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“Uh, no.” His nose crinkled as he tapped into his memory. More likely than not, Owein was illiterate, given his upbringing. “I just... I was outside, calling for you. And he said, ‘She,’ like he was referring to a woman. To you.” He met her eyes. “And then he... pointed, I suppose. But without pointing.”
Hulda drew back, slowing their pace, but kept her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I-I’m not sure such a thing is possible. Owein... his ‘body’ is Whimbrel House, not the island. His magic is trapped within those walls.” She gestured to the building. “He has no jurisdiction outside of it.” Unless the tourmaline ran deep... but those were wardship stones. Nothing that would empower him to speak.
Merritt appeared chagrined, and Hulda wished she had presented the information in a softer manner. “I’m honestly not sure, then,” he confessed. “Perhaps it was just luck. Or divine intervention.”
She nodded, accepting the answer for now. “Either way, thank—”
“Mrs.Larkin.” His voice was firm, his lips mischievous. “Thank me again, and I’ll feel compelled to behave in a very knave-like manner in order to restore balance to the universe.”
She was tempted to play along. To ask,And what knave-like manner would that be?But such impulsivity was not natural to her, and she gave him a simple nod instead. “If you insist.”
Reaching over, Merritt guided her arm through his, pulling her closer until their elbows locked, simultaneously sending the butterflies in her stomach fluttering to her extremities. They continued their walk at a leisurely pace, Hulda occasionally picking up her skirt when it snagged on weeds. Lifting her head, she saw a figure shifting in the distance and tensed.
Merritt’s other hand covered hers. “It’s a watchman. They’ve been here all week. Never more than one; we’re a little out of the way for the constabulary. But they’re either on the island or boating through the bay.”
Hulda relaxed. “Kind of them.”
“Hulda.” He paused. “Would you tell me about your family?”
She wondered at the change in subject. He didn’t look at her but at his feet, leaving her eager to see into his mind, to pry apart what he was thinking at that moment. Why inquire as to her family? Then again, he didn’t really have one of his own. Or he did, but they weren’t... his, anymore. The reminder sat like a wet sandbag in her chest.
“I’ve both my parents still,” she explained, “and a younger sister. Her name is Danielle. She lives in Massachusetts with her own family.”
“She’s married?”
“Yes, to a lawyer.” It had been a bittersweet day, Danielle’s wedding. Hulda had been happy for her sister, truly, but it was hard watching a sibling four years her junior win the game of love and matrimony when she herself had no prospects. Many of the guests had seen fit to comment on that fact. A soft chuckle passed Hulda’s lips when she said, “We don’t look much alike. I take after my father. She takes after my mother.” As she said it, she self-consciously touched her nose.
Feeling Merritt looking at her, she dropped her hand. Quietly, he asked, “Do you think taking after your mother is connected to her being married?”
Suddenly embarrassed, Hulda tried to mask the discomfort with a shrug. “She and my mother are both pulchritudinous,” she murmured, finding comfort in the intellective and overly specific word.
“Pardon?” he asked.
A twig crunched under her foot as she walked, her feet in perfect rhythm with his. “Beautiful,” she simplified.
“You know, the interesting thing about writing,” he said, changing the conversation once more, “is actually the readers. Novels critically acclaimed by one person are detested and even burned by another. When I wrote for the paper, the press would occasionally get letters either commending my points or criticizing them. Sometimes we’d get both for the exact same article. Especially the one I did on the steel plant.”
She studied his profile.
“The point being”—he stepped over a fallen tree branch—“subjectivity is inescapable. If I’ve learned one thing in my line of work, it is no two minds are alike, and there is nothingwrongwith that. Some people like mysteries, some prefer histories. Baptiste likes fennel, and I’ve never been a fan of it. But that doesn’t make fennel wrong.”
Hulda swallowed. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“I think you do.” He offered her a flicker of a smile. “Some people prefer women who look like their mothers, and some prefer women who look like their fathers. Beauty is just like a book. Some will not bother to look beyond the cover; others will find the entire tome utterly captivating.”
Her heart pumped with renewed vigor at the statement. Did that mean what she hoped it did? Did Merritt Fernsby truly think she was... beautiful? Or was it simply a reassurance for the sake of being kind?
She desperately wanted him to continue, to speak plainly, to tell her all those things she direly wanted to hear.
But he did not. He was careful with his words, just as she was careful with hers, and the conversation shifted to the trip they needed to take into Boston tomorrow, the work Hulda wanted to catch up on, and how Miss Taylor and Mr.Babineaux were faring. Gradually, Hulda set her hopes and disappointments aside and settled into the security of Merritt’s arm and enjoyment of his companionship, absorbing as much of the beauty of the moment as she could, fearing that someday it would only exist in memory.
Merritt stayed alert the next day as he and Hulda took the enchanted boat across the bay toward Portsmouth. He searched the coastlines of the islands, peered at fishing vessels, listened to the air. But nothingappeared to be out of the ordinary. Not a blade of grass or wandering fish seemed out of place.
“You’ll tip the boat, rigid as you are,” Hulda said, one hand on her hat to keep the wind from seizing it. One downside to their convenient method of transportation, though Merritt liked the way the breeze tugged at Hulda’s meticulous curls, like it wanted to force the ever-calculated woman to loosen up a bit.
But she had been doing that on her own, more and more. Since before the odd attack, even. At first, her moments of relaxation had seemed like slipups. She’d catch herself being too casual and button up immediately, until she was more proper and strict than she’d been before. But those moments had grown so frequent that they were just as common, if not more so, as the guarded ones. Which was part of why Merritt felt “rigid” about this outing, though he was trying to relax. Not merely for Silas, but for the woman in the boat with him. Because of what he was planning to do, and how she might receive it.
Truth was, Merritt was in the real meat of the Hulda story now, and he didn’t want to stop reading. Hers was a story he didn’t want to end. But how many pages would she let him turn? What was her ending—their ending—going to be like?
