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But first, the desecration of his grave.

Owein didn’twantto disturb this holy ground. It hadn’t been dedicated by a priest, as far as he could recall, but to him it was sacred. The only thing that tied him back to his origins. He didn’twantto see his small corpse and the decay of his first life. But BIKER had science that could solve this, and Owein wanted to help. Heneededto.

He stared at his headstone a long moment, breathing in scents of loam and sun-warmed grass. It was small, simple—a relatively flat rock with his name, birth date, and death date carved into it. His family hadn’t been wealthy. Not terribly poor, if he remembered right—Whimbrel House provided proof enough of that, though much of its décor had been created by Owein postmortem. Still, something about that stone weighed on him, like he was holding it, not looking at it.

Fallon stepped up beside him, clasping her hands in front of her. A breeze toyed with her dark hair.

“How are we doing this?” she asked reverently. She felt it, too.

Owein swallowed against a sore throat. “I don’t want to disturb the others.” He’d been laid between his mother and his sister; he’d been the first of the four children to pass. “A little magic to loosen the soil. The rest I’ll do by hand.”

“We’lldo it by hand.”

Owein shook his head. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I don’t want you to,” he whispered, shoulders heavy. A chill wound through his torso, tightening everything it touched. “I don’t want you to see ... me.”

She didn’t respond immediately. A few heartbeats passed, and she stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. “You”—she jutted her finger into his sternum—“are right here. Not there. I see you,Owein. I saw you through the eyes of that dog, before you ever got this body. I will help. But”—her expression softened—“I will step away when it’s time to pull the body up.”

Owein searched her face, the lines of determination between her brows and the sympathetic glow of her eyes. Cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her, grateful and hollow and cold. Then he got the shovels.

When he returned, Fallon had laid pink corydalis on the grave. She touched her forehead to the stone marker before stepping back and accepting the smaller shovel.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Owein pierced the spade into the soil.

Chapter 22

July 11, 1851, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Friday morning burned hot and bright; the light streaming through the bedroom window cast long rectangles over the cream-colored blanket on Beth and Baptiste’s bed, the shape warped by the presence of the body beneath it. Blightree’s breaths were long and even, albeit raspy. He had not woken—not since he fell in the line of duty, and not since Owein had arrived at dawn. Not that anyone had witnessed, at least.

Owein sat in a chair by the window, occasionally leaning it onto its back legs. He picked at his nails; he’d missed dirt under them from the digging, despite a long, too-hot bath afterward. He couldn’t seem to get all the granules out. The smell of rich loam and decay clung inside his nostrils, the back of his throat. He’d been drinking a lot of strong tea, trying to get it out. His most recent cup, now empty, perched on the windowsill.

Mrs. Mirren stepped in then, opening the door carefully as though worried she’d wake Blightree, though waking would be the best thing for him. But stepping lightly around the sleeping was a habit all self-aware humans seemed to have, and it was a hard one to break. When she took the chair on the other side of the bed, she spoke in hushed tones. “Anything?”

Owein glanced to Blightree. The wrinkles in his face had somehow deepened, despite his relaxed countenance. “No changes.”

She nodded, expecting as much. “Thanks for watching him.”

Setting all four legs of the chair on the floor, Owein asked, “Why is there no change?”

Mirren kneaded her hands. “Mr. Blightree and Silas Hogwood share a very rare combination of spells. Life-force transferring and kinesis. You’re well aware.” She tipped her head toward him.

Owein was. They were the spells that had moved his spirit from house to dog to Merritt to man. Silas had performed the first; Blightree the second and third. “But Blightree is still here.” He gestured weakly to the bed.

“More or less,” the storm conjurer replied. “It all happened so fast, but I got a good look, and, well.” She glanced at the necromancer’s face and sighed. “Mr. Blightree is here, but Silas Hogwood used those spells on him. I think ... I think he didn’t have time to finish it. He was outnumbered. We stopped him, but he stillmovedthe soul. Halfway out, I suspect.”

Owein straightened. “Halfway?”

“That’s my theory,” she specified. “I’m no necromancer, but I’ve worked alongside them for years. Lord Pankhurst and Miss Watson agree with me, but we can’t move it back. Not even Mr. Blightree’s sister could move it back. She doesn’t have the kinesis.”

Owein studied Blightree, looking over him as though for the first time. What must that feel like, to be onlyhalfinside your body? He tried to remember the sensation of moving from form to form, and to imagine it stopping midspell. But he couldn’t. He found himself reaching into his trouser pocket—not for the communion stone he still hadn’t returned, but for the grease pencil there. He’d taken it from the kitchen late last night. Just in case.

“Even if Mr. Blightree were alert,” Mrs. Mirren continued, “you can’t move your own soul.”

“Why not?”