House of Furies (House of Furies #1)

I nodded, and felt the despair of the previous day creep back in, surrounding me, dulling the pretty scenery outside. “It doesn’t matter which one of us is right. Any way you explain it, it’s monstrous.”


The doors swung open, and Mrs. Haylam entered, expertly balancing a tray with refreshments. The crone I had met on the side of the road didn’t look strong enough to lift a single teacup, and now here she was delivering a full silver service and biscuits. She swiftly laid out the tea and food, righting herself with a satisfied little hmph.

“Well done, Mrs. Haylam, what a spread,” he said, beaming up at her. “Louisa and I were just discussing last night’s excitement. Do you happen to know this symbol?”

Mr. Morningside offered her the paper and she patiently inspected both sides. “The symbol means nothing to me,” she finally said. “But this phrase . . . The first and last children. Why does that sound familiar?”

“It’s something of a conundrum,” he said.

“I will think on it,” Mrs. Haylam replied. Her eyes were already distant and thoughtful, trained somewhere above our heads as she spun and bustled out of the parlor. “How do I know that?” she was saying to herself as she went. “Where have I heard that . . .”

“So distracted she forgot to pour,” Mr. Morningside said with a laugh. I reached for the pot myself and measured out tea for each of us, then settled in to not drink any. My appetite was low, and breakfast was keeping me full.

“You really should try the jam biscuits,” he was saying, mouth stuffed with sweets. “Mrs. Haylam makes the apricot preserves herself.”

“I’m not really one for sweets,” I replied softly. “The tea will suffice.”

He finished chewing, taking his time, and sipped his tea, leaning back in his chair. Then a slow, devious smile spread across his face and he picked up one of the biscuits, handing it across to me.

“Take it.”

“No, thank you,” I said stubbornly.

“Don’t put it in your mouth yet, just hold it,” he commanded. He blew out a breath that ruffled his hair, and rolled his eyes. “Will it help if I say please?”

I plucked the biscuit out of his grasp and held it up between both of us. “There. I’m holding it.”

“What is it that you’re holding?” he asked, his smile broadening.

“Don’t be ridiculous. A jam biscuit. Apricot.”

“And what do you want it to be?”

I frowned, sensing where this was going. Before falling asleep, I had read the chapter on Changelings. On their alleged abilities. I wanted to drop the biscuit and storm out, but I also craved the proof of his wild assumptions. That I was one of those things. That was the only thing he could mean by mentioning it so often. Wouldn’t I feel special somehow? Wouldn’t I sense, deep in my bones, that I had some kind of innate and magical gift? I only ever felt plain and mistrusted, not exceptional.

“Play along,” he said tightly.

“Fine. I wish . . .” What did I wish for? We never ate decadently growing up. There were foods I didn’t mind eating and ones I had eaten time and time again because it was all there was on offer. So what did I want? “Bread and butter.”

“Bread and . . .” He shrugged and motioned me along with one finger. “You could aim a little higher, my dear, but so be it. Make the biscuit become bread and butter.”

“I can’t.”

“You read the book?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Well then. Half of achieving a thing is just knowing you can do it.”

No. No. I shook my head hard. The biscuit trembled in my grasp. “I’m not one of those things. A Changeling. That’s not me.”

Mr. Morningside’s smile turned down at one corner. His golden eyes, generally bright with arrogance, grew softer. “You’ve been different all your life,” he said solemnly.

“Yes, I have, but I don’t want to be different. I’ve only ever wanted to feel like everyone else.”

“Close your eyes,” he said softly, and not knowing why, I did. But that was wrong; I did know why. He wanted me to prove he was right. He wanted me to know, really know and feel, that I was one of them. “Bread and butter. Think it. It’s what you want.”

I had more or less memorized the relevant passages. Very well, the relevant chapter.

If the Changeling’s parentage is of sufficient dark power, they can transform objects and even their own bodies for varying periods of time. Some may turn a rope into a snake for a mere instant. Others can change their form entirely, fooling even the mimicked subject’s family, friends, or lovers.

Yet I did not want that to be true. If it was, it meant that I not only belonged here with these miscreants and monsters, but that I may not fit in anywhere else. It would mean I was not human at all, that the belonging I so longed for with my mother, my grandparents, at Pitney, had been the most hopeless and impossible dream all along. My eyes were shut tight. I shut them tighter still. I could feel a sob welling in my throat, because for all I wanted this untruth of his to disappear, I could not stop thinking of bread and butter, bread and butter . . .

I knew the instant it changed. The instant it worked. The instant I was changed.

And I heard the short, delighted intake of breath from the young man across from me. When I opened my eyes, there was a dainty piece of toast pinched between my fingers and it was shiny with melted butter.

“Louisa . . . you only ever wanted to feel like everyone else, yet everyone else can’t do that.”

I swallowed, hard, willing my sobs away. By God, if I could change a biscuit to toast with a mere thought, then I could keep down the cries that stoppered up my throat. I stared at the bread and marveled at the stillness in my hand—it was as if my body had known this was possible all along and it was only my stubborn mind lagging behind.

“When will it change back?” I whispered, stricken.

Mr. Morningside lowered his head, watching me through the thickness of his dark, dark lashes. “Only when you want it to or when your concentration breaks.”

I let the buttered bread slip from my hand. It was a biscuit again before it touched wood.





Chapter Thirty-Three





Chasing Canis Infernalis


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