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He dipped his head. “Then read the inscription on the back, child. Aloud, for your partner’s sake.”
Hulda put the page aside, curious. However, the story changed completely on the next page.
Once upon a time, there was a lonely old (but not really very old) rogue who lived in a dingy (but not that dingy, let’s be honest, he’s not a pauper) apartment in New York, who suddenly received a call from a very polite lawyer about a house in the middle of nowhere that was his. By the way, this house was haunted. Fortunately, the rogue did not believe in ghosts at the time, so he went anyway.
Hulda smiled. Something warm and strange ballooned in her chest.
The house was utterly terrible, as one can expect a haunted house to be. But fortunately for the rogue, someone competent came by. Competence claimed she was sent by a special organization with a truly terrible acronym, but truthfully her visit had been arranged by divine intervention.
The house (which later became a talking dog, but that is a story for another day) gradually settled down under her hand, and so did the rogue. In fact, the rogue found he no longer slept in and made pastries the highlight of his day; he woke (relatively) on time just to see Competence chewing absently on her lip while she was nose deep in a book, or chattering with the staff, or admiring the sunset when she thought no one was looking.
The balloon swelled. Rings of heat formed around Hulda’s eyes. She turned the next page, covering the second half with her hand, terrified she would read ahead and ruin it all.
Competence helped the rogue write what was likely a terrible novel, hired help who would become his friends, and provided him with conversation that was both amusing and deep. Very soon, the rogue found that he wanted nothing more than to share that house with her forever, though there was the tricky business of her refusing to use his Christian name.
Hulda laughed. A tear pooled in the corner of her eye.
The rogue, of course, was a rogue for a reason. He had a less-than-savory past, involving a contumelious (Competence would appreciate the complexity of that word) father and a tricksy belle, which had left him with some heavy thoughts and (mostly) without an inheritance. Plus, unfortunately, both the rogue and Lady Competence shared the trait of being very poor communicators when it came to important and uncomfortable things.
A second tear formed. Hulda wiped it away with her thumb. Smudged her glasses, but didn’t bother to clean the lenses.
And so it was that the rogue went on a mission to uncover the truth of his labyrinthine (there’s another word for you) past when he had intended to tell Competence that he was falling madly in love with her.
A sob tore up her throat. Hulda clapped a hand over her mouth, fearing Miss Canterbury would hear it, and continued reading through increasingly foggy spectacles.
Competence, in turn, determined to move out immediately. Which the rogue very much hoped was a way of dealing with heartbreak because, if so, that meant Competence likewise might be falling in love with him. Or, at the very least, strongly tolerated him.
She laughed. A teardrop fell on the paper and smudged the pennedlikewise. She felt like her ribs were pulling apart in the most fascinating way. Her heart pumped like it was skipping rope. Pleasant prickles danced across her scalp.
And so, after some nonsense with a supernecromancer that is hardly important to the story, the rogue determined to tell Competence how he felt in the hope she’d return to him someday. He lucked out in that he got to do it in a very strangely arranged letter, as he always was a better writer than speaker.
Take your time, Hulda. I’ve kept the communion stone in my pocket.
Absolutely Yours—Merritt.
Speechless, Hulda turned the page, only to see the continuation of Elise and Warren’s story. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to read it. Not now.
Collecting the papers together, she clutched them to her chest and hurried from the window seat, out into the hallway. Her sister was playing the pianoforte in the front room, so she ran to see her, uncaring that her eyes were probably red.
“Danielle!” she burst out, causing her sister to pause midmeasure and swivel on her bench. “Danielle, I need to leave immediately. Could you take me to the tram station?”
Hulda hadn’t been away for even a fortnight, yet the island seemed different when the dinghy driver banked to drop her off. The place was filled with color, hues of yellow, orange, red, and brown. The green in the reeds and grass was slowly fading with the promise of winter. Songbirds still trilled in half-bare trees. Frost glimmered where the branches cast shade.
Taking a deep breath, Hulda pulled her shawl close and made her way to Whimbrel House. Nothing hung on the line, though perhaps it had been too cold to dry much of anything today. No one chopped wood, though the axe protruded from the stump in the yard. There was a faint smell of rosemary and sage wafting from the kitchen window, which served to bolster Hulda’s spirits and calm her nerves. She knew the house had changed, but shefeltit, too, in a way she couldn’t quantify. As though a sense outside of the five—or perhaps six—that she possessed whispered it. And yet it still very much felt like home.
She paused at the front door, wondering if she should knock. Wondering if she wanted to have this conversation at the threshold instead of sequestered in a private room. Remembering that her contract had not yet terminated, she deemed it appropriate to open the front door and slip inside. The portrait on the wall took no notice of her; the painted woman merely stared ahead as she’d been created to do, depleted of magic.
A dog barked upstairs. Within seconds, the terrier mix darted into view and sprinted down the stairs, its paws losing purchase as it hit polished hardwood. It slipped to its rump, earning a laugh from Hulda, but recovered quickly, rushing to her and planting its front paws on her knees.
“You look like you’re convalescing well.” She rubbed Owein’s ears and allowed him to lick her chin. “Glad to see you. Where’s the man of the house?”
“Hulda!” Miss Taylor swept in from the dining room and rushed to her, hugging her with the utmost gentleness. “You’re back!”
“Are you well?” Hulda pulled away to survey her friend for injuries.
“Doing better every day,” Miss Taylor assured her. “Just can’t lift anything heavy or reach too high. Mr.Babineaux has taken up dusting.”
Heavy steps announced Baptiste arriving to investigate the noise. He made no physical reaction to Hulda’s presence. “You look well,” he said.
