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Mr.Fernsby leaned forward to better see the maid. “Miss Taylor! Did you enjoy yourself? I worry you didn’t if you’re walking so well. I’ve seen many a dancer bleed and blister their feet on the dance floor.”
She beamed. “It was right fun, Mr.Fernsby, my thanks.” She nodded at Hulda and pulled out the envelopes. “I’ve two letters for Mr.Fernsby and two for you, Mrs.Larkin. Plus a package, which I put on your bed.”
The dresses, already?
Hulda pulled the needle free of its thread. “Excellent. I shan’t have to keep piecing this thing together.” Perhaps she could rehem it and send it to her sister, who was shorter than she was... but Danielle had much more eclectic taste in fashion and likely wouldn’t wear it.
Miss Taylor crossed to Mr.Fernsby first and handed him his letters before shifting toward Hulda.
“Ah! Fletcher.” Halfway through tearing open the first letter, he glanced Hulda’s way. “He’s visiting next week, with luck. I can take care of preparations.”
“Need I remind you what staff is for?” She allowed some wryness to creep into her expression, which Mr.Fernsby met with a grin. “Owein could likely make him his own room.” Miss Taylor handed her the letters. “Thank you, Miss Taylor.”
The envelopes were in such poor condition Hulda wondered if they’d been sent via conjury—transformed into a shape capable of flying across the Atlantic, then restored to their original form upon arrival—instead of a kinetically powered ship. The former was becoming rather antediluvian. Her eyes sailed to the return address. England, both of them.
Her breath hitched. “If you’ll excuse me.” Draping her torn dress over her shoulder, Hulda headed for the exit. Mr.Fernsby called after her, but she answered only with a reassuring wave as she continued on her way, across carpet that was now pink with large green spots marringit, courtesy of the resident ghost. Hulda barely registered the garishness and arrived at her room with her fingers cold and jittery.
She opened the first letter, from the constabulary of Liverpool. It was brief, the writing little more than chicken scratch.
We’ve no record of any Hogwoods leaving the Merseyside or registering for emigration, but he could have done so at a port city.
She sighed. It was the best she was going to get—few migrants bothered with paperwork, and Mr.Hogwood of all people would hardly wish to leave a paper trail.
Setting the letter aside, she opened the second, from the warden of Lancaster Castle.
Miss Larkin,
I remember Silas Hogwood, but I pulled up his records to be sure. He was imprisoned here, yes, but passed away on June 14 by an unknown cause. He was still healthy, from what I could tell. Quite peculiar.
My apologies if this news brings any distress.
Formally Yours,
Benjamin Canterbury
Hulda stared at the letter, not quite comprehending. She read it again, but the words blurred together, so she sat on her trunk and adjusted her glasses before reading it through a third time, top to bottom. Turned the paper over just in case there was something on the back, then read it again.
Distress... yes, itwasdistressing. How could a healthy man pass away in a prison, where he would have been routinely monitored, without anyone having a clue as to why? Granted, prisons weren’t the most sanitary dwellings...
She licked her lips. The letter drooped in her limp grip.
This means he couldn’t have been in Portsmouth,she reminded herself. But the information didn’t relieve her, only worried her.
Had the warden seen Mr.Hogwood’s body with his own eyes? Did they realize what a powerful magic user he was? Perhaps he’d lost many of his spells after those corpses were destroyed...
She attempted to quash her unreasonable concerns and take solace that the horrible wizard was gone. And yet, despite the assurance in her hands, those concerns burned bright as a bonfire feasting on her bones.
Chapter 23
October 1, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Hulda had followed up with the warden the following day, desperate for more information. Nearly a week later, she received his response. This time it was a simple telegram reading,I’m afraid I cannot disclose more information.
The missive irked her. Was it truly an issue of privacy, for a man who had been publicly decried, or were his records missing information?All this fuss over a dead man,she told herself, yet every time she reasoned herself to stability, a loose thought would send her spiraling into doubt again.
She hadseenhim. She swore she hadseenhim! But why would the prison cover up the release of a repeat murderer? Or theescapeof one?
The only thing that gave her some comfort was Mr.Fernsby’s admonition that she was safe here. And she was. It seemed incredulous that Mr.Hogwood would somehow fake his death, slip out of a high-security prison, and immigrate to America, only to break into BIKER, find her records, and sail all the way out to Blaugdone Island for revenge.
