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“The plants aren’t attacking, which is a good sign,” she offered.
“Oh good. I wouldn’t want to fall asleep fearing I’ll be strangled by daffodils.” He mussed his hair again. “I don’t want toworryabout it at all, Miss—Mrs.—Larkin. But the place won’t let me leave...”
Stepping back into the living room, Hulda waited until his eyes met hers. “There has never been a house I haven’t gotten into working order. I guarantee this place will be worth your investment.”
He sighed, looking genuinely hopeless, and Hulda wondered what his story was. “Can you, though?”
“I can.” She shifted her bag to her other arm. “Let’s see the upstairs—”
Her mind registered the splintering of wood and thethumpingof something soft before she thought to use her light to inspect it. She did so, and a shiver coursed up her spine. Mr.Fernsby gagged.
The house had dropped dead rats on the floor.
The back of her mind connected patterns between the corpses, and Hulda shuddered as her own small magic took over. Augury did that from time to time, divining without her wishing it to. Behind her eyes, she saw the shadow of a great animal, as though lit by moonlight. A dog, maybe a wolf.
Perhaps thinking her faint, Mr.Fernsby grasped her elbow and pulled her from the dead rats. They seemed relatively fresh. Like the house had been collecting them for this very moment.
Her stomach tightened at the thought.Collections. Bodies.
Now wasnotthe time to reflect on that horror. For goodness’s sake, she would stroll through dead rats every day if it meant forgetting that...
“Mrs.Larkin?”
Mr.Fernsby was studying her, brows tight together. Pulling away from him, she nodded to her health and walked briskly toward the stairs.
The nosing on the first step separated from the riser and snapped at her.
Pulling out another ward, she hung it on the newel cap, and the impromptu mouth clapped shut. She turned back to Mr.Fernsby, who stared at the wooden mouth with wide eyes. Stiffening her spine to lend them both courage, she said, “Move quickly.”
And they did, but upon reaching the second floor, Mr.Fernsby nearly toppled back down the stairs. His face paled in the magicked light of her lantern. “Not this again.”
Blood dripped from the hall’s ceiling.
Hulda sighed, grateful to see something familiar. “This is an old trick.”
Mr.Fernsby gaped. “How can you be so complacent about all of this?”
“I told you, Mr.Fernsby.” She crouched and held out her light, watching as the “blood” hit the carpet and fizzled out of existence. “I’m a professional.”
He mumbled something under his breath that she couldn’t discern. Standing, she held the lamp higher. “I believe it’s paint. The house would need to have conjury to produce actual blood, and despite the rats, I doubt it does. Else this is by far the most impressive house I’ve had the pleasure of trespassing.”
The house groaned and clicked, sounding much like the lavatory had before closing in on them. She ignored the gooseflesh parading up and down her arms.
Mr.Fernsby reached out and let some of the paint plop on his hand. “Is it?”
“Is there anything painted red in this house? It could be moved from that, then ‘melted,’ as the furniture was.”
He glanced at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “I... I’m not sure. It’s been... dark.”
She offered him what she called a “business smile,” and his shoulders relaxed. “I will know for sure when I finish my report. How many bedrooms?” Reaching into her bag, she withdrew her umbrella and unfurled it over their heads before heading left.
“F-Four, I think.”
The first of which, fortunately, had an open door. It was fortunate because it had no floor.
Hulda held up her light, but the seemingly bottomless pit sucked it up.
Mr.Fernsby stumbled back. She closed her umbrella. “I’m sure the floor will return. Houses dislike being incomplete.”
