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Until it did.
The entire house bucked. Sounds of shattering glass and warping metal penetrated his ears. The floor rumbled andsplit, sending a gush of marsh water up into the kitchen, dowsing—and mudding—the cupboards.
But the house didn’t stop there. Because why would it?
The great chasm in the kitchen jerked apart, widening, and swallowed Merritt whole.
Merritt groaned. Cold seeped through his clothes and into his skin. His head and back ached, and... No, he was still breathing. Just took a moment to remember how.
His hand brushed moist, dark soil. His other brushed the ward still secure around his neck. He lay supine, staring up at the hole in the floor of his kitchen. Wondered why it was still open at all. Maybe his ward prevented the house from closing over him. Maybe the house was reeling from its own injuries.
Maybe Merritt didn’t care.
Grunting, he pushed himself to sitting. His pulse thumped painfully beneath his skull. Prodding his hair, then his neck, he checked for injuries. Just bruises, he guessed. Bad bruises, but bruises had never killed him.
None of it had everkilledhim.
Propping his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his palms. Focused on his breathing.In, out. In, out. He sat like that for a long time, trying to tamp down the anger and the hurt. Just when he thought it was finally done, that he wasfinallycured, it came bubbling up again. Something always brought it up, and he hated it, because it never hurt any less, even so many years later.
He breathed until his throat wasn’t tight anymore. Until his lungs felt a little lighter. Then he stood slowly, testing for other injuries, fortunately finding only bruises. He’d fallen about... eleven or twelve feet.
Good news, his house had a root cellar.
At that thought, he glanced around, searching for bodies. Human, rat, or other. But there was nothing here but dirt, roots, and some dripping water.
“Okay, then,” he murmured to himself. “Step one, get back into the house.”
If it didn’t kill him on the way up.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot for Merritt to use to climb back up. There were some boards in the foundation, but none were beneath the hole. Not enough stones to build a tower. And Merritt most certainly could not jump that high. He was a writer, not an athlete.
Sighing, he ran his hand back through his hair, then grimaced at the slick sensation of mud on his forehead. He walked the perimeter of the dark space—which would only get darker after sunset—searching for something to help him. He found the meat mallet and two matches, useless to him without the acid vial.
He tried to climb. He really did. Using the wood of the foundation, he dug his shoes into the mud and attempted to shimmy across the knobs and crevices under the floor. He tried, and he fell. He tried again, and he fell harder, earning himself a new bruise. After the fourth time, he didn’t get back up. He sat, elbows on his knees, and breathed.
“Can you lower something?” he asked the house, his voice strained. “I’m sorry I lit you on fire. I just wanted it back. I need it back.”
The house didn’t respond.
A lump formed in his throat. “If you’re going to keep me down here, can’t I have it back?”
It was stupid to bargain with a magical house he’d just tried to set on fire. Heknewit was stupid. The scarf was old. Starting to fray. But it was all he had of her. His sister Scarlet had knitted it for him the Christmas before... before all of it had happened, and he hadn’t seen her since. He’d accepted he’d never see her again.
He’d never gotten to say goodbye. To any of them.
Ignoring the mud, Merritt pressed his knuckles into his eyes.Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.It was all he had left of her. He had nothing of Beatrice. Would he even recognize her now? She was probably married with kids.Kids.He had nieces and nephews who might not know he existed. And he didn’t know them. And damnation, he should look for them, because they were stillhis, weren’t they?
But what if... what if Beatrice hated him, too?
He laughed. He pressed his knuckles in harder and laughed. It wasn’t funny. It was mad, if anything. But he preferred laughing to crying. Always had.
This was a dark moment. He recognized that. But it wasn’t his darkest, which made him feel a little better. Only a little, but he would take it.
He sat like that awhile, thinking and trying not to think, trying to let go of the scarf, trying to figure his way out. He tried climbing again. Still didn’t work.
Maybe there weren’t any skeletons down here because he was meant to be the first.
Somehow, Merritt had managed to doze. Doze, not sleep, because he didn’t think he’d hear the creaking if he’d been unconscious.
