Wizard of Most Wicked Ways (Whimbrel House #4)

Chapter 21

July 9, 1851, Boston, Massachusetts

Hulda tripped over her tongue, which produced a string of nonsensical syllables in a poor facsimile of actual words. “I ... I don’t know that it will work, Owein—”

“I presume you’re going to tell me that Oliver Whittock and Owein Mansel likely have different blood types.” Owein leaned against the wall, glanced at Ellis, then at the cracks of light coming through the pillow-stuffed windows. “I’ve considered that. But even if the blood is not the same, the magic is. It’s identical, as is the spirit. A perfect match.”

Hulda sank onto the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her babe. “That’s true.” She adjusted her glasses, then took them off and wiped them with the fabric of her skirt, trying to order her thoughts. “But it’s no guarantee, Owein. You might hurt yourself again. If your body reacted badly, it could be worse than—”

“I am done playing games with him, Hulda.” He spoke lowly, and for the first time since she’d met him as a defiant house, she heard the age in his voice.

She sighed. Slid her glasses over her ears. Took time to consider. Owein waited with surprising patience, as always. “Myra—” Hulda cleared her throat. “Myra would have jumped at this opportunity for the sake of science. Legally, I have to get it approved by the board—”

“I’ll take full responsibility.”

Hulda chewed on her tongue. “I do ... agree. I don’t wish to, Owein, but I do agree that this needs to end. I am so, so very tired of being afraid.” She hated how her pitch rose as her throat squeezed around the words. She blinked rapidly. Owein crossed the room and sat beside her, taking her hands in his, which only made her want to weep more. Lord knew she’d wept more since meeting these people than in the rest of her life combined, but so many of those tears were joyous ones, and therefore could not be fairly counted against them. “I don’t know how to do it myself. But ,” she pressed when she saw Owein’s lips part, “I can reach out to Lisbeth. She works at the laboratory. She understands the science. But she’d have to come to Blaugdone Island.”

Owein searched her face. “Silas left the bay.”

“For now.” She steeled herself with a deep breath. “We do not know how long until he evades the Queen’s League and breaks past their guard. Because he will, one way or another.” She shifted uncomfortably. “On a day brimming with fog.”

Owein nodded. “Then now is the safest time for us to act.”

Hulda nodded. She would send a coded telegram. The facility in Ohio had no telegraph, for the sake of secrecy, but she would contact Waynesville. Someone checked for messages daily. She would have to relay news of Myra as well. As for the children ...

Twisting around, Hulda reached out and ran the tips of her fingers over little Ellis’s foot. So small, so innocent, so breakable. She thought of Danielle, her parents, the Babineauxs ... but none seemed safe enough. A tear dropped from her eye and trailed down her cheek, then another.

Owein wrapped his arms around her. Permission enough to crumble, again. At least Hulda wept quietly, with an iota of dignity.

After, leaving the house guarded, she went to the post office. Her first telegram went to Waynesville, as promised. Her second, however, went to Mrs. Thornton, BIKER’s lead housekeeper. She was very near retirement and currently stationed in New York.

I am asking a personal favor, for which you will be compensated. I have three children who need immediate care out-of-state, one who will require a wet nurse. They will arrive with funds. Please take them elsewhere. Do not tell me, nor anyone, where, until I contact you again. Thank you.

Hulda managed not to cry at the post office, at least. But the moment she stepped out onto the public street, she sobbed.

Ash and Aster came bounding up the path as soon as the little skiff docked at Blaugdone Island. Owein knelt down to pet them, letting them dance over his legs and lick his face. He didn’t love being licked, but he knew the dogs needed it, and he tried not to limit their need to express themselves. The ride home had felt long, the boat too empty without Mabol, Hattie, and Ellis. Hulda and Merritt had been eerily silent, Fallon pensive. Owein ... he was everything. Sad and angry and hopeful. Hulda had received a swift response from Lisbeth; it would be a few days before she arrived, but Owein could prepare in the meantime.

The day had grown old, the sun nearing its set. Owein left his bag of things at the dock and walked toward his family’s graves while Ash and Aster greeted Fallon in a similar fashion. Owein noted that Whimbrel House stood still, undamaged but empty, though two men in blue uniform guarded the Babineaux house—Lion, a blond alteration wizard who kept to himself, and another man he didn’t recognize. That’s where William Blightree was recuperating, then. Owein should visit. The old necromancer had watched over him when he was in similar straits; the least Owein could do was return the favor.

But first, the desecration of his grave.

Owein didn’t want to disturb this holy ground. It hadn’t been dedicated by a priest, as far as he could recall, but to him it was sacred. The only thing that tied him back to his origins. He didn’t want to see his small corpse and the decay of his first life. But BIKER had science that could solve this, and Owein wanted to help. He needed to.

He stared at his headstone a long moment, breathing in scents of loam and sun-warmed grass. It was small, simple—a relatively flat rock with his name, birth date, and death date carved into it. His family hadn’t been wealthy. Not terribly poor, if he remembered right—Whimbrel House provided proof enough of that, though much of its décor had been created by Owein postmortem. Still, something about that stone weighed on him, like he was holding it, not looking at it.

Fallon stepped up beside him, clasping her hands in front of her. A breeze toyed with her dark hair.

“How are we doing this?” she asked reverently. She felt it, too.

Owein swallowed against a sore throat. “I don’t want to disturb the others.” He’d been laid between his mother and his sister; he’d been the first of the four children to pass. “A little magic to loosen the soil. The rest I’ll do by hand.”

“ We’ll do it by hand.”

Owein shook his head. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I don’t want you to,” he whispered, shoulders heavy. A chill wound through his torso, tightening everything it touched. “I don’t want you to see ... me.”

She didn’t respond immediately. A few heartbeats passed, and she stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. “You”—she jutted her finger into his sternum—“are right here. Not there. I see you, Owein. I saw you through the eyes of that dog, before you ever got this body. I will help. But”—her expression softened—“I will step away when it’s time to pull the body up.”

Owein searched her face, the lines of determination between her brows and the sympathetic glow of her eyes. Cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her, grateful and hollow and cold. Then he got the shovels.

When he returned, Fallon had laid pink corydalis on the grave. She touched her forehead to the stone marker before stepping back and accepting the smaller shovel.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Owein pierced the spade into the soil.