to leave the others unprotected if the Queen’s League of Magicians hadn’t been on the island. But they were here. For how long, they didn’t know, so time was of the essence. Mrs. Mirren and Blightree were powerful. Lord Pankhurst was undoubtedly the same, and there were more of them about, and watchmen on top of that. It was now or never.

Il vaut mieux demander pardon après que la permission avant , Baptiste had once said. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

“I’ll tell them I have work with the millwright.” He spoke just above a whisper, not that anyone was near enough to hear him. Still, there were wizards on the island, and one never knew what to expect with them. “We can leave tonight.”

She nodded. Grasped his hand. Owein squeezed it back, then rose and broke into a jog toward Whimbrel House. Ash spied him and took off after him, jumping at his heels, losing interest once Owein reached the house’s back door. He slid through the kitchen, breakfast room, and dining room. People were talking in the living room, but he swept up the stairs and to his bedroom, repacking the same bag he’d taken to the Tanners’ home. This time, he’d need to bring some provisions, as well as his money box from the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out twice the cost of travel, just to be safe. Maybe he could raid Beth’s kitchen for food.

Unease worked its way into his chest. After throwing his bag out the window, he crept through the hallway to Hulda and Merritt’s room. Checked the dresser for Merritt’s communion stone, the one linked to Hulda’s, but couldn’t find it. Did Merritt have it on his person, or had he just misplaced it? Beth would know. But Beth wasn’t here.

Retracing his steps, Owein checked Merritt’s study, but no stone. So he pulled out a piece of paper and scrawled his excuse about a high-paying job in North Kingstown, saying he expected it to be a three-day venture and hadn’t wanted to interrupt the Queen’s League to debate about it—

“Where are you going, Owein?”

He jumped, leaving a large pen mark across the paper. William Blightree hovered in the doorway, his old but perceptive eyes taking in the writing implements as well as Owein. Calming himself, Owein signed his name and left the letter on the desk, easily found.

“Do you have a communion stone I can borrow?” he asked.

Blightree raised a gray eyebrow. “What do you need a communion stone for?”

“Communing,” Owein answered simply.

The necromancer snorted. Shook his head. But rooted around in one pocket, then another, and pulled out a slim cylinder of selenite, the stone associated with communion. Stepping into the room, Blightree spoke quietly. “Whatever you’re doing, boy, you’d better do it quickly, and without injury to that body I gave you.” He pressed the stone into Owein’s palm. “I’m very attached to that body. As well as the spirit inside of it.”

A flash of guilt coursed through Owein’s chest at the indirect mention of Oliver, though the words warmed him. “They’re both fond of you, too, old man.”

Blightree chuckled. “You’ll get away with saying that here, but not back in London.”

“Noted.” He slipped the stone into his trouser pocket, fighting against his violent need to go . “Thank you.”

“It’ll go straight to me.” Blightree rubbed his arm and simply repeated, “Hurry back.”

Owein promised he would.