Heir of Uncertain Magic (Whimbrel House, #2)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

Because, betrayal or no, Myra was Hulda’s dearest friend. If she was in trouble . . . Hulda wanted to help.

Despite having a spirit some two hundred and twenty-something years old, Owein still behaved like a boy. He’d died at the age of twelve, and twelve was the age engraved into his heart. Perhaps his lack of maturity came from being alone for so long, away from the social and familial interactions that would have helped him grow up. Perhaps aging was a thing of the body and not the soul.

Why should I be sad when so much is good? Such a simple answer, and one Merritt wanted to cling to.

Merritt had trained himself for years not to hope. This was a steep gamble.

Then again, sometimes knowing the future ruined the present,

Tears stung his eyes as he hugged her back. As concrete chipped and shattered inside him, statuesque pieces became flesh once more.

He’d never let himself miss her. He’d forced himself not to. Played pretend for over a decade. A drowning man who insisted he didn’t need to come up for air.