Wizard of Most Wicked Ways (Whimbrel House #4)

Chapter 26

July 21, 1851, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Oliver Whittock’s mother didn’t come.

Despite what the others had said, Owein had still supposed she might have, since William Blightree had been her brother. But Queen Victoria sent another necromancer among the members of the Queen’s League, perhaps the oldest woman Owein had ever laid eyes on. She was small, pale, with hair white as his own, with a mousy disposition but shrewd eyes. She checked the bodies, all of them—Blightree, Mirren, Lion, and what was left of Silas. She put her warm hands on Owein’s cheeks, turned his head either way, then healed the scabbed-over gash on his forehead. Her eyes looked sunken after, like they might roll back into her sinuses. Owein had been the last on her list, having somehow received the fewest life-threatening injuries, despite hurting from toe to crown. Merritt and Jonelle were walking again.

The necromancer dealt with her nausea as regally as a person could, throwing up in private, grimacing in silence. Had Owein possessed a physical body for the same amount of time, perhaps he would have handled his own magical consequences similarly. Though, ever since the serum took hold ... he had handled them better. That was, it seemed he could do more before the same effects took hold. His spells still cost the same, but they were larger now.

To think his powers were still only a fraction of what magic once was ... it awed him. Hulda hadn’t asked about any changes regarding his second dose of serum. For now, Owein chose to keep them to himself.

He thanked the British necromancer quietly before approaching the coffins near the dock. They weren’t ornate; the fallen would be buried in their homeland, honored with a grand funeral, or so Pankhurst promised. Much more aesthetic coffins awaited them. But Owein knelt beside Blightree’s temporary resting place and set a bouquet of honeysuckle and wintergreen atop the lid. He wasn’t embarrassed by his tears; that wasn’t why he turned away from the others who lingered. He just wished for a moment alone with his uncle.

“You saved me twice,” he whispered, running his hand along the wood grain. Blightree had heard the commotion of Silas’s attacks from the Babineauxs’ home, possibly even through the communion stone Owein had brushed. The spiritually split man had crawled from that house to Whimbrel, on his elbows and knees, by the look of the tracks. Lisbeth hadn’t helped him. She hadn’t known; she’d hunkered in the cellar with her equipment until Hulda had the thought to retrieve her. He crawled, he suffered, and he gave up the last of his life so that Owein might have his. “I promise I won’t waste it.” A tear struck the coffin lid. “I promise I’ll live and fulfill all the wishes you had for both of us—Oliver and me.” He took a deep breath, alleviating the sore lump in his throat. “I will carry on your legacy all my life. My great-grandchildren will know your name.”

He knelt there in silence for several moments, leaning on the coffin, until Pankhurst’s gloved hand lightly rested on his shoulder. “It’s time, lad.”

Rolling his lips together, Owein stood, nodding silent thanks to Mirren and Lion both before stepping back. Pankhurst extended his hand. Owein took it.

“I look forward to working with you.” The man offered a wan smile. He released Owein’s hand, and when the stevedores came for Blightree’s coffin, Pankhurst helped carry it onto the ship. Owein noticed, with some comfort, that he left the wildflowers where they lay, careful not to let them fall.

“Thank you,” Owein whispered to the wind.

The accompanying necromancer returned to the ship, giving Pankhurst a simple nod before she boarded—a gesture, he explained, that meant she could not sense any extra spirits anywhere on the island. Silas Hogwood was well and truly gone.

Once that business had concluded, the Brits boarded. Fallon approached him as the ship pulled away from the island’s meager dock. She wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder, saying nothing. Merritt and Hulda came up behind them, respecting the reverence of the moment as they all watched the English steamship cut through blue waters until the eye could no longer discern it between the sky and the sea. The island lay serene around them, bearing its own scars of battle that Owein could right, if he wished to. Yet he wasn’t ready to erase what had happened, not yet.

It wasn’t until he turned away from the coast that Owein caught sight of a modest boat sailing in from the mainland. Shielding his eyes, he squinted. Hulda let out a shuddering cry, and at the sound, Owein recognized them instantly. Eyes tearing, he shivered with relief. It bubbled up his throat in the form of laughter, inundating him.

The Babineauxs and the children had finally come home.

Three weeks later, Owein sat out on the rocks near the south coast of the island, close enough to hear the rustle of gentle waves, far enough to avoid their splash. He held a book on his knee, a new one—a collection of poems by William Wordsworth. The book was his, paid for with his own money, so he marked up each poem, underlining what he liked, circling what he would study, and printing notes in the margins. He had to, more frequently than he would have liked, move the book closer to his face to read the fine type—an issue he’d had since that last fight with Silas Hogwood. The necromancer had sealed his wounds, but his eyesight hadn’t quite recovered from the rifle blow to his head. A whimbrel piped nearby, and a cedar-scented breeze stirred his sun-heated hair, which was due for a trim, though Owein could not bother himself to get it cut, even when Beth offered to do it for him.

He heard a grunt of exertion and glanced up, spying his three-and-two-thirds-year-old niece climbing over the rocks and boulders toward him. After dog-earing the page, he closed the book of poetry and set it aside, spine against the clover, and waited with the patience only a man nearly 228 years old could muster.

Mabol selected a tall rock, sat upon it, and smoothed her skirt. Moved to fluff her hair, but Fallon had braided it for her that morning, and there was nothing loose to fluff.

Grinning, Owein asked, “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I will tell you,” she proclaimed with her nose lifted high, “but read first.”

Owein picked up his book and set it on his lap. “I’m not sure you’ll like this one.”

Mabol frowned. “You never read books I like.”

He scoffed. “I always read books you like.”

“Not by yourself.” She slumped. “Carry on.” She waved her hand, demanding he proceed.

Owein swallowed a sigh and opened the book to the dog-eared page. “‘Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; the horse alone—’”

Mabol groaned and slid off her boulder. “I’m here to tell you that you have a guess.”

“A guess at what?”

“A guess ,” Mabol insisted.

Owein closed his book. “A guest ? Who?” Had Hiram Sutcliffe returned again? Merritt had said he wanted Owein to meet him. They were, technically, family.

“An old man who talks funny,” she answered, and skipped away.

Frowning, Owein tucked the book under his arm and followed, approaching Whimbrel House at a walk, until Mabol decided they were in a race, and she was determined to win. She ran ahead of him and slapped her small hand against the porch railing before losing interest and joining Hattie and Henri by the chicken coop. Little Ellis was with Hulda, again, stationed in Providence, normal work hours resumed. The clock hands ticked nearly three o’clock, so the pair would be home in about three hours.

Owein stepped into the reception hall, feeling, for a moment, the barrel vault ceiling stretching across his back. He knew which floorboards were looser than others and the length of each. He sensed the thickness of each stair and the age of the door hinges, each fiber of the carpet and paint stroke of the portrait on the wall. At the sound of a low voice, he tilted his head. Had he possessed hanging ears like a dog’s, his left would have lifted. Following the sound, he spied Merritt with another man in the living room. Glimpsed Fallon in the far corner, knees drawn to her chest, eyes downcast. Owein entered, then froze.

He had not seen Dwight Adey since that man had brought Owein and Merritt to England to meet the Leiningens.

Mr. Adey turned in his chair. “Owein! My, you’ve grown.” He stood and looked Owein from head to foot to head before extending a hand. “Quite a lot in four years, hm? Nearly four and a half now.”

Owein dazedly shook Adey’s hand while setting the poetry book on the nearest shelf. “What brings you to the States, Mr. Adey?”

The man chuckled and dropped his hand. “It seems I’m the only fellow in these parts with a calendar. Tomorrow, young man, is Lady Cora’s birthday.”

Owein froze. His limbs, his lungs, even his heart, for a moment. Cora’s birthday. Was tomorrow August 12 already? He’d been so preoccupied ever since Silas ... but ... yes. Cora was roughly eight months younger than Oliver Whittock. Oliver Whittock was eighteen.

The marriage contract went into effect on Cora’s eighteenth birthday.

Mr. Adey blinked. “Have I surprised you?”

“I ...” Owein fumbled with his words. Met Merritt’s concerned gaze and, over his, Fallon’s hard one. He swallowed. “No, you haven’t.” He’d written to Cora to wish her a happy birthday in the past. Not this year. “I just ... with everything that’s happened, I admit I lost track of time.”

“Understandable.” Mr. Adey gestured to an open chair as he took his own, but Owein found himself rooted to the floor. “Mr. Fernsby and I were just talking. I’m happy to bring him as your escort again, though I’m aware there are children at home now. Oh, and this.” He reached into his vest and pulled free a letter marked with Cora’s handwriting. “I promised to deliver it.”

Owein’s heart beat quick and shallow. He only distantly recognized that he took the letter. “Yes, three ... he needs to stay here. I’m ...” He exchanged a glance with Merritt, who masked his expression. “I’m fine on my own.”

“As I knew you would be.” Adey rubbed the pad of his thumb along his chin. “I’ve been in touch with the Leiningens, who are happy to host you, of course. The other details I’m not privy to—not my business, you see.”

Owein nodded. Or, he thought he nodded. He couldn’t really feel his neck.

Footsteps crossed the room. Someone grabbed his arm. It took him a moment to recognize Fallon. “Owein isn’t looking well.” She spoke under the guise of friendliness, but her tone carried an edge. “Let me get him some fresh air. I’m sure you’d like to stay for dinner?”

It wasn’t Fallon’s place to invite him, but no one said otherwise. Owein blinked, and suddenly he was in the reception hall, at the front door. He locked his knees, impeding Fallon from pulling him outside.

She turned to him, empathy dribbling off her like spring rain. “You don’t have to talk to him right now, Owein. You don’t have to play by their rules. Take time to think it through.”

He shook himself, though it lessened the shock of it all by only a fraction. “Yes, that’s true.” He rubbed his eyes. Combed back his hair. “But ...”

Fallon squeezed his hand, the one not holding Cora’s letter.

“I’m so sorry, Fallon—”

“No, stop.” She pressed two fingers to his lips. “There are options, Owein. You know there are options. Even if this sassenach had a gun to your head, nothing is absolute.” She lowered her fingers, her other hand squeezing his even harder. “Please tell me you understand that.”

He did, too well. He’d signed his name, but he wasn’t on British soil anymore. There was a whole unclaimed nation stretching out to the west, and there was Fallon and the Druids and all the promises between them, spoken and not. All of it, crushing him.

“I need a minute,” he managed, half whisper, half croak. “Alone. I’m sorry, I just—”

Fallon shook her head. Her eyes glistened. He’d never seen her cry. “Don’t apologize. Take your time. Do what you need to do.”

He forced taut muscles in his back to relax. Nodded and pulled from her grasp. He didn’t go outside, nor back to the living room, but upstairs. The summer had made his room hot and stuffy, but he closed the door anyway, then the window. Stared at nothing for a while, until he came to himself once more. Opened his wardrobe and pulled out the thick stack of Cora’s letters. Brought them to the bed and sat beside them. Breathed in and out until his body felt his own again.

He began to read, starting from the beginning, unable to break the seal on Cora’s last letter to him. Because one way or another, he knew it would be her last.

Mr. Adey did stay for dinner.

Owein heard them all talking downstairs. Beth and Merritt, Baptiste and Hulda and Adey. Not Fallon. He could have picked up her Irish lilt in the middle of a busy Boston street. Her voice wasn’t among them, and neither was his.

He read the letters, even the ones he’d memorized. Read through them in order, trying to recall what he’d written in response. At some point he fell asleep, because he woke lying down, his room a little dimmer, a tray of food, no doubt left by Beth, on his writing desk. His appetite wasn’t strong, but he ate anyway—he’d promised Blightree he’d take care of this body, and Owein Mansel kept his promises.

He noticed, in the silver curve of the spoon, that he’d slept on one of the letters. Ink mimicking Cora’s handwriting marked his cheek, the black letters backward. He studied it for a moment before licking his thumb and scrubbing it off.

He sat with his half-finished meal a long moment, his mind still frazzled, the sun setting. Footsteps came up the stairs. Knowing they were for him, Owein pushed away from his desk and opened a hole in the wall of the house, jumping down into the cool summer evening. He wasn’t ready for them. Not yet. He barely felt the side effects of the spell; the numbness from the news hadn’t completely abated.

He should have been more prepared. He would have been, if the summer had unfurled more ... peacefully. All his summers on the island had been peaceful and perfect until now. Strange that this one had been so tumultuous.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Owein started a loop around the island. Not to scan the waters for danger, but to stare at the passing flora at his feet and pick apart his thoughts. To take in the scents of weeping cherries and honeysuckle and listen to the song the wind played on boughs of sycamore and maple. He inhaled deeply the scents of the bay and let them fill him. Let them drive away the stiffness and disorientation. Let him see himself and his present, his future.

Part of him had always assumed that Cora would find someone else, anyone else, because she’d been so distraught by the idea of marrying him. That had been before their letters, though, and if Dwight Adey was here, there was no other suitor. Not one the magic-obsessed nobility would approve of, at least. Maybe Cora remarked upon it in her letter. He still hadn’t read it. All her letters over the last three years he’d opened readily. This one sat in his pocket like a lead ingot.

He mulled over his memories of her, the words in her letters. Found a crevice in the island, a natural ditch that led to the coast. Dropped into it and walked through mud and a couple of inches of seawater until he found a decent rock to sit on. He sat and closed his eyes, drawing into himself the scents of the sea, and took a note from Hulda’s book.

He tried to see his future.

He imagined himself packing his bags and leaving with Adey, alone this time, wishing his family farewell for an indeterminate amount of time. Not forever, surely, but he was moving across the ocean to a different continent entirely, taking upon himself responsibilities not easily set aside. Visiting would be difficult, and happen seldom. He tried to imagine Cora, painting her blue eyes and brown hair on a grown version of her. Imagined her smiling at him, reading with him. Pictured the elaborate dinner parties and stuffy aristocrats who would become his comrades. Who may not accept him, as other as he was. Tried to imagine himself in a too-large house with a mother-in-law constantly asking after grandchildren, and doctors or scholars or whomever it would be poking and prodding his children to see what magic they might possess so they could be betrothed to strangers in the future. He tried to recount every rule Hulda had drilled into him over the years and apply them to every facet of his life. He pictured himself in the blue uniform of the Queen’s League of Magicians, working alongside people like Jonelle and Pankhurst, using his magic for a country he felt no allegiance toward.

He drew in another breath of sea air, and instead, imagined a life in the wild. First, perhaps, to the American West, in the direction of the Ohio facility. Starting a homestead, or perhaps simply exploring, Fallon at his side, teasing him and pushing him into new adventures. Eventually they’d make their way up to Canada. When things across the pond had settled, they’d cross the ocean to Ireland. Reunite with Sean, Kegan, and Morgance. He’d meet the others he knew only by name, from Fallon’s stories. Live in the forest, embrace it, find a second family away from Blaugdone Island. He imagined great bonfires splitting the night, flute music, and dancing with Fallon under the stars. Imagined Sean tying a cord around his and Fallon’s clasped hands as he had with Merritt and Hulda. Imagined life free of the cages people so often put around themselves and others.

He floated with the images until he was old and gone again, until the world would move on without him. Both visions broke his heart. But he realized as he opened his eyes to the depth of twilight, one broke his heart a little more than the other.

When he climbed out of the ditch, he pressed a hand to his chest as though he might hold the pieces together. His thoughts still spun as he picked his way through reeds, clover, grass, and goosefoot, but at least they all spun in the same direction now. A direction that hurt. A direction that terrified him, but there was no choice he could make that would be easy. He could only hope that, someday, she would forgive him.

He was in the middle of that agonizing thought when Fallon stepped from behind a slippery elm. She glanced once toward Whimbrel House, alight with candles within, before hurrying to Owein’s side.

She grasped both his hands in hers and squeezed. “You don’t have to do this.” She kept her voice down but spoke too earnestly to manage a whisper. “You could come back with me, to Ireland. The Druids would welcome you.”

On another day, Owein might have chuckled. Now, he just felt heavy. Squeezed Fallon’s hands back, maybe too hard, but she didn’t complain. “I know, Fallon.”

“You don’t need Druid magic,” she continued, words so quick they seemed to spill from her lips. “They love you, Owein. We’ve talked about it before, on my trips back. They ... They already know everything. They’re willing to hide you until this passes over.”

“Fallon—”

She went on, “The monarchy, they won’t find you in Ireland. I promise you they won’t. And even if they bothered to try, we could slip into Scotland or Greenland. They wouldn’t search too long, not when they’re so desperate to put a baby in their broodmare—”

“Don’t call her that,” Owein pleaded, but Fallon didn’t seem to hear him.

“They’ll move on and find someone else, like they did with her sister. Cora can marry someone else! If it was so important for it to be you , they never would have added that clause. They never would have let you come back home. I know how they work—how they manipulate everything around them to get what they want. And your magic and hers barely align anyway. It’s just a way to control Cora and her family, and to control you.”

Owein’s throat tightened. He tried to swallow but found he couldn’t.

She stepped closer to him, so that they shared the same breath. “Owein,” she pleaded. Moonlight glinted off tears in her eyes. “We can even stay here if you want to stay here. In the States.”

He shook his head. “You’ll miss your—”

“You can’t marry her if you’re married to someone else, right?” she pressed, and Owein’s stomach dropped into his pelvis. “They won’t recognize a Druid marriage, but it’s easy to elope here.”

His organs seemed to melt, yet a chill coursed up his middle. Her words were like a hammer to his sternum. He felt it crack. Felt it expose his too-quick, bleeding heart. “Fallon,” he whispered.

“Please, Owein.”

They stood like that for a long time, the air thick between them, cold hands clasped so tightly he couldn’t tell his fingers from hers. Ash barked back at the house. Digging for words, Owein licked his lips. His voice had a slight tremor when he spoke. “My father ... I don’t remember a lot about him. But he was a good man. I know that much.”

Fallon searched his eyes, confused, before offering a hesitant nod.

“Merritt”—Owein swallowed—“he’s a good man, too. The best I know.” His gut twisted and shrunk. “I want to be one, too.”

Fallon’s grip somehow tightened even more. “You are, Owein.”

“Fallon.” Her name shivered as it passed his tongue, thick with emotion. “Fallon, I signed my name to that contract.”

Her hold lightened.

“I made a promise.” His heart resolidified, only to shred itself with a thousand rusty knives. “I promised her.”

A tear escaped Fallon’s eye, tracing the heart shape of her face. “Owein, you don’t have to—”

“But I do,” he whispered, releasing her hand to wipe away her tear, only to have one of his own fall. “I’ve ... I’ve always known I would. I can’t turn my back on that. On everything they gave me.”

“ Blightree gave it to you,” Fallon ground out, more tears clouding her eyes. “Blightree, not Cora.”

“He did, and he died to give it to me again.” He paused, nearly overcome. “Cora is just as bound to it as I am.”

She released him, shaking her head. Swept hair behind her. Wiped her face dry. Meeting his eyes, she asked, “Do you love her?”

He shifted back, as though she’d pushed him. “I ...”

No words came out.

Her anger cracked and fell, leaving only sorrow to weigh down her beautiful features. “Don’t you love me , Owein?”

Stepping forward, he seized her in a tight embrace. Held her close, as though he could fuse her body to his. She crushed him back, hugging nearly hard enough to cut off his air. He burrowed his face into her hair and simply held her like that. He could have held her like that forever, and it wouldn’t have been long enough.

But he had promised.

“I will always love you,” he murmured.

She knew it for what it was. He didn’t have to explain further; it was like that with Fallon. Easy, straightforward. They understood each other, even when one of them wore the body of a dog. That truth, I will always love you , settled between them, another promise Owein would keep.

“I can still help them,” he whispered into her hair. “The Druids. I’ll have some political power—”

She pulled back, shaking her head, taking her scents of summer and irises with her. “I don’t care about that anymore, Owein.” She looked at him, moonlight reflecting off her eyes, and in them he saw a final glimmer of hope, a moment gifted for Owein to come to his senses and change his mind.

He didn’t, and it crushed him.

“You know where to find us,” Fallon managed through a tight throat. She barely got out the last words: “If you ever need us.”

She let go of him. Pulled away with her head turned so he wouldn’t see her face, even with the night masking it. She pulled away a woman, and flew away a hawk, leaving her linen dress in a pile at his feet. The sinking truth that she wouldn’t return for it struck him like a sledgehammer.

Owein fell to his knees and picked it up, folding it into a nice rectangle before his dam broke and he sobbed, watering grape fern and common reed with his tears.

Sometime later, Merritt came out and sat beside him, a warm hand on his back, weathering the sorrow at his side. With his help, Owein made his way back to the house, a house that was once all of him and would shortly be his no longer.

When he fell asleep, he did so with a tearstained letter in his hand.

Dear Owein,

I am trying very hard to be honest with you in all things, so I will confess this is my seventh draft of this letter.

I’m eighteen now. Or I will be by the time Mr. Adey delivers this to you. I’m so very excited to see you, Owein. Meet you. I know we’ve met before, but this feels like a first time, doesn’t it? It’s so different, speaking to a person face-to-face as opposed to writing. I am afraid I will not be as eloquent in person. Afraid I will wear politeness as a mask as everyone else does, without an envelope to hide behind.

I hope you do not resent me, Owein. Me, or our impending marriage. You have been nothing but perfect in your letters to me, but my greatest fear is that this is not what you want and that I will be a burden to you. I promise I will not be. I will do everything in my power to be a good wife. But I am nervous. Excited—so excited—but nervous.

I have so much to show you. You shall finally see the library! I have requested a few additions to it that I think you might like.

Please understand that you can take your time. This is a big change from the life you describe so wonderfully in your letters. I will help you in any way I can. We will do this together. Please have faith in me.

And since I have a little room left on this page, I will tell you the silliest thing that’s been on my mind lately. Last we spoke, you had the most peculiar lilt to your voice. A little Welsh, I think, and a little American. Do you still speak that way? But I suppose I will discover it for myself soon enough.

With my utmost love,

See you soon,

Cora