Deleted Scenes

This chapter takes place between chapters 8 and 9 of The Glass Magician. It details what is being discussed behind the closed doors of the Parliament building while Ceony and Delilah wait outside. The scene is told in Emery’s point of view. (Back to Deleted Scenes.)

Emery’s hands idly folded and unfolded a square of paper as the last person entered the conference room—Mg. Juliet Cantrell, a Smelter roughly the same age as Emery, who had joined Criminal Affairs two years ago. She was a tall and pretty woman, with a military-type stride to her legs and a stiffness to her shoulders that Emery had yet to see relax. Like Patrice, she wore her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, which emphasized her square jaw.

She nodded to Alfred and took a seat on the far end of the table, opposite him.

Alfred started with introductions, which Emery paid only half an ear to—he knew all these people. Several had worked with him during Lira’s terrorizing reign. Pushing thoughts of his ex-wife aside, Emery continued folding the small square of paper, back and forth, weakening its creases with every movement. He wondered if he could make it fall apart by the end of the meeting without tearing it.

“Right to it, then,” Alfred said, still standing over his chair. “Mg. Thane has brought me the startling news that changes everything we know about Grath Cobalt. It seems the man is not an Excisioner at all, but a Gaffer.”

Two magicians murmured to one another, but the rest remained silent. Patrice, at least, already knew, but at the voicing of it, she pursed her lips until they turned white.

“His apprentice, Ceony Twill, discovered it,” Alfred continued.

Juliet said, “She’s the target?”

Emery frowned.

Alfred nodded. “Seems he contacted her through a mirror in her temporary apartment, alone. Not the wisest choice of action if he wanted to keep his Gaffering a secret.”

A Polymaker named Simon commented, “Perhaps he didn’t want it to be a secret?”

“Unlikely,” Emery interjected, “based on the conversation.”

Juliet asked, “You witnessed it?”

Emery nodded, flipping the paper between his fingers. “I doubt Grath would work so hard to brand himself an Excisioner all these years just to turn the tables now. Though apparently, that’s what he’s doing.”

“Yes, some nonsense about breaking bonds,” Alfred said. After a few startled looks, he added, “I assure you, that is a talent he does not possess, and that does not exist. Still,” he glanced to Emery, “your apprentice is quite the detective to work such a detail out from one of our most wanted. A clever girl, even if she’s not much to look at.”

Emery dropped his paper. The room was silent for two seconds before he said, “I think that’s a matter of opinion, Alfred, and hardly appropriate in these circumstances.”

“I agree,” Patrice said, sharp as a paring knife. “Please, Mg. Hughes, let’s keep this meeting on topic and stray away from your . . . personal preferences.”

Still, Emery bristled. Alfred was already on his fourth marriage, so his opinions on women were to be taken with a grain of salt. But exactly what part of Ceony did he find unappealing?

Alfred only smiled. “Of course. Where was I? Oh yes, the mirror. Mg. Thane?”

Scooting back from the table, Emery reached into his coat and pulled out two small shards of glass from the vanity mirror in the apartment, each wrapped tightly in bandages of paper. Setting them on the tabletop, he slid one to Patrice and the other to Chester, another Gaffer who sat beside her.

“These are from the mirror Grath used to contact Ceony,” Alfred explained. “He also attempted transport, but the mirror was shattered before he succeeded.”

Patrice tilted her shard back and forth, her face contorted in its ever-present frown. She looked like a tortoise, frowning like that. Emery imagined her smile couldn’t be much worse.

Both Gaffers commanded their shards, “Reflect, Past,” and angled them to get a good view of Grath’s current abode. They didn’t look long.

“I don’t recognize it,” Patrice said.

“It’s unremarkable,” added Chester.

Emery leaned back in his chair and returned to manipulating the square of paper. He had a sinking feeling that this meeting would be very, very long. He should have brought a snack.

Still, he asked, “But the apartment is secure?”

Patrice nodded. “I would recommend ridding yourself of any other mirrors, Mg. Thane, but I don’t believe your current abode to be jeopardized.” She paused. “I do, however, recommend separating you and Miss Twill, for a time.”

Oh? Emery leaned his elbows on the table, waiting. Folding and unfolding that paper.

“I think splitting you two would be safer, in the long run,” she continued.

“I’m not a target this time, Patrice.”

She frowned, deeper, likely at the use of her first name in such a formal setting. Emery hid a smile.

“I would like Miss Twill to stay with me,” she continued, “where I can keep an eye on her.”

“I don’t see how your ‘eye’ is any better than mine,” Emery countered, keeping his voice smooth. Oh, how Patrice loved to meddle. It was almost quaint. “Especially given that I have experience in these matters.”

“Especially given your experience, Magician Thane,” she chided, taking on her school-advisor voice. It was a tone she had often used with Emery when he had been in her Spells and Counterspells course at Tagis Praff some thirteen years ago.

Emery palmed the paper and leaned his chin onto his folded hands, watching her. It unnerved Patrice when people stared.

He didn’t like the idea of Ceony leaving. Not only for the sake of her company, but because he couldn’t watch her if they separated. He couldn’t protect her. It was her involvement in his problems that led to this catastrophe in the first place. No, Emery wouldn’t let her go. Not easily.

Alfred cleared his throat.

“Thank you for the concern,” Emery said, “but no.”

Aviosky frowned even further. “I do hope you’re not growing too close to your apprentice.”

Ah, so that was it. Perhaps Emery had let himself slip, been too familiar with Ceony before the Gaffer’s eyes. Then again, walking within two feet of one another would be too familiar for Patrice.

“And I hope you haven’t distanced yourself to the point where you can no longer see yours, Patrice,” he countered.

“Well,” Alfred interjected as Patrice turned away, silently fuming, “Ceony will stay under Emery’s stewardship for the time being. Juliet?”

Juliet stood, dropping a few files onto the table. “I’ve sifted through Cobalt’s criminal records for comparison, and it seems we’ve never had an actual witness testify to his use of Excision. However, he has taken credit for the works of other Excisioners, Lira Hoppson being the most recent.”

A few eyes strayed toward Emery. He made a point of not meeting them.

Instead, he said, “A man can still learn Excision without being able to practice it. I knew a man in secondary school who had memorized all the basics of Folding before ever attending Tagis Praff. I’m positive that, at minimum, Grath personally trains his recruits.”

Juliet merely nodded, then crouched down to retrieve a large roll of canvas, which she splayed over the table—a map of England and its surroundings. Then, reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a handful of thick, brass coins and tossed them over the map. She commanded, “Arrangement, position two,” and the coins snapped into position over different cities as though magnetically drawn to them. Emery noticed each coin had been engraved with a date. A few of the coins bore black rims.

Juliet went on to describe the last known whereabouts of Grath and Saraj, indicating each coin in turn. The black-rimmed coins were Saraj’s locations. All but one coincided with Grath’s.

“When Saraj hits,” Simon, the Polymaker, said, “he does far more damage, but Grath strikes more frequently.”

Juliet folded her arms tightly, her brows drawing together. “I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘more damage.’”

“Take the paper mill, for example. Millions of dollars in repairs.”

“My concern is more for people, not property,” Juliet said, a bit sharp. “Did you know that last year in Presto, Grath raped a teenaged girl so severely that she needed surgery afterward?”

Emery paled.

“Or that earlier this year,” Juliet continued, “Near Derby, he gathered a family into—”

“Please, Juliet,” Alfred interjected, “spare us the details. Let us focus on the present threat.”

Emery crumpled the square of paper in his left palm. The present threat. Ceony. The thought of Grath so much as touching her made his blood boil.

He’d kill the man before he had an opportunity, so help him.

Alfred leaned over the map and said, “Now that we have the history, let’s determine where Grath is now, where he may strike, and what on earth we’re going to do when he does.”

This chapter occurs between chapters 16 and 17 in The Glass Magician. It reveals part of what Emery did after sending Ceony to stay with Langston.

Hand on the doorknob to Mg. Aviosky’s home, Emery watched Langston’s car drive away through a window until it vanished beyond the scope of the panes. He squeezed the knob in his hand, resisting the urge to strike something. His stomach rumbled, igniting a small but sharp pain there. That woman had probably given him an ulcer, not to mention insomnia and a headache. Despite all the beautiful things about Ceony, she could be such a fool!

He let out a long breath. Thank the heavens they had found her unharmed. Thank the heavens. Emery had prayed for the first time in his life last night that he would find her whole. Whatever God watched over him had certainly been merciful.

Alfred came down the hall. “I have my auto coming,” he said. “Do you know the Twill residence?”

“I know the address,” Emery answered. He had never been there himself. “I’d like to come with you.”

Alfred nodded.

Not precisely the way Emery had wanted to meet Ceony’s parents, but he supposed none of that really mattered—or should have been at all important—given the circumstances.

“I as well,” Patrice called as she descended the stairs.

“Delilah?” Emery asked.

“I sent her to the school,” Patrice replied. “I’ve given her enough homework to last her another year. What, pray tell, have you done with Ceony?”

“She’s taken care of for the time being,” Emery said, and he left it at that. Patrice opened her mouth to say more, but she quickly closed it. Perhaps Emery’s disdain for the conversation showed on his face—his aunt had always told him his eyes expressed themselves too well.

Alfred’s driver brought his automobile and Emery held the passenger door for Patrice, remaining silent as he did so. Emery directed the driver to Whitechapel and the Mill Squats. Alfred seemed amused, but withheld comment.

“Here is fine,” Emery announced when they grew close. No need to draw attention to themselves.

They stepped out of the auto onto a narrow street barely wide enough to fit one, lined on either side with box-like flats all compressed in such a way he couldn’t tell where one started and another ended. The brickwork on the road had cracked, strewing potholes up and down its length. Weeds grew up through more cracks in the sidewalks, and the buildings themselves looked centuries old. A thin woman sat on a set of steps outside, watching her two boys bat a pill bug around with sticks.

“Charming,” Alfred said. Turning to Patrice, he added, “Would you find a line and get the location to the others? Tell them only to send a few, please.” Then, to Emery, “It’s a little late for mail birds to look commonplace.”

Emery nodded.

Patrice headed down the sidewalk, back the way they had come, her short heels clicking against the pavement.

Emery led the way to the Twills’, checking building numbers and street signs until he found the address registered under Ceony’s profile, the one he had received a week before she began her apprenticeship. It was a single-story house wedged in between two others, made of rusty brick chipping at the edges and a roof in dire need of re-shingling.

A past conversation came to Emery’s mind as he approached the door.

“Could I borrow a few shillings for a buggy? Please?” Ceony asked.

Emery looked up from the letter he was drafting. “Didn’t you receive your stipend last week?”

“Yes . . . but I sent it away already.”

Sent it away. Here, no doubt.

He thought of the letter she had sent him when she entered Tagis Praff, after he’d donated a scholarship rile Sinad Mueller.

It has been my dream since I was a young girl to learn the secrets of magic, but due to my family’s financial situation and some bad luck on my part, I had truly believed only a few days ago that my dream was unobtainable.

He knocked on the door. Ceony would hate further charity on his part, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t lend her family some help behind her back. He resolved to do so, once this mess had been dealt with.

A woman answered the door. She looked to be about Patrice’s age, with auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail. A worn apron stained with what looked like some sort of fruit preserve hid most of her faded dress.

Alfred said, “Mrs. Twill, I presume?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes. May I help you?”

Alfred stepped forward and offered his hand. “My name is Alfred Hughes of Criminal Affairs, Magicians Cabinet. May we come in? You know Magician Thane, of course.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she grinned. “Magician Thane! No no, I haven’t had the pleasure.” She released Alfred’s hand and shook his own, her grip surprisingly firm. “Ceony has told me so much about you . . . though I didn’t think you’d be so young.”

Emery smiled. “Good things, I hope.”

“Oh, mostly,” she said, then laughed. “Mostly. You’re a better dresser than she claims. Yes yes, please come in.”

Mrs. Twill opened the door wide and gestured them into a small living area, divided into both a living room and a dining room by a long couch that had obviously seen many years of sitting and rough-housing. A narrow kitchen extended beyond that, and a hallway that likely led to the bedrooms. The flat couldn’t have fit more than two.

“Magicians Cabinet,” Mrs. Twill repeated as she shut the door. “Oh dear. Has Ceony done something foul?”

Beyond foul, Emery thought, but he said, “I’m afraid the situation is more my fault than anything else, Mrs. Twill.”

“Oh, call me Rhonda,” Rhonda said. Her face fell. “Is . . . everything all right?”

“Mom, who are they?”

Emery turned to see two children in the hallway, a boy of about ten and a girl—a spitting image of Ceony—a couple years younger than that. Marshall and Margo, if Emery remembered correctly. Ceony had mentioned them on multiple occasions.

“Oh nothing,” Rhonda said. “Go to your room.”

“But—”

“Now,” she added, and the two children frowned and scurried down the hallway.

Rhonda gestured to the couch, but Alfred waved it away with his hand. He asked, “Is your husband at home?”

“No . . . he’s at work,” Rhonda said, fiddling with her apron tie. “And Zina—my other daughter—is still at school. Is there a problem?” She glanced to Emery.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose much,” Alfred said, “but I will need to relocate your family for a short time.”

Rhonda’s eyes bugged. “Relocate? Whatever for?”

Stepping forward, Emery said, “We have reason to believe you may be in danger. A slim chance, I assure you, but it’s always better to play the safe card. Consider it a . . . paid vacation.”

The words didn’t soothe her. “What about Ceony?”

“Oh, she’s perfectly fine, studying for midterms,” Emery lied. “The arrangements will be for a few days, a week at most.”

Alfred harrumphed. Emery ignored him.

Chewing on her nail, Rhonda looked around the house. “But I . . .”

“All will be explained later,” Emery assured her, though the statement wasn’t necessarily true. “Please, pack your things.”

Alfred said, “If you tell us where we could find your husband and daughter, I’ll see that they’re brought home safely as well.”

Rhonda chewed her lip, eyeing Emery. After a long moment, she said, “She trusts you. I suppose I will too. God knows we could use some time out of this house, but . . .”

She didn’t finish the statement, only hurried down the hall, calling out to Marshall and Margo to “get ready for a trip.”

Turning to Alfred and keeping his voice low, Emery asked, “Where will you send them?”

“Probably Portsmouth, but that’s yet to be decided,” Alfred answered.

Someone knocked on the door, and Emery took the liberty of answering it.

Three men in police uniforms stood there. Alfred told one to wait outside the door and the other to circle the block, to keep an eye out. The third he invited inside.

Emery stepped outside so as not to overcrowd the room. He ran his hand through his hair.

“I would still like to speak to you regarding Miss Twill,” Patrice’s voice said beside him. He hadn’t noticed her there.

“You address little else, these days,” Emery said, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. He felt exposed without his coat, which he had left at Patrice’s home. He’d need to retrieve that. “What is it?”

“I’m considering Miss Twill’s welfare as an apprentice, Magician Thane.”

“You think I’m mistreating her?”

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” she huffed. She pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. “I think it to be more conducive to Ceony’s studies, and her well-being, if I reassigned her under Magician Morse.”

Emery glanced straight ahead and folded his arms. “Magician Morse has an apprentice.”

“Not for much longer, and I believe—”

“I would think you’d trust me regarding my own students.” Emery said, looking down on her. “After all, you are the one who made the assignment.” And to a broken man like myself, no less.

“Considering recent events . . .”

“This is neither the time nor place.”

Patrice frowned. “There is never a time or place with you, Magician Thane.”

He turned to her, and she took a step back, surprisingly. “I have the strangest inkling that this isn’t about the Excisioners, Patrice.” He kept his voice low, not wanting any of Ceony’s family to overhear.

Patrice actually flushed. “No, not entirely. I worry about the consequences of the incident concerning your . . . collapse, three months ago.”

“This is an awfully large bush to beat about.”

Patrice scowled. “Do not mock me for being proper.”

Emery inhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders back, trying to relieve the tension in them. The third police officer stepped out of the house and jogged down the street toward his car, likely off to rescue the rest of the Twill family.

“Tell me,” he said, “have you ever completely opened your heart to someone?”

Patrice took several seconds before answering. “No . . .”

“I have,” Emery said, staring at the bland building across the street, at the Y-shaped crack running up its side. “It may not have been by choice, but it’s done. Once something like that happens, one tends to see the world—and the person—a little differently.”

Patrice didn’t respond.

“I will take care of Ceony,” he said, glancing at her. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, but she seemed somewhat defeated. “She will earn her magicianship at the end of two years, or you may personally have me expelled from the Magicians’ Alliance.”

Patrice’s mouth form a small O. Alfred exited the house and flagged down one of the policemen. After asking him to retrieve the auto, he said, “They’re almost ready. Emery, if I could speak with you.”

Emery stepped away from Patrice without so much as a nod, but before he reached the door, he spied something small and white tumbling over the building across the street—a mail bird. Stepping into the gutter, he held his hand out to it, and the paper crane circled about his fingers and landed in his palm.

“Cease,” he commanded it. The bird went still, and he unfolded it, glancing over the message inside, written in Ceony’s hand.

“What is it?” Alfred asked.

Emery slipped the paper into his pocket. “Nothing,” he said, and followed the Siper inside. Two packed bags already sat on the dining-room table.

“I have a proposition for you,” Alfred said, hushed. “Something I need done while we deal with Grath.”

“I’m listening,” Emery replied.

Initially, after returning to the mainland to report Silas’s attack, a couple of our protagonists ran into Ebba, Merritt’s ex-girlfriend. The scene was changed in edits to remove her from the story, but this is the original.

Merritt stayed in bed all day; Hulda assured it. She made sure he ate when he was alert, and then drugged him heavily in between, ensuring rest and healing. She tried to focus on the future and not the past, as was her specialty. Still, every time she spied a contusion, she saw him flying through the air again, crumpling up against the house like a sack of onions, his desperate wardship spells turning his bones to eggshells. It was a miracle he wasn’t more broken than he was. A miracle he was alive.

            She loved him so fiercely it hurt. A future without him was not a future Hulda could abide.

            Still, per his wishes, she did not give him any of the heavier medications Monday morning. Baptiste came upstairs and helped him sit up, then bound him even further, ensuring his right arm would not move, nor his left arm above the elbow. Merritt insisted on coming to the city, and while Hulda called him a fool, she was inwardly glad for it. She needed him near. As though keeping him near would ensure his protection. As though bad things could only happen if she looked away.

            Ultimately, they all went to Portsmouth, the Babineauxs as well. Fallon had avoided her and Merritt, even when Hulda sought her out to question her, and to thank her. Even now she avoided them, maintaining her hawk form and staying perched on Owein’s shoulder—he’d thickened the fabric with an alteration spell so her talons wouldn’t dig in to his skin. “I would be happy to lend you some garments,” was all Hulda said. If Fallon replied, Merritt did not translate it. But there were more important matters at hand than Owein’s paramour. Much more important matters.

            Owein went straight for the post office with little word. Beth filed her own police report, then offered to take Hattie with them on their errands to lighten Hulda’s load. Hulda graciously took her up on it. She then filled out a police report, as Merritt couldn’t write. She scribed everything as Merritt spoke to the constable, who seemed rather alarmed at the story, and the fact that it matched the one Beth had just given. Neither of them held anything back. Yes, they were wizards. Yes, the fight had involved magic. Yes, they believed the attacker to be the necromancer Silas Hogwood in the body of another man.

            That last part was slightly more believable when Hulda explained she was the director of BIKER.

            To her relief, they were taken seriously. Hulda offered what little she knew of Silas Hogwood’s future whereabouts from her visions. They then, too, went to the post office, though didn’t run into Owein. She sent a brief telegram to Ohio, where Myra would intercept it.

            He is back. Man behind the glass. Assault on island. Need to speak.

            At that point Ellis began to cry. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Hulda began rocking her. “I’m going to step outside.” There was a bench near a little park she could sit at to collect herself.

            Merritt nodded, a few letters in his left hand. “We should buy some ammunition.” His tone turned dark. Catching it, he cleared his throat and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be right out. Mabol, can you open these for me?”

            Focusing on her breathing, Hulda slipped out of the post office as Ellis’s fussing grew more insistent. Patting the babe on the back, Hulda made it to the bench, set down her faithful black bag, and unbuttoned her dress so Ellis could eat. She’d need a change after this, which Hulda hated doing in public, but she’d figure out something. Merritt certainly wouldn’t be changing any nappies any time soon. It was all up to her.

            Closing her eyes, Hulda drew in a deep breath to steady herself. We’ve gotten through worse, haven’t we? But she wasn’t sure she believed the sentiment. It was different, now. The children made it different. Made it desperate. It took all Hulda had not to let her emotions spiral. She’d always had a knack for objectivity, for logic. Where was that propensity now?

            At the very least, from what Hulda understood, Silas Hogwood couldn’t be the same Silas Hogwood she’d known. The wizard with more magic than Queen Victoria herself. She’d done a lot of reading on Silas Hogwood, both during her original assignment to Whimbrel House, and after discovering Myra’s illegal activities with his body in Ohio. Mr. Hogwood—though he didn’t deserve a salutation, she thought—had a rare mixture of spells that allowed him to draw magic from a person into himself. Lethal for the victim, yet not permanent for the thief. What had allowed him to keep the magic was a water spell, which he only could have gotten from an enchanted house in England, for him to be able to keep it. Houses couldn’t die; they weren’t living in the first place. Not scientifically.

            And so Silas had obtained a water spell, which allowed him to preserve the bodies of his victims, and in that preservation, he kept the magic he stole. When those mummified monstrosities were destroyed, he lost the magic. When Hogwood had died the first time, he’d lost the magic.

            Meaning he had only what he’d been born with, which was still a great deal. But unless he stumbled upon another house or artifact or non-living things with an elemental water spell, he would be unable to preserve spells he stole, which limited him to his natural abilities. And there were no enchanted homes in North America with water spells, she knew. Hulda tried to find peace in that.

            They would need to send word out to Marshfield, to confirm, or attempt to confirm, Merritt’s idea about this watchman. Perhaps if they could identify the body Hogwood had stolen, it would help them. If that soul was still in there . . . if he could overthrow Hogwood . . .

            The bench shifted ever so slightly, breaking Hulda from her cogitation. A young woman, perhaps a few years younger than herself, had sat down. Her dark hair was only partially pulled up and draped down over her shoulders.

            Their gazes met, and the stranger smiled. “Pardon me. Hope I’m not bothering you.” She reached for her right shoe.

            “Not at all.” Hulda checked Ellis, who still suckled contentedly.

            Looking embarrassed, the woman said, “Rock in my shoe,” and pulled the sensible shoe off. Turned it over, and a dainty pebble fell out.

            “I shan’t tell a soul,” Hulda offered, honestly grateful for the distraction.

            The woman smiled. Pulled her shoe back on just as Ellis unlatched, apparently satisfied for the time being. Hulda made herself modest and sat the child on her lap, patting her back to encourage a burp.

            “She’s darling,” the stranger offered.

            Hulda beamed. “Thank you. I’m a little biased.”

            Another smile. “It’s always a relief to be around adorable infants. You don’t have to lie about how adorable they are.” She folded her hands on her lap. “Never had any of my own, so I appreciate the cute ones, especially.”

            Hulda grinned. Heard footsteps and looked up to see Merritt coming over, an open letter in his free hand. Mabol pattered beside him, her hand clenched on the lip of his trouser pocket. Merritt glanced up at Hulda, then at the stranger, and slowed, his face going slack.

            Hesitating, Hulda asked, “What is it?”

            Just as Merritt said, “Ebba?”

            The same zinged down Hulda’s neck like she’d bitten down on a silver fork. The woman beside her looked up at the name, then blanched.

            As far as Hulda knew, there was only one Ebba of Merritt’s acquaintance, and that was Ebba Mullan, his ex-fiancée. The woman who had slept with him and abandoned him for music school; schooling that had been paid for by Merritt’s father, who’d wanted any reason to cast his bastard son from his household.

            Ebba seemed to shrink, then offered an incommodious laugh. “Merritt . . . is that you? It’s been so long.”

            “It . . . has.” The last time Merritt saw the woman was nearly five years ago, after he’d found her name on a poster in Boston for a concert series. Hulda later learned he’d intended to profess his feelings that night, but the finding had been . . . distracting, to say the least.

            Feeling the growing stickiness of the situation, Hulda said, “She was just complimenting Ellis’s aesthetics.”

            “Oh.” His gaze shifted from Ebba to Ellis. “Um, thank you.”

            “She’s yours.” It sounded more like a revelation than a question. “Oh.” She stood, smoothing down her skirt. “Then you must be Mrs. Fernsby.” She glanced at Mabol. “I’m glad to see you happy.”

            A quarter of a smile tugged on Merritt’s lips. “Thank you.”

            “And . . .” Ebba looked like she wanted to flee, but she hesitated, touching her right shoulder. “You’re hurt?”

            “Fell off a ladder,” he responded smoothly.

            She nodded. “Well . . . I hope you heal quickly. I, um, I read one of your books. American Castle, I mean. It was rather good.”

            That had been Merritt’s fourth published novel. He had six, now. “Thank you,” he said.

            She nodded, first to him, then to Hulda. “Well, it’s nice meeting you. I should be on my way.”

            She offered a weak, awkward wave of her hand before turning and heading toward main street, her stride quick and purposeful.

            Ellis belched.

            “So,” Hulda said after a moment. “That’s Ebba.”

            “That’s Ebba.” Merritt crossed over and gingerly lowered himself onto the bench, letting out a breath as he did. He almost succeeded in stifling a wince.

            Hulda clucked her tongue. “You should be resting. We’re done here; we can head back.”

            “I need ammunition.” He looked distracted. “And . . . I’m sorry, Hulda.”

            “I’m bored,” Mabol protested.

            Hulda ignored the comment. “For what?”

            “For . . . all of that.” He gestured—as much as the bandages allowed—in the direction Ebba had gone.

            Hulda snorted. “I hardly care.” She considered for a moment. “Perhaps, once, I might have. But I’m untroubled.” Reaching over, she set her hand on his thigh. “Look at all we have. And all we wouldn’t have, had she made different choices.”

            The corner of his lip ticked up. “That is a most excellent way to put it.” He took a deep breath, then offered the open letter in his hand.

            Hulda shifted Ellis to her shoulder before accepting it. “What’s this?”

            “A letter from Hiram Sutcliffe.”

            She paused. “Sutcliffe?”

            He nodded. “My half-brother. One of them. Apparently he was a late bloomer like me. Wardship.”

            Curious, Hulda read the letter. It was brief and to the point, as a man was ought to write. Apparently he’d been struggling with the same spell Merritt had, and when the struggle came up with his father—Merritt’s biological father—he’d gotten the truth, along with Merritt’s Portsmouth address. He was asking for help.

            Hulda could only imagine the drama that must be unraveling in that family. She didn’t envy them.

            “Will you?” she asked.

            “Of course.” Another wince. “I sent a telegram.” He looked down at the bandages encircling him. “Invited him to the house.”

            Hulda folded the letter back up. “Is that safe?”

            “I can hardly travel.” He sighed. “I mentioned there’d been an assault. If Hiram wants to wait, he can wait.”

            Hulda straightened. “Merritt, I wonder if that’s who I saw. In my vision.” There had been something familiar about the man. Familiar facial features—Merritt’s features. It made sense if it was a relation.

            “He comes, then.” His tone was optimistic, but the heaviness of worry that had been clouding them all weekend still hung overhead, unspoken.

            “Let’s get some wards from BIKER and meet up with Beth,” Hulda offered, “and send Owein or Baptiste for the ammunition. You need to . . . not move.”

            A low grumble was his only protest. “Perhaps you’re right.”

            “Of course I am.” She stood. “Mabol, darling, walk with me.”

            Mabol frowned. “I want to be carried.”

            “If you find your uncle, you can be.”

            This seemed to satisfy the child, for she accepted Hulda’s outstretched hand and allowed herself to be guided away from the bench.