“Oh?” That certainly piqued his interest. “In Boston?”
Fletcher nodded. “She was at that Genealogical Society.”
Shrugging, Merritt said, “She had to do research for the Mansels. You know that.”
“Sure, sure, they’ve got records. A veritable library.” He scanned the board but didn’t make any moves. “But I overheard a bit of her conversation with the director in passing, and—”
“You know the director?”
“Everyone knows Elijah Clarke. All the locals do, anyway. Always very loud come election time.”
Merritt waved for him to continue.
He haphazardly moved his queen. “Thing is, the place essentially arranges marriages for wizards.”
The muscles around Merritt’s stomach tightened. A strange defensiveness rose in him, and he soothed it back down. “Is that so?”
“She was talking to him about it.”
“And you heard this clearly?”
“She was talking to him about it,” he repeated, enunciating his words. “I see the way you look at her . . . I don’t want to make any presumptions.”
“You are presuming.” Even so, a chill braided around his collarbone. Was he so obvious?
“Could be she’s only interested in magic folk.” Fletcher moved his bishop.
Merritt pointed. “It’s my turn.”
Fletcher’s bishop retreated. Then the man palmed it and brought both fists under his jaw. Low, he added, “I don’t want to see you hurt again.”
Merritt’s muscles tightened, and he leaned back in his chair in an effort to relax them. In an effort to stay nonchalant. “Are you referring to Ebba or the time your sister turned me down?”
“She wasn’t right for you. You weren’t right for her, either, broken as you were.”
That same lock of hair fell into Merritt’s face. He blew it away. They sat in silence for a dozen heartbeats before Merritt sighed.
“You know I trust you,” he said.
Fletcher replaced his bishop. “I know. I’m not telling you to do nothing, but I am telling you to be careful.”
Reaching forward, Merritt forewent his rook and slid his queen up several rows. “Check.”
Fletcher cursed under his breath, immediately shifting back into strategy mode. Merritt was grateful. It gave him a moment to sort through his thoughts.
Was Hulda proffering herself to the Genealogical Society? He doubted it. She was too conservative a woman for such things. He even thought—hoped—she might fancy him. Or could learn to. Maybe it would end like all the others. Maybe it wouldn’t start to begin with. Maybe he was a fool.
But tomorrow he would turn another page, and see where the story went.
Chapter 25
October 3, 1846, Undisclosed Location
With a wave of his hand, Silas beckoned water from the enclosed canal down the corridor of his new abode to wash out the grime building there, as well as the few mice and spiders who thought to build homes where they were unwanted. His skin tightened as the water churned and browned. He guided it back down the adjoining hallway and out the pipe again, eyes becoming gritty as he made sure every drop obeyed his command. His luck had cooperated in helping him find this place, but he couldn’t stand mildew. The task finished, he massaged his hands and crossed to a pitcher of water, which he gulped down to satiate the unbearable thirst so much magic had wreaked on him. The dry skin and eyes would abate on their own. Soon, he’d leave this place and find a home more suitable to him than this underground lair built by perspiration and magic. But as long as he was hunting, it was better to stay hidden. Oh, how he missed his days of splendor, rife with magic and money in Liverpool. He missed them terribly.
His footsteps echoed against stony walls as he walked to his laboratory, his attention diverted to the alcove carved out of limestone for his treasures. The King’s League had destroyed the ones they’d found, but not all. He’d known all this time—he would have felt their losses, and he still possessed their spells. All the donors behind Gorse End’s stone were intact. He set his jaw at the memory. The loss of the other bodies felt like missing teeth in his mouth. Once, he could conjure iron, see the future, and control the earth beneath his feet. Such rare spells. So much work and toil lost, because a member of his own staff had betrayed him.
He rested a hand on one of the iron bars protecting his trophies. Ten total, granting him twelve spells he hadn’t had before, and augmenting the magic he’d been born with. His gaze pulled, as it always did, to the dolls in the upper-left-hand corner. Their features were less preserved, making them look more like spoiled melons than shrunken, mummified monsters. He’d been so new to his abilities back then, so inexperienced. And yet, they were still with him. Still with him . . .