Heir of Uncertain Magic

Book 2: Whimbrel House

by Charlie N Holmberg

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

One man is on a journey to unravel his magical lineage in the next spellbinding novel of the Whimbrel House series by Amazon Charts and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Charlie N. Holmberg.

Thanks to house tamer Hulda Larkin, the mischief infesting Whimbrel House has calmed. But if Hulda’s job is done, what does that mean for Merritt Fernsby, inheritor of the remote Narragansett Bay estate, who’s only now coming to terms with his enchanted place in the world?

Merritt has realized his own burgeoning powers, which draw the thoughts of every plant, insect, and dog. His nights are sleepless, with an uncontrollable cacophony of voices that compel a long-overdue search into his uncanny bloodline. It’s not the only puzzle uniting Merritt and his ex-housekeeper, Hulda. Her friend and former employer at the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms has disappeared. Hulda herself is up for the now-vacant position of institute director, and her rival for the role is a stranger who’s suspiciously curious about Whimbrel House—and could have connections to an old foe.

As Merritt struggles to face his estranged family and Hulda dives into the institute’s secrets, the two are brought intimately closer than ever into the mysteries of wizardry, chaos, and love.

 

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Release date: April 11, 2023

Publisher: 47North

Sample

Chapter 1

November 2, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt had just slipped back into a state of dozing when the voice of a mouse jolted him to alertness. Hide hide. Hide. Hide hide. Hide. Food? Food? Hunt. Hunt. Hide.

Groaning, he pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Every night. Every night since escaping Silas Hogwood’s lair this had happened. Like that damnable man had cursed him. Like visiting the magicked haunt had jolted the ability he’d only had a trickle of previously. Merritt had lived thirty-one years of his life sleeping just fine, but the moment he formally met Silas Hogwood, the voices would not leave him be.

And why was he so hot?

Merritt ripped off his shirt and chucked it across the room, sighing as coolness prickled his skin.

Hide hide hide.

Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind.

“Not you again,” he croaked, scowling at the window. The gauzy curtains were drawn, but he could see the shadow of the red maple just outside, its boughs shifting gently in the breeze. That blasted tree pestered him more than anyone, Owein excluded.

He covered his ears, but of course, that didn’t help. Communion spells weren’t auditory—they went straight into his brain, and he hadn’t yet found a way to shut them out. It wasn’t a constant flow of plant and animal speech, thank the heavens, but it did increase at night. Perhaps because his guard was down. Or maybe everything on this blasted island was nocturnal.

Wiiiiiiiind, the tree whispered.

“Yes, I know.” Merritt whipped the blanket off, trudged to the window, and yanked back the curtains. The island was dark, save for the light of the moon and stars and the distant glow of a lighthouse. He couldn’t see much of anything, but he could hear all of it.

Streeeeetch, wheezed the grass.

Wiiiiiiiiiiiind, repeated the tree.

Coooooold, sang . . . a cricket? He wasn’t sure on that one.

The voices spun and banged in his head, awakening a familiar headache that no tonic could dull. Merritt pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window, trying to think about something else—his book, Hulda, the laundry, politics—but the voices pierced through, regardless.

For the love of heaven, shut up.

He pleaded. Prayed. He was so tired. Two and a half weeks of this, each night progressively worse than the last, and he was so, so tired. He banged his forehead against the glass. Once, twice, three times. Stopped counting and just banged, which worsened the headache, but if he could just shake the voices loose, maybe he could get a few hours of rest tonight. Just a few hours—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Merritt?”

The mental voices quieted as an auditory one pricked his ears. He pulled back from the window to see Hulda in the doorway, holding a candle, wrapped in a robe for modesty. Had he been so loud as to rouse her?

“Again?” she asked, sounding tired herself.

Merritt rubbed his eyes. It won’t stop, he tried to say, but his voice didn’t come. Muteness was a side effect of communion. An infuriating side effect.

He turned back to the window and punched the glass, hard enough to hurt his knuckles but not enough to break it.

He screamed a string of silent obscenities at the window and everything beyond it.

“Oh dear.” Hulda pushed the door all the way open and stepped in. Paused when her candle illuminated him. “Oh dear.”

Merritt met her eyes, which were trained on his chest. He looked down.

Right. Where had he thrown that shirt?

He couldn’t apologize, so he just waved a hand and tromped to his bed, flinging the blankets aside, scouring until he found the thing hanging off his trunk. He shrugged it back on. Snatched a notebook off his bedside table and perched on the trunk, writing with a pencil. Hulda came closer to better see.

I guess we’re even now.

She swatted him with her free hand. “At least your deplorable sense of humor is still intact.”

A smile tugged on his lips, making him feel a little better. It just so happened that Merritt had—by accident—caught Hulda in her underthings on two occasions. Once during a private dance lesson she’d given to Beth, his maid, and again in that basement in Marshfield. Apparently dresses didn’t lend well to sneaking through canal drains.

He hadn’t minded in the slightest, but he did not tell Hulda that.

I’m going to cut down that tree, he wrote. He needn’t explain; this was not the first midnight—or midday—conversation they’d had via this notebook because he couldn’t speak. It took only a few spells for the island to rob him of his voice.

After setting down the pencil, he rubbed his eyes again.

“I’m sorry.” Hulda lowered herself onto the trunk and grasped his shoulder. “I thought that draft would help.”

He shook his head. The sleeping tincture she’d fed him before bed no longer worked. It only made his body feel heavy now.

Merritt flipped back a page and pointed at a dark passage written in capital letters from the night before. I’M NOT TRYING TO USE IT.

“I know.” She rubbed that same shoulder. She rolled her lips together. “Merritt.”

He shook his head. He knew what she was going to say.

“You need to go see him.”

Exhaling slowly, Merritt ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, half-knotted from tossing and turning through the night.

“He may very well be a communionist, too. Or at least know one,” she pressed.

Nelson Sutcliffe, she meant. The man who was supposedly his biological father—an interesting fact Merritt had recently learned. A fun, jagged puzzle piece in the mess of his life. His secret parentage was the reason his father—Peter Fernsby, the man who had raised him—had hated him so much. Enough that he’d bribed Merritt’s sweetheart to fake a pregnancy, all so he’d have a reason to disinherit Merritt and throw him out of the house.

But Nelson Sutcliffe was in Cattlecorn, Merritt’s hometown. Merritt’s parents were also in Cattlecorn. And he hadn’t spoken to them—or any of his family—in thirteen years. Peter Fernsby had made sure of it.

Merritt was well aware that these new revelations needed to be confronted. That Sutcliffe and Peter needed to be confronted, too. He needed to—wanted to—take back the family that had been so unjustly ripped away from him. And yet the thought of stepping foot in that town made him sick to his stomach. Made his mind spin and stop working. He just . . . couldn’t.

Wiiiiiiind.

I know there’s blasted wind! Merritt shouted without sound at the tree, then chucked the notebook at it. It thumped hard against the window and fell to the floor.

“Merritt.” Hulda set down the candle and took his jaw in her hands, making him look at her. “Focus on me. Listen to my words. Try to shut the rest of it out.”

Easier said than done.

The retort must have been in his expression, because Hulda added, “I know it’s a monotonous exercise, but do try.”

Merritt withheld a sigh and looked into Hulda’s eyes, which were almost brown in the poor lighting. She recited a children’s poem, and Merritt loosely followed it, more interested in the movement of her soft, full lips than the actual words. There was no way on God’s verdurous earth Hulda would let him kiss her here and now. They weren’t properly dressed, it was the middle of the night, and they were in Merritt’s bedroom. She was far too prudent for that, which was truthfully for the better. But still. Right then, Merritt wanted nothing more than to be close to her. If he couldn’t kiss her, he’d settle for laying his head on her breast, shutting his eyes, and maybe, maybe, falling asleep.

She finished the poem. Searched his face. “Any better?”

“Minutely,” he wheezed.

She managed a small smile. “Let me make you some more tea. Maybe it’ll help this time.” There was doubt in her voice, but she was trying, and he appreciated her efforts. Taking up the candle, she stood, checking that the tie of her robe was secure. “And there is also the matter of—” She paused and looked over him, slouched on that trunk and rubbing his throat. “Never mind. We’ll address it in the morning.”

“Thanks,” he said, but it came out rough and unintelligible. The sound of paws outside the door announced Owein, but Hulda slipped off and sent him back to bed. He’d spent the first few nights in Merritt’s room, but his thoughts only added to the nighttime cacophony, so Hulda had moved him to the sitting room.

Twisting on the trunk, Merritt laid his head down on the mattress, sleep pulling his eyelids closed.

A moment later, the soft worrying of a mouse trickled into his mind.

***

“So I can only court you outside the walls of this house?”

Hulda rolled her eyes—Merritt wondered if she realized how often she did that, and how inconsistent it was with her otherwise meticulous and proper persona. She ran her hands over the surface of the dining room table before pulling them together. “It’s not my intention to put boundaries on our . . . courtship,” she said softly, like a young girl might. Like she still couldn’t believe that nine days ago she’d returned Merritt’s declaration and kissed him in the wilds of the island. Merritt tried to hide a smile, but he didn’t do a good job of it. “I’m simply stating,” Hulda went on, “that it’s inappropriate within the confines of our roles as master of the house and housekeeper.”

Merritt stifled a yawn—he had managed to get back to sleep last night, giving him a solid four hours of rest—and turned to the window, hoping the sunlight would keep him alert. A few snow flurries brushed by the dining room window, which had recently been repaired by a magic mutt with an absurd amount of chaocracy spells stitched to his spirit. It was midmorning, but the cloud-choked skies made it look much later—or perhaps much earlier. Winter was settling in on the East Coast, barely giving autumn much of a chance to show up to the party. Yet their little island still seemed apart from it all, its lingering leaves brighter shades of red and richer hues of yellow, the house somehow untouched by the weather despite its lack of mystical wizardry. Sometimes Merritt forgot it wasn’t enchanted anymore—a little tidbit only those within its walls knew, plus one—and sometimes he suspected that maybe it still was.

Something clamored in the kitchen where Baptiste, their chef, was already preparing for lunch. Merritt wasn’t sure where Beth had gone. Likely making herself scarce. She had a knack for knowing when private conversations were underway, perhaps due to her gift of clairvoyancy. It was odd to have a private conversation in what was technically a public room, but if Hulda was so concerned about Merritt courting her in the house, she certainly wasn’t going to allow such a discussion in one of their bedrooms.

It was probably the lack of a shirt last night that had done it.

Something brushed his leg. Ah yes, Owein. Sometimes Merritt still forgot the house’s former haunt had his own body again. Owein was a terrible eavesdropper. Understandable—when his spirit had possessed the house, he could watch and listen to anything he wanted. Now he had to actually make the effort to pad into whatever area exchanges were happening in. Still, he was rather good at it. Perhaps Merritt shouldn’t have trimmed Owein’s nails. Perhaps a bell and a collar were in order.

“As for housekeeper,” Merritt emphasized, “you’re not technically—”

“Yes, I know.” Hulda knit her fingers together. She sat at the head of the table, just around its corner from Merritt, her back to the window, her hair swept away from her face less severely than it used to be, albeit with every pin and curl precisely placed. Like she’d been carved out of marble by Michelangelo himself. She wore her most rigid dress, the olive one with a collar high enough to choke and sleeves to the palms of her hands, and Merritt guessed that had been intentional as well. Setting boundaries would have proven much more difficult if that delectable collarbone of hers were showing. “I may not even bear that title anymore.”

Her silver glasses had slipped down her nose. Reaching over, Merritt gingerly moved them back up. Her hazel eyes met his, and a lovely dusting of pink highlighted her cheeks.

Then she straightened, pulling from his reach.

Merritt sighed. “No word from BIKER?”

She shook her head. “Not since the resignation.” She meant that of Myra Haigh, the head of the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms. Myra, who had helped clean up the mess with Silas Hogwood . . . and who had started it in the first place. She’d resigned by letter only days after the incident in Marshfield, then vanished without an inkling of goodbye. Hulda had found out about it secondhand from Sadie Steverus, BIKER’s secretary, and Merritt had heard it from Hulda. No one knew where Myra had gone, something that had obviously been troubling Hulda. It might not be so bad, perhaps, if it was simply an early retirement, but outside that dark, dilapidated house, away from the mess and the watchmen, Myra had, in harsh, hushed tones, been very clear about one thing.

Say nothing of this to anyone until I tie up the loose ends. It won’t be long, but for the safety of us all, wait for my approval.

Said “approval” had never come, and Merritt had begun to worry it never would. Less skin off his back than Hulda’s. Just yesterday the woman had clipped her fingernails short to keep herself from gnawing at them.

Hulda had been back to BIKER only once since Merritt’s abduction, specifically to search for clues to Myra’s whereabouts, but she’d come back empty-handed. The two women had been close before the Hogwood ordeal, making the nonattendance that much stranger.

“Then I suppose you’re moving back to Bright Bay?” he asked. The Bright Bay Hotel was the front and headquarters for BIKER, with the institution’s offices located in the back.

She frowned. “I think it’s for the best. For now. But it’s—”

I don’t want Hulda to leave.

Merritt glanced between his legs, where the snout of a medium-sized mutt rested on the edge of his chair.

“Merritt?”

He glanced up, having missed what Hulda had said. “Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I still can’t manage two voices at once.”

She blinked, then scooted her chair back and glanced beneath the table. Clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“He wants you to stay.” Merritt shrugged, though in truth, he wanted Hulda to stay. He’d grown so used to her being around when he woke up, when he ate, when he worked . . . “But Boston isn’t so far.” Not with a magicked boat and kinetic tram to hasten the journey. It was a two-hour trip, give or take.

Her shoulders relaxed. “Yes, it’s not far. And I, of course, will visit. I’m going to stop by Myra’s home—see if there’s anything of note there.” She glanced around the modestly sized dining room, which had once been haunted with shadows and violently swinging doors. Now it was simple and quaint and . . . home, its walls a pale yellow, its trim newly stained cherry . . . Though how much like home would it feel without Hulda . . . ?

Perhaps he was being a little melodramatic.

“I could build you a house on the island,” he offered, half-serious.

She raised an eyebrow. “In the winter? Single-handedly? There aren’t enough trees here for a second cottage.”

A smile pulled on his lips. “I’ll do it entirely with wardship spells.” Another recent revelation: Merritt could build invisible walls. Not that he had any sort of grasp on that unexpected bit of magical talent.

“That would hardly be private.”

He let his face go lax, feigning confusion. “Why would you need privacy?”

She swatted his arm, and he chuckled. “You are a rake, Mr. Fernsby.”

He caught her hand before she could withdraw it. “Surely that comment wasn’t bad enough to warrant chastisement via my surname.”

He could see her fighting a smile. “You are a rake, Merritt.”

He placed a kiss atop her hand. “Let me escort you. I’ll carry your bags. I need to see McFarland anyway.” McFarland was his editor, also based in Boston. Merritt needed to turn in the ending of his book.

“I’ve only one bag,” she countered, but her disposition softened all the same. Her eyes dropped to their still-entwined hands, and somberness crossed her features. “And what of Cattlecorn?” she asked.

His stomach sank. Perhaps it would be better to have Hulda out of the house so she could stop reminding him of his unwanted responsibilities. “What of it?”

“Merritt.” She frowned. “You’ll never gain control of your power if you don’t ask for help. I don’t know any communionists who can step in. And there’s the matter of your family.”

Pressing his lips together, Merritt released her hand and leaned back in his chair, balancing on its back legs. Hulda hated it when he did that, but she made no comment. “I did write a letter.”

“To your mother?”

His gut churned sour. “To Sutcliffe.” He’d tried again and again to write to his mother, whom he hadn’t seen or spoken to in thirteen years—not since his father’s machinations to disinherit him. But every time Merritt tried, he couldn’t get past her name. He just . . . couldn’t. He’d tried Rose, and he’d tried Mother and a slew of others, but regardless of the greeting, his brain would go blank or his lunch would threaten to crawl up his esophagus. He just couldn’t, and he wasn’t sure why.

For some reason writing to Sutcliffe, a man he knew by occupation and little else, was easier.

“That’s good. You posted it?”

He ran a hand down his face. “Beth can post it.” Or he’d just burn it and pretend he’d never learned the sharp truth of his past. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t.

“You’ve not posted it? Isn’t Fletcher coming this weekend to accompany you?”

“Post is quick,” he offered.

Where is it? I’ll give it to her. A tail whapped the floor.

“No.”

“No?” Hulda asked.

Merritt lowered the chair onto all four legs. “No to Owein.”

“What did he say?”

He waved his hand, exhaustion pulling on him.

Why not?

Rubbing his forehead, he mumbled, “Turn off.”

Hulda’s lips pulled into a sympathetic frown. Owein whined beneath the table, sending a shard of guilt through Merritt’s middle. Dogs couldn’t talk, making Merritt the only outlet Owein had to be heard. Surely he couldn’t fault the boy for speaking as much as he did. The “boy” who was technically a couple of centuries Merritt’s senior . . .

“I’ll see if I can find a tutor,” Hulda suggested. “For the communion, and for the rest.”

Communion, wardship, chaocracy. Those were the magics tied up in Merritt’s blood. He’d love to get rid of the first. He’d still seen no sign of the last.

Merritt pulled his hands from his face. “How does one find a tutor? Magic is so diluted . . .”

She scoffed. “I do have some resources. In the meantime, reach out to Sutcliffe . . . and see what you can learn from your uncle.”

Merritt glanced down at the dog. He kept forgetting he and Owein were technically related. How many “greats” was Owein again? Seven? Eight? “Owein doesn’t have communion spells.”

The table turned a bright shade of purple as the mutt showcased one of the spells he did have—alteration, or the magic of shape-shifting and metamorphosis. Because they shared a bloodline, Merritt’s and Owein’s magic should, theoretically, overlap. Wardship and communion came from elsewhere in the family tree, according to the records Hulda had pulled from the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic. And while Merritt had no spells in the school of alteration, Silas Hogwood had been equipped with a spell of intuition, and he’d declared Merritt to possess chaocracy magic. Spells of order and disorder, which Owein, his umpteenth great-uncle, had used to make Whimbrel House a living hell before they reached a truce with one another. Something Owein’s parents had passed down their line, though if Merritt had any of it, his magic wouldn’t be nearly as powerful. Magic was a finite resource, after all, and there were too many nonmagical folk in his genealogy.

A headache was starting to pulse behind Merritt’s forehead. Feeling Hulda’s eyes on him, he said, “I’ll go with Fletcher.” His best friend also hailed from Cattlecorn. Having him tag along could make this . . . easier.

But Merritt still didn’t want to go. He never said it aloud, but if penning a letter to his mother—and he made a living as a writer—made him sick, the thought of returning to New York made him positively miserable. He tried to mentally walk himself through it—packing a bag, buying a ticket, getting on the train and off the train, walking through town . . . but he could never finish the narrative, even just in thought. There was a thick, adamant wall there, too tall to climb and too wide to walk around.

And yet, inside it was a little boy who desperately missed his family. A little boy Merritt barely recognized, and—

“You look sick.” Hulda rose from her chair and pressed her palm to his forehead.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” He exhaled slowly and stood as well. Owein skittered out from beneath the table and darted into the reception hall after God knew what, his paws barely gaining purchase on the wooden floorboards. Merritt pasted on a smile. “Let’s get your things. Plenty of time to get to Boston and back.”

She studied his face, hazel irises darting right and left. “Not yet,” she insisted. “Maybe you should get some rest.”

He considered for half a second. “Maybe I should.” Which he wouldn’t—naps were slightly easier than sleeping at night, but if he stayed awake, he’d have more time with Hulda.

Besides, Merritt also knew no amount of rest would cure the ailment coiled in his belly like a snake, its fangs sunk in deep and slowly seeping venom. So he pushed it away, burying it beside the other half-rotted corpses he’d collected over the years. Poured on dirt and rocks and logs until the graves were hardly recognizable.

He was already starting to feel better.

***

Owein ran through thistle and goosefoot, stretching his legs. Everything was cold beneath his paws. It was so strange feeling cold again. Stranger even than having four legs, because he barely remembered what it was like to have two. Before this, he hadn’t had legs in a very long time. Over two hundred years.

Time was a strange thing. He felt that now, too. When he’d been in the house, it’d been different. Everything had been different.

But Owein thought having a body was excellent. He’d forgotten how great it felt. Then again, the memories he still had of his human body were of being weak and sick and hot.

He might not have chosen the form of a dog, but it was infinitely better than being a house, most days. He hadn’t adjusted to the cost of using his magic now—confusion and disfigurement—so he tried to use it less, but magic had been all he could do for so long, it felt strange not to use it. He tried to occupy his time with reading, which was boring but necessary, he guessed.

The wind whipped past his ears, pushing the taste of winter into his mouth. Muscles burned as he darted beneath the low branches of a half-bald tree. It was shaped a little like a balloon, and the urge to make it look more like a balloon rolled up his body, but he stopped himself. He didn’t want his body to contort out here in the cold, and last time he’d taken on a big chaocracy project, he’d completely forgotten what he’d been doing halfway through it, thanks to the accompanying confusion. Frustrated, Owein barked at the tree instead.

And it was frustrating. For two centuries, Owein had been magic. That was why he was here, in this house, and his family was elsewhere, in heaven, or so Miss Taylor said. Since Owein hadn’t wanted to die, his spirit had imprinted itself here.

He didn’t remember dying. If he held very still and thought very hard, he could remember being sick. Remember heaviness settling in his chest—the chest of a person, not a dog. Almost remember the twitching of five fingers on human hands. But it had been so long, and it was hard to pull up memories of before.

He liked Miss Taylor. Beth. He called her Beth when she wasn’t listening, which was always. She could sense his moods, thanks to her magic, but couldn’t hear his words like Merritt did. Well, no one could really hear him. He didn’t have a voice capable of forming human words. But no one had heard him before, either.

Didn’t make it sit better.

Owein ran, chased a hare, leapt over a log, enjoying the newness of now, until his body started to ache and begged him to slow down.

He did, near the north coast of the small island—his home, and the only place he’d ever really known. He stood at the tip of a short cliff, the ocean about five feet down, lapping against dark rocks like it was trying to climb up and not doing so well with it. Lifting his head, he looked out into the bay, to land in the distance—

And his body seized up in a new way. His lungs shrunk, though he’d done no alteration magic. His body, warm from the exercise, sucked in the chill of the air. Owein retreated, a whine escaping his throat.

He didn’t like it. The ocean and those unfamiliar spaces beyond. He shook hard but couldn’t disperse the uneasy feeling. The fear creeping up like he’d stepped in an anthill. The shadows on the edge of his vision. He shook himself, and they went away.

The only time Owein had ever left his island was when that scary wizard had come for him. The man had put his hands on the walls of Whimbrel House and sucked Owein’s soul right out of them. Shoved him into this body, and then hurt him. Owein didn’t remember clearly the first time he’d died, but Silas’s spells had felt . . . familiar. Not the pain shooting through his muscles as the wizard tried to wrench power from him, but the . . . He struggled to describe it. The flashes, the wavering, the darkness, had reminded him of before. Owein had writhed and cried and begged, but that man hadn’t cared. If Merritt and Hulda hadn’t intervened, Owein would have died. There’d have been no magic left to tether him anywhere.

Lying down in yellowing clover, Owein whined again and set his head on his front legs. No, he didn’t like it out there. Portsmouth, after the rescue, had been exciting. Too exciting. It had been the only time he’d left the island, ever. There’d been so many people and smells and sounds and buildings he’d gotten overwhelmed before reaching the boat. Overwhelmed and terrified until he stepped foot on Blaugdone Island again. His safe space. His home.

Maybe . . . if Merritt or Hulda or Miss Taylor or Baptiste came with him, maybe he could visit the mainland again. Maybe.

Stepping away from the ocean, Owein jaunted to the house, never once looking back.

Chapter 2

November 2, 1846, Boston, Massachusetts

Though Myra had often slept at BIKER during the week, she owned a weekend home on the north side of Boston—a small family home with a thatched roof, square windows, and a short picket fence in need of whitewashing. The gate wasn’t latched, so Hulda pushed through easily, glancing over the yard and back to the road, wondering if anyone was watching her.

With only a trickle of hope, Hulda knocked on the door. Waited, listening for movement within. There was none. After testing the lock—it was indeed locked—she turned around and pulled the spare key from its hiding place inside the chute of a wooden wind chime hanging on the eave. She let herself in, locking the door behind her.

The front room was small and tidy; Hulda’s hopes rose when she saw a teacup on the table—with augury, she could read the leaves and perhaps see where Myra darted off to. But upon inspection, the cup was empty of anything save dust, which did nothing to trigger her fledgling spell. Sighing, Hulda ventured into the kitchen, running her hand along the short counter, opening drawers and doors.

She ended in Myra’s bedroom. The bed was made; Myra mustn’t have been in a hurry to leave, despite the unlatched gate. The bedspread was a faded yellow, still cheery, and the curtains were drawn on the window. If there’d ever been a chest at the foot of it, it was gone. The side table, clear.

Hulda pulled out the drawer, finding an old Bible, a pencil, a couple of ticket stubs, and a handkerchief. Frowning, she closed the drawer and looked under Myra’s pillows. Walked to the small set of shelves and perused the books. Nothing. A sigh pressed past her lips. “Where are you?” she asked, turning and scanning the room. “What have you done?”

Of course, Hulda knew what Myra had done. She’d helped Silas Hogwood slip from jail and used his repertoire of magic to enchant homes so that BIKER would flourish. She’d unleashed an insidious criminal on the world and on Hulda, and on the staff of Whimbrel House. But she’d come back to resolve the crisis. And she had managed it with aplomb—not a whisper of Silas Hogwood had touched the papers. No constable or reinforcer had come sniffing around Blaugdone Island. It was as if nothing had happened.

But Myra hadn’t debriefed Hulda, either. Was the entire interaction with Mr. Hogwood to be kept secret? If so, why? Merritt had landed the killing blow, yes, but it had been in self-defense. There had been witnesses to the aftermath—local authorities. What had Myra told them? Did they realize what they’d stumbled upon?

What was Hulda supposed to do?

Releasing a shrill sound of frustration, Hulda sat on the edge of the mattress. Her spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the subtle crunch of paper.

Curious, Hulda repeated the maneuver, standing and then sitting in that same spot, and received an identical result. A cursory search revealed some letters wedged between the side table drawer and the bed. Hulda grabbed the slim stack and pulled it into the light.

It felt wrong to thumb through them, but if Myra could be located at any of these addresses . . . Hulda could spare the apology. One was of a business nature and two others personal, from friends, or so Hulda guessed. She would send telegrams to these places and ask after Myra.

Hulda frowned. If the letters could lead to Myra, she wouldn’t have left them to be found. Unless she’d done it intentionally, knowing Hulda would come snooping. Then again, if Myra had wanted Hulda to find her, wouldn’t she have left a communion stone or sent a windsource pigeon?

Sighing, Hulda plopped onto the edge of the bed. Gathered the letters together and tossed them onto the floor, trying to create a pattern to incite her augury. She repeated the action two more times, with little luck.

Well, at least she had addresses to write to. She really should be getting to BIKER; she’d yet to update Whimbrel House’s file . . . though how would she accurately record that the place was no longer enchanted without mentioning the involvement of Silas Hogwood? Hulda frowned. She’d done nothing wrong, yet Myra had her feeling like a criminal.

She stood, but this time she heard a slight thump of the bedframe against . . . well, she wasn’t sure. It didn’t touch the side table. Peering between the table and bed, just past the letters, she spied a book that had toppled there, like it had been resting against the bedframe and was knocked asunder by Hulda’s jouncing. Reaching down, she pulled it free.

“Oh,” she said. She knew this book—she had gifted it to Myra last Christmas. It was a gray book with a green leather spine and corner protectors. The front read, Miss Leslie’s Directions for Cookery. One of the many receipt books Hulda had read. She’d especially liked this one.

Myra had dog-eared a few pages. Flipping through, Hulda glanced at the recipes she’d marked. As she neared the last, she spied a piece of paper wedged inside, perhaps a scrap used as a bookmark. Still, Hulda pulled it out. It was small, folded, and—

It was a telegram. Curious, Hulda unfurled it and read the short message.

The receipt book fell from her lap.

Tell me where he is, or I will keep my promise.

Her fingers went cold. Was this . . . Was this a threat? Hulda flipped the telegram over, searching for another clue, but there was none. She carefully turned each page of the receipt book, but there was nothing else tucked within.

Was someone threatening Myra? Who, and why? And why hadn’t she said anything? Why keep this telegram and not report it to the watchmen?

Because she’s already on tricky ground. Hulda didn’t know what bargain she’d made with the watchmen in Marshfield after Silas Hogwood perished, but . . .

Silas Hogwood. Hulda’s eyes went to the time filed on the telegram. October 26.

The same day Myra resigned.

“Oh, Myra. What have you gotten yourself into?” She looked over the message again, this time shivering as her skin pebbled with internal cold. Tell me where he is.

Surely . . . Surely the sender of this telegram couldn’t mean Silas Hogwood?

Hulda dropped onto the mattress again, fighting the nausea building in her stomach. “What did you do?” she whispered, as if the telegram could answer back. Hulda doubted Myra would have reported the message, and the sender must have felt confident its meaning would not be interpreted by the post office employee who’d typed it. But . . . had Myra left it here, in a book received from Hulda, because she wanted Hulda to find it? Or was it just coincidence?

It had to be coincidence. Silas Hogwood was dead. Hulda had watched the life flee his eyes and the breath leave his lungs. The message likely referred to someone else. A contractor for BIKER, perhaps? Or this was sent from a long-lost lover searching for a bastard child. Or perhaps a lost pet. But it was certainly sent to Myra, which made those assumptions ridiculous. Then again, perhaps her work with Silas Hogwood was not her only secret.

Hulda forced herself back to the present. “I’m being too dramatic.” Yet uncertainty pricked her. She’d show it to Merritt, get his thoughts on the situation. Granted, Merritt’s imagination was wilder than her own . . .

Reaching into her bag, Hulda ran her thumb over the communion stone there, the one paired to the stone in Merritt’s possession. Withdrew and grabbed her pouch of dice instead. Strode to Myra’s kitchen table, which was only large enough to seat two, and sat.

She shook the dice in her hand and scattered them over the table, letting her vision shift out of focus.

Nothing.

“Could you work once when I need you, and not when I’m performing parlor tricks?” Hulda set the telegram on the table and gathered the dice. Threw them again.

Clearing her throat, she stared hard at the dice. Attempted to cheat by arranging them in an actual pattern. She rolled them again, and again, and cursed all this magic nonsense and Merritt and Myra and the lot of it.

Shoving the dice into their pouch and into her bag, Hulda strode out the door and closed it quietly behind her, scanning the road for familiar faces. She had nothing to apologize for—Myra was her employer and her friend. Why wouldn’t she try her hardest to search for her? Still, after locking the door, she kept the key on her person instead of returning it to the wind chime.

Focus on what you can control, she reminded herself.

Projecting a confidence she didn’t feel, Hulda marched to BIKER.

***

The BIKER headquarters at the back of the Bright Bay Hotel felt empty.

Felt empty, Hulda specified, because they weren’t technically empty. A few employees still lingered in the small offices and white hallways—Sadie Steverus, the receptionist, for one. She still sat behind her tall stained-wood desk, blonde hair pulled back simply, a new white blouse buttoned to the base of her neck. The librarian was likewise present, along with the custodian. Of course, headquarters was never really full. The location was more of a way station, where people stopped in, rested for a night in the spare rooms downstairs, and went off on their new assignments. But the halls were decidedly less. A few employees had taken off after Myra’s resignation. And Myra wasn’t here. If there was one thing Hulda had learned to count on in her life, it was Myra Haigh. Until now, Myra had been a reliable constant, always there even when she wasn’t. She was a psychometrist, a mind reader specifically, and while Hulda knew the woman’s powers could not breach long distances, her intuition certainly could.

And now Hulda felt like she’d been lamed, her crutch taken away. She tightened her fist around the folded telegram in her pocket. Myra, are you safe?

Was Hulda still upset with the woman? Indubitably. Myra had been the catalyst for Silas Hogwood’s arrival to America, and while Hulda did believe she’d meant no harm, she was nonetheless partially culpable for the attacks on Hulda, Merritt, Owein, Mr. Babineaux, and Miss Taylor. Thank the heavens no one had gotten seriously hurt. Ultimately, Myra had tangled herself in her own webs of deceit. She’d recognized the error, and even cleaned up the mess afterward, only to disappear to God knew where.

Hulda very much wanted to know where. She’d been desperate to talk to Myra even before finding the vague and unsettling telegram. She wanted to set things straight. Ensure she was all right. Because, betrayal or no, Myra was Hulda’s dearest friend. If she was in trouble . . . Hulda wanted to help. That, and Hulda feared BIKER would fall apart without her.

These thoughts plagued her as she entered her room, setting her trusted black bag on a chair but keeping the telegram on her person. Her trunk was still here—she’d never gotten around to shipping it to either her sister’s place or Whimbrel House, and for the better. Propriety aside, she needed to be in Boston, if for no other reason than it was her best bet at finding Myra, or allowing Myra to find her.

Unsurprisingly, Hulda didn’t sleep well that night. She gave it a good go but rose earlier than necessary to prepare for the day. She’d make an appointment for Merritt with the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic this afternoon, to both review his pedigree and search for any possible magic tutors.

Magic tutors. It was still hard to grasp everything that had happened these last few weeks. The fact that Merritt had magic, and a good deal of it, being one. Hulda had known she was an augurist at a young age. She possessed only a single spell—the impuissant ability to see the future—and hadn’t needed any training to hone it. To think a man could live to his thirties without ever suspecting there was magic in his blood. To think!

Despite the reality that Merritt still needed her help, Whimbrel House was no longer an enchanted house. Even if BIKER was intact, she and Miss Taylor technically couldn’t work there anymore. That was, she couldn’t as soon as she made the report about its lost enchantments. She supposed they could still work there outside of BIKER, but in truth, their magical skill would be wasted at Whimbrel House now. Then there was Merritt himself. Merritt Fernsby. Hulda blushed without having to think of anything more than that.

Sitting on her bed, she pulled out the telegram and read over it again, though it offered up no new insight. After that, she brought forth a different document—a few folded papers crinkled from travel and use. A letter, or perhaps a story, that Merritt had snuck into his manuscript just for her prior to sending it for her perusal. She’d reread the note every day since receiving it, like she needed to reassure herself it had really happened. That there was a man alive who actually cared for her that way. That the cycle of rejection and loneliness had actually stopped.

Her chest distended reading it. She nearly had it memorized. Letting out a sigh, she tucked the letter away and offered a silent prayer of thanks. Even with Myra gone, even with her career on the precipice, she was happy. Very happy.

After checking her hair once more in the mirror and grabbing her bag, Hulda headed up the stairs to Myra’s office. She’d thumbed through it again last night, but the woman had cleaned out the space thoroughly, leaving no clues to her whereabouts. Still, Hulda might as well check one more time, while she had better light. Perhaps, if she was lucky, her own magic might kick in and reveal something useful.

Wouldn’t it be something if Hulda could see the future on command . . .

She heard some shuffling as she neared the top floor. “Miss Steverus, do you know if Myra—”

She paused on the last step as strangers’ faces turned to look at her. Three of them, plus Miss Steverus. All dressed finely, and it wasn’t quite nine o’clock.

“Miss Larkin!” Miss Steverus darted around the desk, blonde bun bouncing. “Let me introduce you to LIKER’s foreign team.”

“LIKER?” Hulda repeated. The London Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms? The parent company to BIKER? What were they doing here? Even with kinetically aided transport, the trip across the Atlantic wasn’t a comfortable one.

Miss Steverus bit the inside of her lip. “I didn’t know they were coming, either.”

“We did send a telegram,” said a tall, severe-looking man with light hair and spectacles similar to Hulda’s own, as was his sartorial aesthetic.

The telegram in her pocket felt heavy as a bag of coins, but of course, that was not the message they meant.

Hulda nodded. “Of course, you understand things have been in upheaval.”

“Precisely why we are here,” said a man who was very . . . square. Everything about him was square. His haircut, his face, his body, even his glasses. “We’re here to perform an audit of sorts, and to reorganize BIKER back to efficiency.” His British accent was both crisp and warm, which had Hulda thinking of peach cobbler.

She tried not to fish-mouth.

Miss Steverus gestured to the square man. “This is Mr. Calvin Walker, head of foreign affairs. And this is Mr. Alastair Baillie, corporate attorney.” She indicated the lanky man who’d first addressed her. He looked to be of an age with Hulda. “Miss Megan Richards, secretary—”

Miss Richards, who had been studying something on the ceiling, turned around suddenly, eyes wide. They were dark, and her skin was a warm brown, speaking of Indian heritage. “Oh! Yes. That is, administrative assistant.” She hurried over, and a piece of black hair fell from her elaborate hairstyle. She held out her hand, and Hulda shook it, impressed with the woman’s grip. “Our accountant was unable to join us, so I’ll be filling that role as well. Very nice to meet you, Miss Steverus.”

Hulda smiled. “I’m Miss Larkin.”

“Right! Miss Larkin.” Miss Richards released her. “And this is Mr. Walker,” she repeated, introducing the square man again.

Mr. Walker massaged his forehead. “Let Miss Steverus do the introductions, Miss Richards.”

Miss Richards simply shrugged and hung back, peering over Miss Steverus’s desk, suddenly interested in something else.

Mr. Walker refocused on Hulda. “Miss Steverus tells us you’re BIKER’s best employee.”

Hulda snorted, then covered her mouth with her hand. Pushing past a flush, she said, “Miss Steverus is very complimentary. I hope your trip was untroubled.”

“Easy as it could be, being thrown about the Atlantic in a kinetic barge,” Mr. Baillie quipped. His enunciation was so sharp it nearly cut through the roundness of his accent. Straightening his narrow shoulders, he turned to Mr. Walker. “While the pleasantries are nice, we have work to do.”

“And Miss Larkin is the first one we need to talk to.” Mr. Walker raised an eyebrow as though not-so-subtly warning Mr. Baillie to mind his manners. He turned to Hulda. “You worked closely with Miss Haigh, yes?”

Mention of Myra sent her heart flipping. Maintaining a docile demeanor, Hulda nodded. “I did, when I wasn’t assigned elsewhere.” A knot formed in her stomach. What sort of audit did this man have in mind? “I’m afraid I don’t know her whereabouts.” Please tell me you do.

Mr. Walker frowned. “Unfortunate, as speaking with her directly would be . . . beneficial.”

That was a negative, then.

“Hiding is a sign of guilt,” Mr. Baillie said, and Hulda decided she didn’t like him.

“Oh dear.” Miss Steverus placed a hand on her breast. “Guilty of what?”

But Mr. Walker waved the question away. “Let us dig into this one grain at a time, shall we?” Stepping back, he gestured to Myra’s office. “If you don’t mind, Miss Larkin.”

“Not at all.” Straightening her back, Hulda entered the office and made herself comfortable in a chair. Mr. Walker and Mr. Baillie followed, the latter closing the door behind him. Mr. Walker took Myra’s seat behind her empty desk, while his bespectacled friend tarried near the bookshelves.

“We have Miss Haigh’s resignation letter,” Mr. Walker said as he opened a briefcase and removed several folders. “But would you mind sharing your experience?”

Hulda blinked. “With her resignation?”

He nodded.

“I . . .” There was no mention of Marshfield, or Silas Hogwood, or a constable report. Myra must have been truly thorough, unless these visitors from LIKER were concealing the breadth of their knowledge. But if they’d truly only just arrived in the States, what could they possibly have learned? Squaring her shoulders, Hulda treaded carefully. She would speak only truth. Whether the omittance of other truths would be held against her . . . she’d mull over that later.

“I was not in Boston when it happened,” she admitted. “I’ve been stationed at Whimbrel House—our newest acquisition. It’s located in the Narragansett Bay, on Blaugdone Island, specifically.”

Mr. Walker nodded. “I’ll pull up that file as well. How are things there?”

Hulda considered the question for half a beat. “Temperate, thankfully. I heard about Myra—Miss Haigh’s—resignation from Miss Steverus.” She paused. “Might I . . . Would it be against decorum for me to read it?”

Mr. Walker glanced at Mr. Baillie, then pulled the handwritten notice out of the topmost folder. He passed it to Hulda. After adjusting her spectacles, Hulda read carefully, hoping to uncover another clue.

To whom it may concern,

I, Myra Haigh, regretfully resign from my position as director of the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms. Significant family matters have pulled me away.

Sincerely,

1. Haigh

The letter was insufficient. In addition to its brevity, it lacked a reasonable explanation for her defection. Myra didn’t have any family in the States. Not close family. Hulda highly doubted that she’d suddenly sailed to Spain to reconnect with great-aunts or second cousins.

“Thank you.” She passed the letter back.

Mr. Walker returned the letter to its folder. “Now, I understand you don’t work directly with the overseeing of the company, but I must ask in case you do know something useful. We’ve sifted through BIKER’s bank records and have found unaccounted-for funds.”

Hulda blinked. She had not expected the statement. “Unaccounted? Funds?” Had Myra used BIKER funds to take care of the mess in Marshfield? Hulda’s skin was growing warm beneath her dress. I’m sorry, Myra. I’m not sure how long I can protect you.

“That is,” he went on, “funds siphoning to an unknown location once a month. We’ve tried the usual methods to trace them, but thus far to no avail.” He sighed. “You don’t by chance know where those funds were transferred?”

Her skin cooled as though a pail of water had been overturned above her head. “Once a month?” Not Marshfield, then. “For how long?”

“Years,” he answered.

Hulda’s lips parted. For a moment, she’d wondered whether Myra had been keeping Silas on payroll. But she’d only been working with the man for months, not years. Piecing together her thoughts, she asked, “Do you have an inkling of where the funds went?”

Mr. Walker frowned, obviously disappointed with Hulda’s lack of knowledge—as was she. Myra had been keeping more secrets than she’d realized. “Unfortunately, no.”

Hulda studied his features for a moment before her stomach performed a half twist. “You think Miss Haigh was embezzling?” Surely not. Please no, Myra.

Leaning back in his chair, he answered, “It’s a possibility, but we have no actual evidence.”

Hulda’s stomach righted itself.

“The thing is, Miss Haigh didn’t just resign. She disappeared.”

Now it was Hulda’s turn to frown. “So I’ve noticed. I’m afraid I haven’t any idea where she is. I assume you’ve checked the obvious places? I certainly have.”

“That we have, that we have. We’ll check again, more thoroughly, now that we’re here.” Leaning forward, he drummed on his desk before fetching and opening another file. “And you’re an augurist, Miss Larkin?”

Another unexpected turn. “I am.”

He smiled. “Do you think you could read for me?”

She started. That was certainly not the question she’d expected. “I . . . I could try, Mr. Walker. But my abilities are temperamental at best.” She reached into her bag and pulled out her dice pouch. Her precognition was tied to patterns, such as those seen in tea leaves, fallen sticks, or dice. Handing them over, she said, “You can try with these.”

Suddenly gleeful, Mr. Walker took the pouch and poured the dice into his hand—seven in total. He kneaded them around a moment before saying, “Fascinating,” and letting them spill to the desktop. “And you can just read it in those?”

Hulda leaned forward and glanced at the dice. She didn’t actually do any mental work to find connections in patterns—her augury was a sort of sixth sense, and it kicked in automatically. Involuntarily. Or it didn’t. “Technically, yes. But like I said, it’s very temperamental—”

Her vision blurred as her magic kindled. Now it works, she thought with dismay. An image flashed by her eyes. It lasted only a heartbeat before dissipating.

Mr. Walker leaned closer. “Did you see something?”

She thought she heard Mr. Baillie cluck his tongue behind her, but wasn’t sure.

Hulda blinked her vision clear and sat back. “Not anything of import, alas. But I would perhaps go sans mustard with your lunch today.”

Mr. Walker stared at her for a moment before laughing. “Is that so?”

She knit her fingers together. “I just saw some dribbling from a sandwich onto that very suit. You were on the street and not in the office.” In her experience, the future her augury showed would transpire, regardless of what she or anyone did to change it. It was as set as the past. She was willing to guess Mr. Walker would indeed get mustard on his sandwich, perhaps with the thought that he’d merely be careful. Alas, such was his choice. “I assume you’ll be staying here long enough to become comfortable and have meals delivered?”

Mr. Walker nodded. “Hopefully not too comfortable, for while Boston has its charm, I’m eager to return home. Alastair, come over here and roll the dice!”

Hulda pressed her lips together, unsure her magic would be kind enough to repeat itself.

But Mr. Baillie merely drawled, “No, thank you. I’d rather choose my future as it comes to me.”

Hulda peeked at him over her shoulder. He looked bored, yet there was a definite tension in his forehead. She couldn’t fault him—many people didn’t like to have their lives invaded by magic—one of many reasons so many were unconcerned about its preservation. There had been times in her life where Hulda had wished her augury would stay quiet. Nothing deflated hope quicker than a hopeless future.

The thought brought to mind Stanley Lidgett, the steward at Gorse End she’d once hoped to charm. Ultimately it was for the better that that hadn’t panned out.

“Well.” Mr. Walker collected his folders and tucked them together. “We will be performing an audit, as I mentioned, and seeing BIKER running smoothly again. We are looking for someone to replace Myra Haigh. Do you know a Mrs. Thornton?”

Hulda nodded. “I believe she’s stationed in Denmark. She’s been with BIKER for . . . two decades, I would guess.”

“Yes, she’s on our list, though the logistics of interviewing her are still in the air. And then there’s Alastair.”

Hulda stiffened and purposefully did not turn her head. “Y-Your lawyer?”

“Lawyer by trade, yes. He’s very organized.” He tipped his head toward Mr. Baillie. “I assure you BIKER would be in excellent hands with him.”

Hulda tried to imagine the lanky, disagreeable man behind this desk, assigning her to jobs, reading her reports . . .

“And then our third candidate, of course.”

Folding her hands in her lap, Hulda asked, “Third?”

Mr. Walker looked surprised. “But of course, Miss Larkin. I suppose Miss Steverus didn’t have a chance to tell you that your name is up for the position as well.”

Hulda found herself fish-mouthing again. Because despite being an augurist, she certainly hadn’t seen that coming.

Chapter 3

November 3, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

The dog stared at the paper card and tilted his head to the side.

Merritt sighed. “Did you say something? Because I didn’t hear it.” His communion spell was a mess. Sometimes it went off on its own, and sometimes the signal got lost when he actually needed to use it. Or was it two communion spells? Were there separate spells for plants and animals? Or perhaps even a particular one for reeds and then another for, say, conifers?

Either way, it was utterly maddening. And yet not quite maddening enough to motivate him to seek help from the one person who should be able to give it. The letter he’d written to Nelson Sutcliffe still sat crinkled on the back-right corner of his desk.

O? The dog wagged its tail, and again Merritt wondered how much of the mutt had integrated itself with Owein, or if Owein simply embraced his identity as a terrier.

“Close. Q.” He set the card down and picked up another. “How about this?”

Owein’s attention strayed to the office window. Its mullion was a wood so bright it looked almost yellow, which dropped down into a curving and curling apron Merritt doubted had been part of the original structure. Most likely it had been a fanciful change wrought by a certain boy wizard, especially given that this window did not match any of the others in the house. None of the windows matched, actually. It had taken Merritt a while to realize it, and yet he sort of enjoyed the eccentricity of the fact.

Merritt turned in his chair, the back of which pressed against his desk, to glance out the window, but there was nothing. Likely Owein had heard a whimbrel or something of the sort. Which was fine, so long as Merritt wasn’t also hearing a whimbrel or something of the sort.

“This one?” Merritt tried again.

Owein’s ears drooped. This is boring.

“Do you want to read or not?”

The terrier sighed in a very humanlike way. Let’s take a break and work on magic!

Merritt cringed. “We’ve barely been at letters for ten minutes.”

The dog whined.

Merritt set the cards aside and reached forward to scratch Owein’s ears. Just like every other dog, possessed or not, Owein enjoyed this. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed being touched—a sensation he couldn’t truly experience while stuck in the walls of this house. On the floor behind him was a large alphabet chart Hulda had made, which had gone mostly unused. The idea was that if Owein could learn to read, he would be able to spell out things he needed when Merritt wasn’t around, or when Merritt preferred to keep his vocal abilities intact. “I can’t communion every minute of every day. You need to learn to use that chart.”

Truly, Owein fascinated him. Despite having a spirit some two hundred and twenty-something years old, Owein still behaved like a boy. He’d died at the age of twelve, and twelve was the age engraved into his heart. Perhaps his lack of maturity came from being alone for so long, away from the social and familial interactions that would have helped him grow up. Perhaps aging was a thing of the body and not the soul.

Merritt’s hands slowed. A long breath passed through his nostrils. “Best to learn it quickly. And take care when you’re running about the island. I don’t know how close I have to be to hear you.”

Owein pulled from Merritt’s fingers and tilted his furry head to the side. What do you mean?

Unease scraped along Merritt’s stomach. “Just take care.”