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“Of course. I’ll come to you.” Myra squeezed her arm, sympathy coming through her countenance—an expression Hulda was all too familiar with, from all too many people. Myra ducked into her office, taking her pity with her.
Switching the heavy bag to her other shoulder—carrying a crowbar, among other things, across state lines took a physical toll—she started for the stairs, trying to ignore the frustrating ache over her diaphragm. She just needed to get engaged in her work. Occupy herself. She prayed for a lot of filing—
“Mrs.Larkin!” Miss Steverus hurried down the adjoining hallway. “Just my luck! I ran off to send you a telegram, but here you are!”
Hulda paused, confused. “Telegram about what?”
“Your report.” She motioned for Hulda to follow, then slipped behind her desk and dug through a stack of papers there, pulling out the letter Hulda had sent via windsource pigeon. “It’s just, I was copying this, and, well, I studied metaphysical geology for a time before taking this job.” She looked up through her lashes sheepishly. “And you mentioned tourmaline, and I thought... well, I went and looked it up to be sure, and I don’t think... that is, it’s not my place to correct—”
Hulda didn’t have patience for pandering, not today. “Just spit it out, Sadie.”
“Right. Right.” She set the paper down. “It’s just that tourmaline can only hold a magical charge for about a week before it diffuses.”
Hulda took a few seconds to work that out. “You’re sure?”
Miss Steverus nodded.
“But that makes no sense.” She adjusted her bag. “The only thing that could recharge the tourmaline is the wizarding spirit, and he doesn’t possess wardship abilities. He’s never exhibited them, and his genealogical records have no such recordings.”
Miss Steverus shrugged. “I can show you the research if you want to see it, butifthe tourmaline is producing magic, it’s pulling it from another source.”
Hulda shook her head. “Yes, I’d like to see it.”
“One minute.” The secretary bounded back down the hallway she’d come from.
Hulda tapped her fingernails against the desk’s surface. It made no sense. Perhaps Hulda had somehow missed something, or the Mansel records were incomplete, or...
A memory surfaced—the wardship shield disintegrating after Merritt knocked on it. Before that she’d been telling him about Mr.Hogwood. Wardship was a protective discipline, and if Merritt had been feeling protective...
He pointed me in the right direction...He said, ‘She,’ like he was referring to a woman. To you...He pointed, I suppose. But without pointing.
Hulda’s body went so slack her bag dropped to the floor.
It couldn’t be...Merritt... could it?
She had to know. The urge toknowburned within her like a blacksmith had hooked bellows to her lungs and shoved iron down her throat. Securing her bag, Hulda rushed for the stairs, essentially tripping over them, her feet moved so quickly.
Sadie Steverus called out after her, but Hulda had her own research to perform.
Mr.Gifford stood from his desk as Hulda swept into the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic’s office, her skirt inches from getting caught in the closing door.
“Miss Larkin! How are you to—”
“I need to see your records immediately. I do not require an escort. It’s BIKER business. Do I need to fill anything out before I go down?”
The man choked on his words. “N-No, let me just write down your name—”
She sped past him, grabbing a lantern and taking the winding stairs down to the basement library. She managed to get it lit before touching down on the main floor. The smells of mildew and old parchment wafted over her like the tide. She wove through shelves until she found the box that would contain records for the surname Fernsby. Grabbing it, she found the same table she’d used before and set to work.
The file was larger than the Mansel one had been, and after spreading it out on the table, she took a full five minutes to find his name. Merritt Fernsby, listed second under Peter Fernsby and Rose Fernsby. He had two sisters—the elder was named Scarlet and the younger Beatrice. Her heart panged reading the names of family who had left him behind—family he avoided speaking of—but ravelment overtook her as she scanned up the family line.
No magic notes. No estimates or wizarding markers of any kind.
She leaned back, confounded. If not Merritt, then what—
Why don’t I help you with your self-righteous tirade, eh? I’m a bastard, too! An unemployed, sex-mongering, unmagical bastard.
“Bastard,” she repeated, that pang hitting harder this time as his self-deprecating anger pushed to the front of her memory, still fresh, still stinging. If Merrittwasa bastard, then this lineage wouldn’t be correct...
