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Mother.But she was dying, anyway. He reminded himself she was already good as dead.
Water. Shrink. Condense.His mouth dried as he worked, and a strained mewing escaped his mother’s throat. He felt his shoulders mutate as his mother’s body gradually warped and shriveled, taking on a dark-green cast. His bones enlarged and pushed against skin as hers waned and withered, until the spells could pull nothing more out of her.
Blinking dry eyes, Silas grounded himself. Remembered where he was. What he was doing. The clock on the mantel said... but surely two hours hadn’t passed...
His mother was unrecognizable. Not only as herself, but as ahuman. Her body was dark and ghastly, about the length of Silas’s forearm, and wrinkled as a fingertip after an hours-long bath. Her limbs had sucked into her body, leaving little flaps behind. Her face had caved into itself until there was no longer a face at all.
And the new spells, her magic, still burned brilliantly within him.
He’d done it. A sharp chuckle ripped up his throat.He’d done it.
Footsteps in the hallway brought him back to himself. He grasped his mother and wrapped her in one of the clean towels left by the side of the bed. Loosened the buttons of his coat to hide his malformed shoulders—that side effect would pass in time, but any who saw it would know he’d done something. Timing his escape carefully, he fled the room for the wine cellar, where he could stow away his mother and better preserve her.
Once he returned, he would need to act shocked and confused that the body was gone. He could never explain to anyone what he had done.
No one would understand.
Chapter 6
September 7, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
While Merritt waited, his wards arranged around him—not on his person, as they’d begun making him queasy when he wore them—he told himself all the benefits of staying on Blaugdone Island.
No more rent. No more landlords. No more pestersome neighbors. An office to write in. Lots of space. Lots of reading available, once the books stopped hurling themselves at him. And the island was beautiful, not that Whimbrel House was allowing him to enjoy it.
And he certainly wouldn’t bebored.
Essentially, this house was a challenge, and besting a challenge was progress, and progress was success, as far as Merritt was concerned. Progress was something he could achieve all on his own, regardless of what he had lost—or who had abandoned him—along the way.
Somethingshiftedupstairs. He wondered if the breakfast room had dropped down. It had moved last night, replacing the bottomless pit of the first bedroom.
Merritt had slept in the reception hall.
Wards now on his person, he shuffled through the kitchen for a knife, hoping dearly that the house could not somehow wield it against him, and was surprised by how calm the place was being. Shadows stilllurked in the corners and snuffed light from the windows, but otherwise it was... he dared not saypeaceful, but tolerable.
And yet, as Merritt ventured up the stairs, he felt like the place was watching him.
Deep breaths. She’ll be back today.It felt better facing this place with another person, especially one who understood it far better than he did. But it was... interesting to think Hulda Larkin would essentially be his roommate.
He wouldn’t call her a roommate, of course. Not to her face. He imagined he’d be scolded for that.
Entering the largest bedroom, he paused, adjusting to the sunbeams streaming through the window, the light smell of dust, and the overall pleasantness of the space.
“You know,” he said to the ceiling, standing clear of the door in case it slammed again, “we would get on swimmingly if you could make everything like this. I’d even weed the foundation outside.”
The house didn’t respond.
Swallowing, Merritt approached the lump in the carpet. “I need the books back.” Hulda had spoken to the house, so why shouldn’t he? “It’s very important that I get them back. I have a manuscript and notes in there.” He knelt. “I’m going to cut it very cleanly, all right? Nice and easy.”
He touched the knife tip to the carpet. Held his breath. Waited. Gripped the ward around his neck with his other hand. Hulda had said not to wear it long, but he also liked living.
So.
Pushing the knife into the carpet, he sawed a slit just long enough to pull the books out. He felt like he was helping a cow give birth, trying to wedge the things out. It was a worthy metaphor, because hehadhelped a cow give birth once. In Cattlecorn, after he’d moved in with Fletcher’s folks.
A sigh escaped him as he retrieved the last book and flattened the carpet down. You could hardly tell he’d cut into it in the first place.
He didn’t notice the drawer of the dresser inching toward him until it was nearly under his chin.
