Heir of Uncertain Magic (Whimbrel House, #2)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

Truly, Owein fascinated him. 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.

I like feeling. I like being around you. Even when you’re gone, it’s less . . . lonely, like this. My heartbeat keeps me company.

Why should I be sad when so much is good?

“That carefree attitude of his . . . it’s a farce.” She lowered her eyes as though ashamed. “There’s something raw and hurting inside him.

“You are a poor judge—” “I am an excellent judge of all things,” he intercepted, hooking his foot around the leg of her chair and tugging her closer. He rose from his seat and put his hands on her armrests, his face hovering intimately close to hers. “And I’ll not have you challenging that. Not under my roof.”

It was his safe haven.

He knew he should be asking about the magic, but there was so much more he wanted to know. So many scabs picked that needed balm.

Merritt wondered how many times he’d have to wipe the smile off Sutcliffe’s face before it stayed off.

“I wanted you, boy.” Sutcliffe’s voice was nearly a whisper. “Couldn’t have you, but I wanted you.”

If I could make it right, I would.” “Would you, though?” Merritt asked, barely audible to himself, but the way Sutcliffe stiffened, he knew the constable had heard it. “Would you reach out to my mother? My father? Would you tell my brothers who I am? Would you make that right?” Sutcliffe stood there, utterly crestfallen, without an answer. And that was how Merritt left him.

Maybe if he damaged a few spines, she’d somehow sense it and come back. He’d rather be scolded by Beth than be unscolded and alone.

Part of her feared she’d meant to push Merritt away. She was a master of that—shoving aside any thought of love so she could manage life without disappointment. So she could achieve that which she could control. Now she had love, or at least she hoped she still had it, and she didn’t know how to turn those safety measures off.

“It’s a little hard to describe. It’s this sort of stoicism you adopted in your early twenties. When it gets severe, you’re more of a statue than a person.”

“Break one of those bars, Hul. Let in the sunshine. Humans are emotional creatures, even you. You’ve got to crack the shell on the egg and let him see the soft flesh underneath.”

The most frustrating part was that he wasn’t entirely sure why he was crying.

and while I know I can’t empathize with you, I can sympathize,

“I don’t share your confidence. Women are so easily labeled as hysterical.”

“Goodness, Hulda. There’s a lot of sugar in this.” She shrugged. “Sugar makes sad things better.”

Life’s better sweet than sour, my mother would say.”

Sorrow sharp as whiskey burned through him. How he’d missed her! The shock of it muted him. 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.

He laughed again, and it felt so good, like taking off a heavy jacket midsummer.