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Merritt shuddered and pulled his mind back from the cringe-inducing memories, refocusing on the pedigree. Sure enough, Nelson Sutcliffe’s paternal line traced back to the Mansels, though Owein’s name wasn’t recorded on this document. He took a moment to pen it in.
Merritt’s eyes dropped back to Nelson Sutcliffe. “Let me get this straight,” he said to the page. “You had an affair with my mother, whohad me, and my father knew about it. Which was why he was such a boor to me all my life, but either because of social pressure or perhaps some semblance of conscience, he waited until I was eighteen tobribe my sweetheartto seduce me and fake a pregnancy, but in the meantime you, what, looked up my grandmother and gave her this house to make amends?”
He threw down the papers and sat back in his chair. The door to his office creaked, and the sound of sniffing told him it was Owein. Unless Baptiste had gotten hit in the head harder than he thought.
“I should write a memoir,” he said to the dog. “Though no one would believe it was true.”
What’s a memoir?
He still wasn’t used to the voice in his head. It was happening more and more frequently, which meantsomehowMerritt was getting the hang of a communion spell trapped in his blood. “It’s an autobiography with oomph,” he answered.
From what Merritt understood, Owein would stay a dog indefinitely... until he died, in which case he could inhabit the house again, so long as he passed away on Blaugdone Island. Not that Owein was eager in the slightest to inhabit the house—he enjoyed having a body again, smelling, touching, tasting things, which he couldn’t do in a frame of wood and brick. That, and Merritt’s communion spells only worked on plants and animals—if Owein were to transfer back to the house, they’d lose that outlet of communication.
Merritt rubbed his eyes. On top of the mess of discovering he was awizardat thirty-one, he needed to go back to New York. He needed to confront Nelson SutcliffeandPeter Fernsby. At least one of them would not be happy to see him.
He glanced to the communion stone sitting quietly at the edge of his desk. “One thing at a time.” Opening a drawer, he pulled out his ever-growing manuscript.
Right now, it was very crucial that he finish his book.
It’d been just over a week since Hulda had come to stay with her younger sister, who’d received her most graciously, considering Hulda had been unable to send word ahead. Danielle Larkin Tanner lived in Cambridge, northwest of Boston, in a nice home she shared with two children and her husband of ten years, who was a lawyer hailing from a family of the same profession. Which was excellent, for they had room to spare for Hulda and her things, and room for her to wander about and sigh wistfully and be generally aoristic about her life.
She hadn’t heard from Myra. She hadn’t heard from Merritt. Miss Taylor had contacted her once through the stone, which was nice. Then again, perhaps someone else had tried and Hulda hadn’t been around to hear it. She’d forbidden herself from carrying the stone around, knowing it would lead only to sulking. Admittedly, though, she’d spent a good amount of time staring at it. She’d tried to work up the courage to activate it, even written down possible phrases she could use to open a conversation, but her courage was shaken, presuming she’d ever had any to begin with. In truth, every night she played with a variety of ideas for reaching out to Merritt, but by morning her strictly trained rational side dismissed every last one.
Now, belly full of a luncheon she had no hand in preparing, Hulda sat in the seat of a multipaned window, watching her nephews and brother-in-law run around outside, bright orange and red leaves flying about their feet. It was cold enough now for hats, scarves, and gloves, and the trees were half-naked, but the sun remained bright. Pushing up her glasses, Hulda smiled at the scene, feeling wistful again, and a little sad. But that was becoming the norm for her.
“Miss Larkin?” Her sister’s only hired staff, Miss Canterbury, approached with a broom under one arm and a brown-paper package in her hands. “This just came for you.”
Hulda blinked. “For me?” Who even knew she was here? Only Myra had the address. Was this some sort of apology? “Thank you.”
She took the package—it felt like a book—onto her lap, and Miss Canterbury gave her some privacy.
Unwrapping the parcel, she found it was not a book, but a stack of papers in familiar handwriting, atop which sat a note:
Hulda,
I thought you might like to know the ending.
Sincerely,
Merritt Fernsby
PS: Sadie Steverus is very kind and not hardly secretive enough to be of your acquaintance.
Hulda smiled, though in truth she wished the note were longer. She read it again, slower, and set it beside herself on the window seat. The papers in her hand left off exactly where Merritt had finished reading to her while she was recuperating from Silas Hogwood’sfirstattack. She was surprised he’d remembered the place so precisely.
“This is it.” She turned the ruby-studded cross over in her hands, gilt glinting in the candlelight. “Red Salvation.”
The priest hunkered into his oversized robes, getting comfortable. A warm smile lit his face, one that reminded Elise of her father. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”
Warren bent over, holding up the magnifying glass. “But you know what this is, don’t you?”
The priest’s expression was unwavering. “Aye, I know. I’ve forgotten many things, but I know that.”
“Must be worth a fortune.” Warren held out his hand, and Elise placed the crucifix against his palm like it were a newborn babe. “I can easily see how this could bring a man happiness.”
“Then you see nothing at all.” Father Chummings clicked his tongue. “Do you know Latin?”
“I do,” Elise offered.
