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He stared at her. “I hardly intended to proposition her. I’m... rather fond ofyou, Hulda.”
Blood rose to the skin in her neck and chest, but all she could think to say was “Oh.”
He tried to stand, knees shaking, so Hulda grasped his upper arm and helped him right himself. Clamoring for the lantern, she said, “Merritt,youare the second source of magic at Whimbrel House.”
He rubbed his wrists. “I’ve sorted that out, considering my abduction by a murderous wizard.”
“Yes, of course. And... I think I know who your father is. Your biological father, that is.”
He paused. “Nowthatyou can tell me later. I’m still working through the abduction at the moment.”
Grabbing his hand, she whispered, “There’s a canal just this way. I’m going to blow this out. Be quiet—”
He tugged her back from the hanging sheet. “We can’t leave without Owein.”
Her breath caught. “Pardon?”
“Owein. He has Owein.”
She stared, confused.
“He... took him somehow,” he rushed to explain. “He took his spirit out of the house and put him into a dog.”
Her lips parted.The barking. The footprints.The house hadn’t responded to her, either. Was Hogwood so powerful a necromancer that he could move spirits? Such a thing hadn’t been done since Edward III’s time...
The dog had cried out moments ago. Was Mr.Hogwood hurting Owein? Had he already begun?
“We need to hurry.” Merritt took the lantern from her. “Beth and Baptiste—”
“Are fine enough. A doctor should be reaching them by now.” She shook her head at his hopeful look. “Later. Where’s Owein?”
He pointed north. “Around there, I think.” He paused, head cocked. “There are... others. I hear voices.” He winced, shook his head. “I don’t understand, I—”
His lips moved, but his voice cut out.
Hulda pressed a thumb to his lips. Any other time, the gesture might have sent a wave of red through her body, but her nerves were otherwise occupied with the situation at hand. “You’re using communion.” She barely put any air into the words, keeping them hushed. Muteness was a side effect of communion—he must have unknowingly been pushing the spell hard to have already garnered a side effect, though it should last only seconds.
Lines dug between his brows, but he removed his shoes and crept down the corridor in perfect silence, shielding the lantern light with his body. Hulda shouldn’t have been surprised by his presence of mind—this was just like something out of his novel. Whether they’d get a happy ending remained to be seen.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she hugged herself to keep her fear localized and followed him.
As they neared the end of the passageway, that same light Hulda had noticed earlier spilled into view. Her heart pounded at the back of her skull, warning her. If it came to her versus Hogwood... any of them versus Hogwood... they would lose.
Passing back the lantern, Merritt poked his head into the adjoining room. Holding her breath, Hulda spied under his arm.
The space was relatively large, about one and a half times the size of the living room at Whimbrel House. Shelves stacked with ropes, chains, and all sorts of tinctures, potions, and bandages took up the walls. Two barrels sat in the corner, near an iron grate that—
Oh God.Hulda’s stomach clenched. Behind it were the shrunken, mutated victims... but she didn’t have long to study it, for her eyes fell onto a straight bench in the center of the room. The dark terrier strapped to it convulsed silently as Mr.Hogwood pressed both his palms into it, enacting the slow-moving spells that would suck the animal—Owein—of his power and turn him into one of the pruney dolls that had haunted Hulda’s dreams for eleven years.
But Mr.Hogwood hadn’t noticed them yet.
Hulda grabbed Merritt’s elbow—what was their plan?—but Merritt didn’t budge. He stood there, stiff as granite, his eyes not on Mr.Hogwood or Owein, but on the shriveled monsters behind the iron bars.
And he trembled.
Moans. Cries. Screams.
They filtered through Merritt’s head like a gentle winter wind. The suffering felt very far away yet omnipresent, and it came from that corner, where the masses that looked like old, dehydrated cacti sat on shelves behind bars. Heaven help him, were they stillalive? Alive and suffering, pleading for death—
