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The house shifted slightly, as though shrugging.
That shrug gave her an idea. Placing her hand flat against the foundation, she ran her fingers down to where it connected with the earth. Dug her nails into the dirt, uncovering a sliver more.
“Owein. Do you think you could, hmm, stand up a little straighter? Shift the house up and over a bit, so I can get a look underneath?”
The wall facing her faded to indigo.
“I’m not sure what that means.”
The spot just above her hand rippled twice.
Hulda sighed.
It rippled again, one time.
She paused. “Does that mean you’re willing to try?”
Instead of answering with their new code, the house began to tremble.
Soaring to her feet, Hulda clamped one hand over her hat as stone cracked and wood bowed. She heard a shriek from inside—Miss Taylor—and immediately felt sorry, but it was hard to schedule one’s interactions with a twelve-year-old house-bodied ghost. She would apologize thoroughly in just a moment.
The corner of the house closest to her lifted from the grass, splitting the foundation as it did so—something Owein should be able to fix, if Hulda had guessed correctly about his chaocracy spells. The house looked like a dog relieving itself, one leg in the air.
Fumbling through her bag for a match, Hulda lit it and dropped to her stomach, hesitant to crawl into the newly made cavern. While chaocracy could fix split stone, it could not fix split bone. Not that Hulda had ever heard of, at least.
She slipped her arm inside, coughing at the dust, and peered into the darkness. Stone, stone, dirt, stone. The tail of a fleeing mouse. A disgruntled centipede. And—
Her tiny light glinted off something far off. Something dark and reflective. “Just a moment longer!” she cried as the match burned her fingertips. She dropped it and ignited another. Crawled across the ground, uncaring if she soiled her dress. This would be worth the wash if she were right—
The glassy veins glimmered as she stretched her hand closer.
She grinned wide enough to hurt.
Found you.
Chapter 24
October 3, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Merritt had thoroughly turned his mind to mud that week, so he decided to spend Saturday in the yard. He tucked his scarf in his shirt, wore an old pair of trousers, rolled up his sleeves, and even tied his hair back, then set to weeding the garden and foundation, leaving a clear trail at the front and west side of the house. If he’d had a scythe, he’d have cut down some of the vegetation elsewhere, but that would have to go at the bottom of the long list of supplies he needed to be a decent homeowner. And here he’d thought his publisher’s advance would make him feel wealthy.
Leaves were falling from the island’s trees. Merritt walked out to explore them, satisfied with the crunch beneath his boots and the crisp breeze rattling through the branches. He should really have a picnic out here before it got too cold. Right here, under this elm. It was a lovely spot. The autumn scent and color scheme made him nostalgic for something he couldn’t quite describe. Perhaps it was simply for childhood autumns, when he hadn’t had a care in the world.
For a moment, he thought he heard a cracking, like man splitting stone in two, but when he looked back toward the house, nothing seemed amiss.Curious.
Leaning up against the elm, Merritt closed his eyes and breathed in the beauty of the island, letting it unwind the muscles in his arms and shoulders, soothe the lining of his lungs, dance across his lips. Spots of sun glimmered through the tree’s thinning crown, driving back gooseflesh raised by the shade. The breeze spun around him, sounding like the whispers of dozens of children, flitting shyly around his ears.
He opened his eyes. The leaves and grasses had gone still, which gave him pause.
No breeze.
No more whispers.
Strange.He glanced back to the house. He must have missed a school of cicadas or some such.
“Merritt!”
Whirling around, Merritt spied a dark figure dressed smartly in gray moving toward him, hand raised in greeting.
