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When she returned to the dining room, she caught the men midconversation.
“—is doing real well. Real well,” Mr.Portendorfer was saying as Hulda slipped in and gathered dinner dishes. “Think she’ll be getting married soon.”
“Married?” Mr.Fernsby leaned forward. “Isn’t she, what, fifteen?”
Mr.Portendorfer laughed. “Serious, Merritt? She’s twenty-three!”
Mr.Fernsby whistled, as he was wont to do. “Twenty-three. In my head, she’s forever twelve.”
“For a man who’s based his life on collecting facts, you sure lose the easy ones.” Mr.Portendorfer glanced Hulda’s way. “Did you know this man once got himself hired by the Reese Brothers’ Steel Company just so he could write an accurate story on their illegal business practices?”
Hulda rested her hand on the doorframe. “I was not aware.”
Mr.Portendorfer clapped his hands. “Four months you worked there, wasn’t it?”
“Only three. It was miserable.”
“Your arms sure got big, though.”
Hulda interrupted, “I intend to make another list for groceries this afternoon, Mr.Fernsby. We’re in need of meat, if you have a preference.”
Mr.Fernsby breathed out slowly—it seemed to be a motion of relief. “Any kind is fine, as long as it’s reasonably priced. Thank you.”
She nodded. “And do you have a preference of spirits?”
He smiled then, but it didn’t fit the rest of his expression. “I, uh, don’t. That is, no need to stock them on my account.”
“Still dry?” asked Mr.Portendorfer.
Mr.Fernsby shrugged. “I avoid things that might get me into trouble.”
The soberness of the statement caught Hulda’s attention; it could also be seen in Mr.Portendorfer’s expression. As though the friends shared a secret they did not dare utter between these enchanted walls.
And however etiquette was being stretched, it was not yet broken enough for Hulda to ask.
Four days after inheriting Whimbrel House, after Merritt’s New York apartment was emptied courtesy of a Boston institute he’d never heard of, his things brought to a remote island in the Narragansett Bay, Merritt got out the tools he’d collected over the last thirteen years and hesitantly entered the kitchen that had more or less tried to kill him.
Hulda had placed little red sacks around the place—wards from BIKER. Ever since placing them, the house had seemed... like a house. Shadows and creaking had kept to a minimum, so long as he stayed within the boundaries of the wards. He’d slept more soundly than he had in days. It almost felt normal.
The kitchen, however, was a mess. Beside him, Fletcher whistled, as though he had heard the thought and meant to punctuate it.
The house might have been able to repair itself if the wards were taken down. Merritt wasn’t sure. Or perhaps it would open the floor again, suck himandFletcher in, and trap them for good, turning the root cellar into a grave. That made him swallow. He really didn’t want to go into the pit again. For multiple reasons. And Fletcher had to return to that agricultural wholesaler he worked for. Not sure how his employer would take “eaten by a house” as an excuse for not showing up to work.
As it were, the floor was still split, opening for about two paces at its widest part and the length of his foot at the smallest. The edges of the floorboards were splintered, and the second cupboard from where he stood was singed, the door hanging uneasily on its hinges, possibly warped from exposure to water.
But the oven was fine, so there was that.
“Floor first?” Fletcher asked.
Merritt nodded and approached with caution, stepping over the narrowest part of the gap, waiting for the floor to buck and knock him in again. The house rumbled slightly. It knew he was here.
“All right.” Unsurety danced in his voice. “I’m making an attempt, all right?”
“Done floors before,” Fletcher said.
“I’m talking to the house.”
Merritt set the tools down on the counter, his attention lifting to the cabinets. He examined the hinges. Couldn’t replace them without a trip into town, but he could tighten and oil them, shave off the bottom of the door so it closed better.
