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“Please. I would prefer it.”
The statement was like a dart burrowing into his chest, like he was drunk on laudanum and could only half feel it.Preferit?
The concert poster seemed to pulse over her shoulder.
“But going home—”
“I’ll take a hired boat and have Myra see to me. I’m not incapable just because I’m a woman.”
He hesitated.
“Please.” She cleared her throat. “Or I’ll be late.”
Merritt sighed through his teeth. Why was he so cold? Or... maybe the cold wasn’t the reason he was shaking.Think.“Do you have the communion stone?” Its companion weighed down his pocket. He slipped his hand in and grasped it, if only to have something solid to clutch.
She patted her bag.
“Use it as soon as your dinner is done.” God help him, he was already losing it. “When you’re on the boat. On the island, and when you’re back at the house.”
She looked like she wanted to fight, but the cold was getting to her, too, judging by the reddening around her eyes. She nodded.
A headache was forming behind his forehead, amplifying his erratic pulse. “Thank you, Hulda.”
But she was already heading down the street, the ends of her shawl catching on the breeze.
Chapter 28
October 13, 1846, Boston, Massachusetts and Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
One of the hardest things Hulda had ever done was to sew up the guise of self-sufficient old maid and keep a straight face through her conversation with Merritt. Ignoring his obsession with that poster on the front of Quincy Market. Walking briskly to the docks, passing stranger after stranger. Acting as if her insides hadn’t been scooped out. And she did a bloody good job of it, too.
Until she got to the boat.
Once she activated the kinetic spell and propelled the boat into the bay, once she got far enough from the voices and city lights, her guise shattered completely.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.She held back the tears as best she could but still had to remove her glasses to wipe her eyes. How. Had. She. Not. Learned? How many times did this have to happen before shelearned?
She fumbled through her bag for a handkerchief, then hurriedly steered the boat where it needed to go, guided by the lighthouses on nearby islands. She’d thought—she had actually,stupidlythought—that he cared for her. That he wanted her around for his own gratification. That he evenreturnedher feelings... ha! And had she really been fool enough to think he’d asked for a private word because he meant toconfesssomething of the sort to her? Pah! Likely he’d wanted the menu changed, or he’d changed his mind about the steward, or he’d decided to take a more active role in the running of his property.Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Strife and truth.She’d foreseen this, hadn’t she? But the premonition was more closely tied to her fate than she’d imagined.And the truth is that you’re nothing to him.
Her chest felt like it was cracking in two, like old, dry scabs were pulling apart fiber by fiber.
Because she had watched him drop everything to pursue another woman. An old love. A person he had intended to marry once. An accomplished musician, no less.
An intolerable sob worked its way up her throat. She was overreacting. She repeated that over and over, scolding herself like a grizzled headmaster would. It did nothing to quell her tears, which only frustrated her more.
She made it to Blaugdone Island with zero fanfare. Tried to pull on her mask again, but now that the proverbial dam had broken, it didn’t fit anymore. Like she was trying to shove a lamb shank into a sausage casing. At least the air was cold. That would help with the swelling and give her an excuse for the redness.
Tromping across the plashy ground, she paused once at a stirring sound, but it was only a grouse. She let herself into the house, purposefully ignoring the portrait on the wall. She could hear Mr.Babineaux moving about the kitchen. Rushing up the stairs, she darted for her room before Miss Taylor could witness her humiliation.
The closed door at her back was a comfort. She tossed her spectacles onto the bed and lit a candle. Crossed the room and opened the window as wide as it would go, beckoning in a hiemal breeze. She still had water in her pitcher, so she poured it into a bowl and splashed her face. Loose tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead.
Sidestepping to her mirror, she leaned in to better see herself. A chuckle rough as rusted nails tore up her throat.
She was a histrionic mess. Her crying had made her eyes even smaller. Her jaw was too wide to be feminine—she’d seen those sharp lines work on other women, but not on herself. And her nose... her nose was the sort of thing authors put on storybook villains. Authors like Merritt Fernsby.
She stared at herself as new tears brimmed her eyelashes. No, her portrait would never rest in a frame on a lover’s bedside table or be pressed into a wallet or pocket watch. Her body would never know the touch of a man or the weight of a child. She was an augurist, after all. Her talent lay in knowing the future.
