Wizard of Most Wicked Ways (Whimbrel House #4)

Chapter 23

July 14, 1851, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Lisbeth, no last name given in introduction, revealed herself as a woman in her late thirties with light-brown hair nearly the same shade as Merritt’s, pulled back in a tight bun meant for utility and not fashion. She had soft features but a severe presence, which Owein found he liked. Or, if not liked, preferred. He wanted this done and over with, and Lisbeth seemed very much like a person who could achieve that.

When she arrived, on a boat she’d driven herself, she smelled of chemicals and spoke to no one but Hulda. Only under Hulda’s direction did she allow Owein and Merritt to help her with her luggage—two hard, oversized suitcases and another softer one, which she’d insisted she carry herself. When Lord Pankhurst approached to offer aid, Hulda herself said, “This is BIKER business exclusively.”

Pankhurst put up his hands as if in surrender and stepped back, frowning only once he had his pipe in his mouth, watching thoughtfully as the group directed Lisbeth and her things to the Babineaux house. She set up in the kitchen and closed the door behind her. She spent nearly an hour in there with Hulda before allowing Owein inside.

Owein started when he saw his own femur on the countertop, cleaned nearly to a polish. The scents of decay had been stripped completely. When had she dismantled his body? When had she cleaned it? What else ... had she done to it?

His stomach tightened. It shouldn’t bother him. He knew it shouldn’t bother him. This was his plan, his corpse, but something about having a stranger dabbling with his bones without his knowledge felt deeply personal. Vulnerable, like he stood before her naked and she was wholly unimpressed.

“Sit here, please.” Lisbeth gestured to a chair she’d pushed against the far wall, away from the laboratory equipment she’d arranged on Beth’s dining table. It looked similar to what Owein had seen at the Ohio laboratory, though he couldn’t name most of the apparatuses. But Owein sat, slow to pull his eyes from the piecemeal workshop, his heart beating harder than it should.

He wondered what his mother would have thought of all this.

“Are you ill?” Lisbeth asked, lifting a small scalpel from a tin of water and shaking it dry.

Owein’s gaze shifted to her face, but she didn’t meet his eyes. A dog barked outside, but the distance made it difficult for him to determine which. “Pardon?”

“Are you sick, feverish, anything that would be a concern for this process?”

“No.”

“Good.” She fiddled in a bag for something. “I need some blood for the solution.”

“We’re not related by blood. He and I.” He tipped his head toward the femur. Not anymore.

“I’ll work with what I have.” She rolled up his sleeve to just above his elbow. He expected her to grab a bowl for bloodletting, but instead she pulled out a syringe very similar to the one he’d stolen from the facility in Ohio. She held his arm out as straight as it would go; poked him once, then twice, before pulling back on the plunger and drawing deep-crimson blood from his vein. Owein watched in horrid fascination. The sting had him thinking of the first time he’d felt pain after Silas pushed his soul into the body of a dog. He hadn’t been able to feel pain as a house. Even when Merritt had tried to light him on fire, he hadn’t felt pain , only a deep sense of panic and uncertainty, for what would happen to him if the house burned down? Would he linger in the ash, or finally pass on?

Thinking of that body—the terrier’s—left his throat feeling thick. Being a man was far better, yes, but he missed that dog. Wished their tale together had unraveled differently. Wished the poor beast had lived. You were a good boy.

He blinked. Lisbeth had finished and bound his arm with a small bandage. She set down the syringe nonchalantly on the table and strode over to the femur, poking it with a frown.

Owein grasped his arm, putting pressure on the wound. “Can you do it?”

She shrugged. “If nothing else, the information will prove fruitful.”

“How will it—” he began.

“No,” Lisbeth interrupted, short and simple. “I will not answer any questions you have. Ask Mrs. Fernsby. You may go.”

He nodded, though she didn’t see it, and let himself out. Pankhurst lounged in the front room, sweet-smelling smoke from his pipe curling to the ceiling.

Owein pulled down his sleeve. “Out,” he demanded curtly.

The wizard raised an eyebrow. “We are here under the queen’s orders, looking after—”

“The pipe , man.” Owein strode to the door and whipped it open. “Beth doesn’t like people smoking in her house. Out. ”

The man blinked, looking somewhat chagrined, then assented and stepped out onto the porch. Owein stepped out with him, taking one of the chairs, while Pankhurst leaned against the porch railing, staring out at the island. Owein followed his gaze, then searched for himself, from the coastline out to the willow copse. Fallon had shifted into a dog again—she, Aster, and Ash bounded through the summer-ripened grass, chasing each other, nipping at haunches. Even Fallon needed a respite from the stress, and this was one of the ways she got it. Honestly, Owein wished he could join her, just for an hour or two. Wished he could have four legs again and bound carelessly across the grass and goosefoot, enraptured by the million scents of a world closed off to him, no worries other than where he would sleep and how he’d get the mud off his paws before Beth scolded him for it.

“No one speaks to me like that in England,” Pankhurst said between puffs, then chuckled to himself. “Back home, I’d frankly be insulted. But here, for some reason, I find it oddly refreshing.”

A small smile pinched Owein’s cheeks. “Happy to help.”

He checked his pocket for the grease pencil yet again. Still there. Owein was ready, yet he wasn’t. How could a person prepare for a fight that might not happen, on terms he couldn’t read, with science he didn’t understand? Leaning forward in his chair, he glanced at the kitchen window, but Lisbeth had drawn the shutters.

All he could do now was wait.

Owein took the night shift. There were four members of the Queen’s League of Magicians in Narragansett Bay, or such was his understanding—Lord Pankhurst, Mrs. Mirren, Jonelle, and Lion. Others were farther inland, tracking Silas’s whereabouts, working with local watchmen and the government to bar him from moving on. Owein’s shifts weren’t organized with the Queen’s League nor law enforcement, merely with himself. He’d walked the length of the island and back already, returning to Whimbrel House just as twilight ended. Now, he sat on its roof, scanning the dark swathes of the ocean between moonlight and lighthouse. His bones felt too sharp for his body, his muscles like leather pulled taut over a frame. His head hurt, but it was the kind of ache he could ignore. He scanned the sky for the body of a gray hawk. He was endlessly grateful for the amount of exhausting work Fallon put into surveillance on the island. She never complained about it. Still, Owein wished she were here with him, just for a little while. Then again, he worried he was becoming too dependent on her. She tied him up in beautiful Celtic knots, and he didn’t want to be free of them.

It must have been near midnight when a shuffle announced Merritt on the roof, climbing carefully over the shingles. He perched on the gable beside Owein, sitting there in the quiet with him for several minutes. It wasn’t until Owein turned to stare at a new chunk of the bay that Merritt spoke.

“You should rest, Owein.”

He didn’t answer.

Merritt sighed. “I can watch for a while, if that will settle you.”

But Owein shook his head. “I can’t decide which is better. Staking ourselves out here so he’ll find us and get it over with, or hiding on the mainland so he never does.”

Merritt planted his elbows on his knees. His familiar aroma of cloves, ink, and petitgrain always had a calming effect on Owein. “I’ve had the same thoughts. The same worries. At least it’s not foggy.”

He referred to Hulda’s premonition about the island. “We don’t know if that’s Silas’s return, or an instance afterward,” Owein countered. Thus the reason he continued to scan the sea on clear nights like this one. “He’s out there.” Owein dared to scan near the lighthouse, despite knowing it would hamper his night vision. He saw nothing.

“They’ll find him.”

“They haven’t yet.” Owein’s tone whipped harder than he’d intended. “They never find him. He always finds us.” And Silas was a lunatic now, which made him even less predictable. Bile licked the base of Owein’s esophagus, burning.

A shadow passed over the moon, wings and tail. Fallon, hawk, landed on the gable. Ruffled her feathers before allowing them to settle. A warning call from a mourning dove—Winkers—cut through the air. Fallon made the poor bird nervous.

“Anything?” Owein asked.

The hawk shook her head in the negative.

Leaning forward, Owein pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Owein,” Merritt said, softer, “rest.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

“Hulda’s already made a draft for you.”

But Owein shook his head. “I’ll stay out here.”

He felt Merritt’s frown. Felt Fallon mirroring it, as much as a bird could. A minute passed, and she took off again, flying another circle, searching the darkness in a way Owein couldn’t. He hated that he couldn’t.

Merritt clasped a hand on Owein’s shoulder. “This isn’t your burden, Owein.”

Isn’t it? he thought.

Merritt let out a long exhale through his nose. “Whatever happened to that eternal child living in the walls of my house?”

Lifting his head, Owein searched the shadows of the island. Caught movement, but the glimmer of an ember whispered it was only Pankhurst, out for another smoke. “He served his purpose and moved on.”

Merritt hummed softly. Stared up into the stars, though Silas wouldn’t come from that direction. One thing the man could not do was fly, thank the Lord.

“I’m glad, you know,” Merritt continued. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that, straight. I’m glad you locked me in, that day I came here. I’m glad you were the most obnoxious guttersnipe I’d ever met.”

Owein laughed. A soft, short laugh, but it felt good all the same. Released some of the tension simmering in his chest.

“I have all of this because of you,” Merritt murmured, sober. “Do you realize that? We’re afraid because we have so much to lose. And we have so much to lose because of you .”

The lighthouse blurred in the corner of Owein’s vision. He blinked a few times to clear it. Throat tight, he managed to say, “Thank you.”

Merritt put his arm around Owein’s shoulders. Squeezed him. Owein put his head on Merritt’s shoulder for just a moment. Just a moment, to be that child again. It had always been easier to deal with the hurt, the stress, and the fear as a child.

“I love you, Owein. Like you were mine,” Merritt said.

“I love you, too,” he rasped.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, staring wordlessly into the night. It felt like an ending.

Merritt squeezed Owein’s shoulder, then stood and picked his way back into the house.

By the time the sun rose and cast the summer yellow and pink, Owein’s backside ached from sitting on the gable. He climbed his way down, jumping the last story, and walked the perimeter of the island, this time counterclockwise. He returned only long enough to grab some bread and bacon for breakfast before starting again. Mrs. Mirren rode in one of the Queen’s League boats, pushing off the island as Jonelle arrived. She waved to Owein, who merely nodded his head in return. He scanned the trees, lingering on every patch of shade. Still, Jonelle waited for him to come around.

“You look like a corpse,” she said.

Owein scoffed. “You look like you spent the night on the ocean.”

She smirked, smoothing back her mussed hair. Tipped her head toward Mirren. “Did you talk to her yet?”

Owein shook his head.

“It’s good news, however small. Mr. Blightree shifted in his sleep last night.”

Owein straightened. “He woke?”

“No, but he’s stirring, which is more than we’ve had since his injury.” She rubbed her eyes. “Be careful out there, Owein.”

Owein reflected on the few minutes he’d spent half out of body, thanks to Blightree’s magic. He’d been able to move his physical self, but it’d been hard. Like his body was a marionette trapped in honey, and he had to pull the strings from the next room. Perhaps Blightree was getting used to it ... or perhaps a soul was naturally drawn back to its body if still partially connected, and it was slowly sinking back in. So many theories.

Pulling from his thoughts, Owein offered, “You, too.”

Jonelle headed for the Babineaux house, and Owein walked the perimeter. He’d circled halfway back when Fallon came jogging up the half-worn path, her white skirt flapping about her legs, her long hair unbound.

“You’re still out here?” she asked once she neared.

Owein shrugged, scanning the sea again. “Someone needs to be.”

“Someone is.” She touched his elbow. “Many someones. Owein, you need to sleep. You look terrible.”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” he snapped, then ground his teeth. Rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Grasping his wrists, she pulled his hands from his face. “I’ll fly it again, okay? Just rest.”

He sighed. “Two sets of eyes are better.”

“Not when one set is about to fall out of its skull.” She released him.

She was right. If only his magic could propel him farther, keep him alert, give him her hawk’s eyes. Everyone acted like his magic was so grand, and yet it felt like too little. Still, he nodded and trudged his way back to Whimbrel House, knowing Fallon’s eyes were on him until he shut the front door of the house behind him. His anvil legs clunked as he took the stairs up to his room. Snicked the door shut. The open window let in a cool breeze. He stared at his bed, but it felt wrong to lie on it. It felt like giving up.

So he paced. His room wasn’t large, but he paced the length of it, from the wall to the armoire and back. His legs grew too heavy, so he paused at the armoire. Opened it. Set his palm atop the stack of letters from Cora, then dropped his hand to a cream-colored cloth tucked in the back of the closet. He brought it out, opened it, and stared at the miniature of a mother he remembered but didn’t, running the pad of his thumb over her coif of blonde hair and her gentle eyes. Likely a portrait she’d had done for his father. He couldn’t recall. He’d found it in the library some years ago.

All at once, like a twig had snapped, the heaviness in his legs soared up to his chest, stealing his breath away. The sorrow coated him like oil, so much so that he could no longer stand and finally dropped onto the edge of his bed, clutching the portrait in shaking hands. Sorrow for having stayed behind while his family moved on without him, laced with guilt for digging up the remnants of that era, that story, and handing it to a cold scientist to do with as she willed.

The image of his mother blurred, and Owein set the portrait aside, clasping his fingers over his eyes before any tears could ruin the paint. Cradling his head, he sucked in shuddering breaths. He was going to lose all of them, wasn’t he?

Flapping feathers at the open window announced Fallon, probably come to ensure he’d kept his word. Setting his jaw, his wiped his eyes again. Felt her watching him. God help him, he was so scared. He was so tired .

Swallowing down a sore knot in his throat, Owein croaked, “Can you turn back? Please, turn back.”

A cracking of bone, a rustle of fabric. A knit blanket drawn around her, Fallon sat beside him and drew him into her arms, laying his cheek against her shoulder, pressing her lips to his crown, guarding him, if only for a moment, from the heartache. Long enough that, regretfully, Owein finally gave in to sleep.

The piragua Silas had stolen cut through the bay waters like a scalpel through skin; even his best carriage had never ridden so fine. He breathed in deeply, slowly, the tang of the sea, for a moment believing he stood in England again. For a heartbeat his mind betrayed him, dipping and folding, confused and lost. He blinked and saw the mouth of the River Mersey, and behind him, the soft clacking and popping of seedpods as the plentiful finches fed. But he grabbed the slender mast of the boat, brushing the taut sail, and breathed through it. He remembered.

It was so empty now. His head. So blissfully and eerily empty. Had it always felt like this in his life before? So quiet, so ... endless?

Silas pinched his nose with filthy fingers and focused on the task at hand. Tried to move the fingers of his half-rotted forearm with little success. He was closer now. The sails were too obvious, though, weren’t they? A beacon to show the others where he lurked. With effort, he furled them, then pressed a spell of kinesis into the slender vessel’s form, propelling it through the blue salt water. A nearly clear day, but Silas was tired of waiting. He wasn’t sleeping, for all the waiting. His fingers twitched, then his right shoulder. Ignoring the stiffness the kinesis whispered into his legs, Silas dug deep inside himself, imaginary fingers rooting through his gut, and pulled at his luck spell. Pulled hard , muttering his purpose under his breath as the augury magic sifted his mind, trying to make him forget again. But there was so much space in his head, it missed him. For a moment, it missed.

Silas did forget, but when he saw the skiff ahead of him, the woman with a spyglass held up to her eye, her back to him, he remembered. Remembered and grinned until the skin of his mouth threatened to tear. Kinesis, and luck, luck, luck . His gaze zeroed in on her as the piragua slipped ever closer. He was nearly upon her when she turned, gasped, reached for the whistle on her neck—

He thrust out his hand, shattering her spyglass. She shrieked as shards of glass flew into her face. Her hands dropped the whistle to cover her eyes.

Their boats collided. Pushing through stiff joints, Silas pulled the knife from his waistband with one hand, grabbed the back of her neck with the other. It wasn’t as smooth as the piragua cutting the sea, sinking the blade between the bumps of her spine. The fabric and the skin resisted, but Silas pushed, and it cut through and through, stealing away the woman’s voice. She arched back, eyes and mouth wide, her legs giving up beneath her as though they’d been severed, until only Silas’s strength kept her upright.

Silas glared at her wide-eyed expression. She looked familiar. Who is she? he asked the other , but that man was dead and gone, and only open nothingness replied. He adjusted the hand on her neck to better hold her up, but let her sink to her knees to alleviate the strain.

Mirren, a distant memory whispered. Viola Mirren. Queen’s League. Yes, he remembered her, from a life long ago. Their circles had crossed from time to time.

“You’ll be useful, then,” he muttered, and the conjurist shuddered as Silas’s necromancy delved into her, twisting around her life energy and sucking it out, fueling him like a holiday feast, soothing his weariness, his aches. It even staved off the inevitable nausea, or would until he’d finished. He sifted through her essence and smiled. Yes, she would be useful. He couldn’t preserve her body, not without a water spell. Mirren had magic over water, but her magic would cease to be, just like the rest, the moment her flesh and spirit split. He couldn’t use it indefinitely, but he could use it now.

Life-force, kinesis, condensing, he bundled up Viola Mirren’s magic and sucked it into himself, the way he’d first done to his father all those years ago in the ... stable, was it? Or had it been a park? He couldn’t quite recall. It had reduced to a mess of dark colors and sour smells now. Lost in the emptiness.

Even as Mirren’s mouth opened and closed like that of a caught fish, even as her body shuddered with his necromancy, Silas lifted his hand and gestured to the bay, conjuring a storm, pushing Mirren’s water magic into it to speed up the process. His tongue dried as he did, the magic taking its toll on his body, but Mirren’s likely did, too, even as blood wetted her back. Clouds rolled out of the sky, out of the sea, thickening and graying the air. Silas’s knife disappeared, stolen by the price of conjury, so he held Mirren’s head with both hands, continuing to siphon off her. It was a longer process than he would have liked, even with all his practice. But they were alone in this part of the great bay, as luck would have it.

The fog roiled and grew, and as Silas sucked out the last bits of conjury from the woman, her boat began to fade as though God himself had unbuilt it around her, another item claimed for conjury. The wrinkles in Mirren’s skin stood out starkly as the elements stole her moisture. Silas grew thirsty. So thirsty, surrounded by undrinkable water. But there was a canteen on Mirren’s boat. It floated on the gentle waves when the vessel vanished.

Releasing the woman and letting her sink into the sea, Silas reached for it. Uncorked it, but before lifting it to his lips, he emptied his stomach right onto the floating corpse. Wiped his mouth and drank it all.

Reached inside him for another shred of luck.

Owein woke up feeling like an anvil had dropped on his head and cobwebs had replaced his eyes. He blinked bright summer sun from his eyes; it fell right across his face, likely the reason for his stirring. He’d been in the depths of a dream he couldn’t recall, and it took him a moment to sit up, remembering his body as though he’d just gotten it.

Something slipped from the mattress onto the floor.

Stifling a yawn, Owein looked. A letter? He reached for it, recognizing the wax seal immediately, but turned it over to behold his name penned in beautiful handwriting across the front. Beautiful, but tight. She was worried. So was he.

He glanced to his door. Closed. Who had brought it to him? He must have slept for ... it felt like hours. One of the Queen’s League might have returned with it, or perhaps Fallon had made the flight to Portsmouth and back. Incredibly kind of her, knowing how she felt about it all.

Owein hesitated to break the seal. He held the letter in his hands, staring at the Leiningen family crest imprinted in violet wax. The letter was a little thicker than usual. Heavier, but maybe the weight was all in his head.

What if ... what if Owein didn’t go to England?

The thought made his body feel too tight for his spirit. Sucked the heat from his fingers, but he made himself think it anyway. What if he didn’t go? Would the queen send soldiers to Narragansett Bay to retrieve him? Could she, legally? Would Cora hate him? Would she recover quickly, or not care at all? Because, truthfully, that was an option for him. He was one man—a wizard—in the scope of an entire planet. He could run away with Fallon. Hide until it blew over. No one would be able to find him if he didn’t want them to.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Owein breathed deeply, then stretched, trying to alleviate the tightness in his muscles. He broke the seal and pulled free the letter. It comprised several pages, much of it looking like ... poetic verse? He turned to the first page, tracing his finger over his name, almost hearing it in Cora’s voice.

Dearest Owein,

I have heard about William Blightree and am pained at the news. I pray day and night for his recovery. I do not know what to expect, exactly; I am not in the Queen’s League of Magicians and thus am not entitled to the information, and my father is loath to reveal too much. But what good has come from keeping others in the dark? I hate it. I am sick with fear and worry, and hope you and your family are well. I could not bear it if

I was in the library today, reading through a collection of poetry, and I came across a poem that made me think of you. It is by William Wordsworth, entitled “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.” I am aware that the purpose of the poem is to contemplate growth gained from maturity, and to gaze upon life from the perception of an older man. And yet it brought your face to mind in nearly every verse. So I thought I would share it.

Below, she had copied the entirety of the poem—pages of it, all by hand. He marveled at it, wondering how long it had taken to do so, feeling his own hand cramp at the thought of the labor. He read it slowly, wondering, and immediately felt connection to the words.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

Other segments stood out to him, too, and he read those twice, sometimes three times, as he worked his way through the piece. Many of the same segments Cora had underlined, as though knowing they would connect with him.

To me alone there came a thought of grief:

A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong ...

His eyes skipped ahead to each underlined passage.

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream? ...

The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting ...

Some fragment from his dream of human life,

Shaped by himself with newly-learnd art

A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart,

And unto this he frames his song ...

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy Soul’s immensity . . .

O joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live ...

Blank misgivings of a Creature

Moving about in worlds not realised ...

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make

Our noisy years seem moments in the being

Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor Man nor Boy . . .

Though inland far we be,

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea ...

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind ...

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

The letter continued:

Please write to me when you can, Owein. I know it is selfish of me to ask, but hearing from you brings me peace. Even if it’s just a single sentence ensuring your heart still beats.

With most sincerity,

Cora

Releasing a long breath, Owein tenderly refolded the letter and pressed it to his forehead. “Thank you, Cora,” he whispered.

He sat like that for several seconds, losing and finding himself, before standing and slipping the letter into his pocket, pausing when he felt the grease pencil and communion stone there. He pulled the letter back out. Stared at it as though new words might appear on the paper, then placed it inside his wardrobe with the others. “I will,” he promised. “Soon.”

Finger-combing his hair, Owein took the stairs down and went outside, the light dimmer than it had been moments earlier. He thought to round the island again, but spied Hulda jogging toward him, holding her skirt in one hand, her face flushed.

Owein tensed. “What’s wrong?”

Her expression fell when she answered, “Lisbeth has finished.”

A hundred moth cocoons ruptured in his stomach. He nodded and sprinted for Beth’s house. Lord Pankhurst lingered nearby, likely trying to glean what information he could on BIKER’s project. Merritt was speaking to him in soft tones.

Owein came to the kitchen, surprised to see it ... just how Beth and Baptiste left it. Immaculate, the laboratory equipment already packed away into its cases. Lisbeth sat in the chair he’d occupied for the bloodletting and glanced at him with stoic features, holding a slim cylinder with a capped needle, much like the one Owein had stolen from the laboratory in Ohio. She did not speak to him until Hulda arrived, out of breath, and shut the kitchen door behind her.

“There isn’t a lot of it.” Lisbeth spoke so suddenly it startled him. “The bones were old.” She glanced to Hulda, who nodded through a frown, and handed the vial to Owein. The contents had a silvery hue to them. Silver and crimson.

“Please be judicious,” Hulda pleaded. “We don’t know the long-term effects. Perhaps it will build upon what you already possess, or perhaps it will kill you. That’s not something we can safely test for right now.” She pressed her lips together, seeming to steel herself against rising emotion. Then, as suddenly as Lisbeth had spoken, she embraced him, holding him nearly tightly enough to hurt.

Guilt wormed in his belly. “Hulda—”

“Be judicious,” she repeated in a tight whisper. “I—”

She paused. Released him, her eyes cast to the window, which Lisbeth must have unshuttered. Through the panes, Owein spied Jonelle running across the reeds, ignoring the trodden paths, straight for Pankhurst.

He and Hulda exchanged a panicked glance before hurrying outside. Owein ran over in time to hear Jonelle wheeze, “—out in the bay. I pulled him ashore, but ... he’s gone.”

Merritt and Pankhurst both had waxy expressions. Pankhurst said, “Foul?”

Grimacing, Jonelle nodded. “Marks on his neck—”

Owein’s blood turned cold as he looked past them, to the ocean on the south side of the island. “Fog. Why is Mrs. Mirren summoning fog?” That wall of mist did not look like the natural type.

The blood ran out of Hulda’s face, so much so her lips seemed to vanish.

The others turned, seeing the onset of darkening sky and press of thick mist headed their way.

Pankhurst’s hands formed tight fists. “Mrs. Mirren was supposed to report back an hour ago.”

“Silas returns with the fog,” Merritt whispered, barely audible, searching Hulda’s fearful countenance. “Hulda foresaw it.”

Hulda gasped, drawing their attention. But she didn’t look at Merritt, nor Jonelle, nor at the growing storm. Her hazel eyes bugged in her pale face as she stared at Owein’s shirt, of all things. Stared, unblinking, and trembled.

Merritt crossed to her. Took her hand. “Hulda?” Touched the side of her face to pull her attention to him. “Hulda, what did you see?”

“The wrinkles in his shirt.” Her lips barely moved enough to form the words. Slowly her gaze crawled to Owein’s face, and two simultaneous tears ran down either side of her nose. She shook her head.

“Tell me,” Owein pleaded, self-consciously running his hand over the fabric.

She squeezed Merritt’s hand until her knuckles bleached, but her hazel eyes locked on Owein. “I saw you by Whimbrel House,” she croaked. “I saw you ... dead.”