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Hulda severely doubted it. As Mr.Babineaux announced breakfast, Hulda stepped back into the living room. “Owein, would you please, I don’t know, change the color of the ceiling? To your favorite color?”
The ceiling shifted to a bright blue. Out in the reception hall, the shield remained up.
“He can enchant only one room at a time,” she explained.
Miss Taylor asked, “Meaning what?” Her voice sounded like it was underwater.
Hulda dashed up the stairs, hurrying to her room, where she grabbed her tool bag. She returned just as quickly, digging for her dowsing rods. “Meaning Whimbrel House has two sources of magic.”
Mr.Fernsby’s mouth dropped. “Two? But not the Mansel family—you would have exorcised them.”
“It is unlikely the second source is also a wizard in residence. It must be something more subtle. Like enchanted wood.” She walked toward the front door with her rods extended. They parted in her hands, then closed again as she moved away. When she entered the living room, they slowly opened again.
“Owein would have to be quite powerful to be doing both. I don’t think it’s him.” She glanced at the blue ceiling. “Owein, would you please drop the shield on the door? Miss Taylor needs to come in.”
They were quiet a moment. The ceiling shifted to a darker blue. The shield remained.
Mr.Fernsby’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Is it dangerous?”
Hulda moved toward the dining room with her rods. They didn’t react. “Highly unlikely.”
“Then... let’s not worry about it.” Mr.Fernsby knocked on the shield. “Miss Taylor! Perhaps you could try a window—”
The shield gave way, causing Mr.Fernsby to stumble into Miss Taylor, nearly knocking her over. Fortunately, he caught himself and steadied Miss Taylor with hands on her shoulders, though his elbow smacked into the doorframe, eliciting a hiss, followed by, “Terribly sorry! Mrs.Larkin, I fixed it! Oh goodness, that will leave a bruise—”
Hulda approached the door, her dowsing rods limp in her hands. She hummed to herself, wondering. Magic houses were rarely dangerous, and this second source of magic was mild enough that they hadn’t detected it before. Hulda didn’tworryabout it... but she wanted to know. Enough questions had gone unanswered in her life that she ached to answer the ones she could. This was her specialty, after all.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind them, followed by Mr.Babineaux’s low inquiry, “Is anyone going to eat? It’s getting cold.” His dark eyes passed over them. “What did I miss?”
Chapter 20
September 20, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Merritt couldn’t wrap his head around how well things were going. Not just with the house, which had been kinder to him ever since he’d learned its name, but... Hulda.
The very thing that had made his own father throw him out, she’d barely batted an eye at.
He’d come to terms with it all—his disinheritance, the abandonment—or so he liked to think. He could go days without thinking about it, though when hedidthink about it, it stung like a fresh wasp bite. Ebba, especially. The disintegration of his world had revolved around her. Around their mistake. And yet Merritt had been determined to pick up the pieces, to marry her and raise their child together. To move on as a family. He’d proposed, she’d accepted, and train cars were slowly aligning on the track. So whenshe’dabandoned him, too—apparently with an empty womb—he’d been...shockedwasn’t a strong enough word for it. Words were his business, his trade, and still he wasn’t sure an adequate descriptor existed. She hadn’t even said goodbye. He’d found out from her parents. There’d been no note, no farewell, no explanation.
She’d left the ring. Fletcher had pawned it on Merritt’s behalf.
Merritt’s father had always viewed him with disdain, so his abandonment had seemed almost natural. But Ebba had loved him, or sohe’d believed. And not knowingwhyshe’d ripped him off like a coarse scab still haunted his dreams at night.
And yet.
Merritt sat at his desk, pen in hand, but had not written for several minutes. Twilight was descending, acclimating him to the darkness. He needed to light another candle, but something about the blank wall in front of him magnified the scattered thoughts he needed to sort through.
Finding that forgotten, mud-encased grave had struck a chord within him. A note that still rang, even now. He felt empathetic for ahouse, for the person within its walls that he couldn’t see, couldn’t really talk to. He felt connected to him, like they were two novels of the same series.
If Owein hadn’t reached into his soul so readily, he might not have told Hulda his story. Outside of Fletcher, he’d toldno one. Fletcher’s family knew, of course, but not from Merritt’s mouth. And suddenly, thirteen years later, he’d vomited his shame and anguish onto his housekeeper, of all people. He’d truly thought she’d be offended. That he’d wake up this morning to see her bags packed, her replacement already notified.
Instead, she’d offered to wash his cravat and asked for his dinner recommendations.
She was a puzzle. So prim yet... utterly unruffled by his delinquencies. By his outcast status. In truth, he’d never met a woman like Hulda Larkin.
Who are you?
He’d been equally surprised by her willingness to talk about this Silas Hogwood. Merritt had a vivid imagination; it had felt as if he were standing beside her as she witnessed those horrors in her vision. The bodies. Surely that had to trouble a person. Surely not even someone as strong as Hulda could shake it off. He’d wanted, badly, to comfort her.To reassure her. If she hadn’t already done so, Merritt would have made his own inquiries regarding the man.
