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She paused. She hadn’t unpacked yet. Reaching down, she shuffled through her black bag until she found the BIKER file on Whimbrel House. The file that included the short list of past inhabitants.
She spread it out. Found the name of the previous owner, Anita Nichols—Merritt’s maternal grandmother, if she remembered right. She had apparently won the house and land in a game of chance, from Mr.Nelson Sutcliffe, who’d inherited it from his father, who’d taken it from his brother. None had ever inhabited it.
Hulda knocked over her chair in her hurry to get to the shelves, then retrieved the Mansel file and brought it over. She spread it on top of the Fernsby file. Found Horace and Evelyn and their daughters—Owein’s sisters. She traced their lines down until...
There!There was a Mary Mansel in Crisly’s line that married a Johnson, and her third daughter married a Sutcliffe! The familieswereconnected.
She chewed on her lip. Pondered. Grabbed her lantern and ventured upstairs.
“Mr.Gifford,” she said to the frazzled clerk, “is there a means to look up genealogical records by location?”
“Um. Yes, there is... Allow me.” He set a few papers straight and escorted her back into the dark, taking up a lantern of his own. He led her deeper into the basement, to another set of shelves. “These are by location. Do you know what you’re looking for?”
Hulda snapped her fingers, trying to think of it. Merritt’s birthplace hadn’t been included in the Whimbrel House file, but Mr.Portendorfer had mentioned it before. “New York. New York... Cow, no, that’s not it. Cattle something...”
“Cattlecorn?” Mr.Gifford supplied.
“Yes! Yes, Cattlecorn.”
He passed by a few shelves, then took his time studying the different files, leaving Hulda to force patience into restless limbs. When he finally pulled a bin free, Hulda snatched it, rushed a thank-you, and hauled it over to her table.
She opened up the files to the newest entries. “Sutcliffe,” she murmured, drawing her finger down. “Sutcliffe, Sutcliffe...”
Sutcliffe, Nelson.No magic markers, though his grandfather hadW10written on his name, and a great-uncle hadCo12. There was a smattering of other magic markers going up the line.
So Nelson Sutcliffe lived in Cattlecorn and had the magic markers Hulda was searching for... If this man was Merritt’s biological father, then itwasMerritt causing those spells. He must have used communion to find her the night of the attack! She laughed, disbelieving. All this time, Merritt had been adding to the enchantments...
And he didn’t know. Hedidn’t know.
“Oh dear.” She fished out her communion stone.
“Miss Larkin?”
She jumped. “Oh, Mr.Gifford. I forgot you were here.”
He glanced to the mess she’d made on the table. “Can I help you sort anything?”
“I... No. But I need to make some copies. Please.”
He nodded. “I’ll get you a pencil and paper.”
She waited for him and his lantern to vanish up the stairs, then activated the selenite. “Merritt?” she asked. “Merritt, I’ve found something very important.”
She paused, the stone heavy in her hands. If this was all true... Merritt was related to Owein. She’d trace that line in just a moment.
No answer.
“Merritt, it’s Hulda. I know you’re angry, but I need to speak with you! It’s about the house. About Owein, andyou.”
No answer.
“Impertinent man,” she mumbled. She’d make her copies and try again. If he still didn’t answer, well... she’d go back to Blaugdone Island herself and make him.
If nothing else, she needed the exercise.
Merritt sat at the head of the dining room table, the room dimly lit with a smattering of candles, the shutters drawn closed against the twilight. He slouched in his chair and propped his forehead halfheartedly on his palm. Both elbows were firmly planted on the table, but this was his house. He could put his joints wherever he wanted.
He felt Beth and Baptiste watching him as he speared and respeared a pea with his fork, over and over until it resembled a shucked oyster, then moved on to mutilating another. He never did manage to take that nap. His body felt heavy yet hollow, his brain fuzzy, his innards numb. But numb was good. He tried very hard not to think about anything, as thoughts disrupted apathy. He was weary of thinking, besides. Perhaps, if he never slept, he would never think. Wouldn’t that be something?
