Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 27

October 6, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until Beth’s hand on his shoulder roused him. His head bobbed up, the hallway outside Hulda’s room coming into focus. His posterior ached, as did his back. His knees were propped up to give his arms something to rest on, which had rendered the soles of his feet numb. His trousers and fingernails were still stained with mud.

He’d been there all night.

“She’s awake.” Beth’s timid smile bolstered his spirits. “She’s fine, just scrapes and bruises.” The smile fell. “A lot of bruises.”

He gritted his teeth, the misery of the long night resurfacing again, souring his throat and mouth. If he had been paying better attention . . . He’d promised her she’d be safe here. With a psychometrist and augurist in the house, one would think . . . but Merritt knew better than to lean on those capricious fragments of magic. No one could have predicted this.

Beth offered a small but strong hand to help him to his feet. He had to wait a moment before going in, as the blood in his body reordered its priorities, one of which being his head. Running his hand back through his hair and catching on more than one snarl, he slipped into his housekeeper’s bedroom.

Hulda lay on the bed, her blankets pulled up chastely to her shoulders, her arms resting on top of them. Beth had brushed her hair, which splayed out across her pillow in soft waves. Her bent glasses rested on the bedside table, so there was nothing to hide the bruises on her nose and under her eyes. The edge of her bottom lip swelled.

A lot of bruises.

How many did he not see, and how terrible were they?

Her eyes were closed, but when Merritt took up the chair Beth had brought in at the bedside, her eyelids drifted open. The curtains were pulled back, so morning light illuminated them, claiming them as neither brown nor green but hazel, with a dark ring encircling the irises.

Merritt’s stomach shrunk on itself, and not because of hunger. “How are you feeling?” he murmured.

Her lips pulled upward—a good sign—until the movement tugged on that swollen bit, morphing the smile into a wince. “Safe,” she whispered.

That answer sent gooseflesh up his arms and down his back. He reached for her hand—Beth had scrubbed those clean, too—and squeezed her fingers. “Safe now. Baptiste sailed for the constable at first light. I’m so sorry—”

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be sorry. I hardly care for unneeded apologies.”

“Whether you need one or not—”

“Thank you,” she interrupted, eyes drifting closed again, though her warm grip held on. “Thank you for finding me.”

Merritt chuckled, though he wasn’t sure why. “Thank you for screaming through a rock.”

Eyelashes fluttered. “You heard me?”

He nodded. Swallowed. Traced the side of her index finger with his thumb. “Who do you think . . . took you?”

Lines etched her forehead. She turned her neck, faced the ceiling. “Silas Hogwood.”

An electric worm zinged up his spine like Baptiste had hammered at it with his meat mallet. “Isn’t he imprisoned? He wouldn’t have come—”

“He’s supposed to be dead.” With her free hand, she rubbed her brow. “It was him. He . . . spoke to me. He was trying to take my magic.”

Merritt’s grip on her hand laxed. “Good God.”

“It must be a much slower process than I’d assumed. He said . . .” She winced, but whether from the memory or pain, Merritt wasn’t sure. The expression tore into his heart all the same. “He said I would be first this time. He was hard to hear, but . . . I’m sure he said that.”

Merritt bit the inside of his cheek. “What do you suppose he means?”

“I can think of a dozen terrible things.” She tried to sit up, never letting go of his hand, then hissed through her teeth and flopped back down.

Half out of his chair, Merritt said, “You should rest.”

She shook her head. “It’s my back. Lying like this . . . hurts.”

Pulling his hand free, Merritt reached over her for another pillow, then snaked an arm behind her shoulders to help her sit up, noticing for the first time the sore muscles from carrying her across six acres last night. She gritted her teeth hard enough for them to squeak, but together they managed.

Hulda let out a long breath, stirring her hair. “It takes a while. What he does . . . I don’t know the specifics. Multiple spells, to pull the magic from a person and place it into himself. He was born with the perfect concoction to do it. If the process were quick . . . I wouldn’t be here. Not alive, anyway. He must have thought we wouldn’t be interrupted.”

Merritt lowered himself to the chair, then pulled it forward until his knees pressed into the mattress. “Did he take any of it?”

“I don’t know.” She studied her palms. Turned her hands over. “I don’t think so . . . but the necromancy must be why I’m so tired.”

“Or the trauma of being beaten.” His voice had taken on a dark edge. He averted his eyes from the bruises still forming on her face, for the sight of them twisted his insides like taffy. He shouldn’t have let this happen.

Her lip twitched. “Or that.” This time she reached for his hand, and Merritt gladly pulled her fingers against his palm. Without meeting his eyes, she added, “If you hadn’t come—”

“I’m a good shot.” His thumb caressed her knuckles. “You’d be surprised at how liberating it is to destroy a straw dummy with a firearm.” It was a hobby he’d taken up after moving from Fletcher’s home. “Much cheaper than a medical professional.”

She rolled her eyes—good; her distaste for his humor hadn’t been damaged. “That’s good. A shot alone wouldn’t have scared him off. Mr. Hogwood . . . he would fight back. He has so many spells under his skin. Terrible, damaging spells, and healing spells, too. You must have hit him somewhere vital.”

He mulled over that for a moment. It had been too dark to tell. If I’d missed . . . What would have happened to Hulda then? To himself?

Bringing up his other hand, he encased Hulda’s. “You’ll need to tell BIKER. We’ll handle the report with the watchmen.”

“I will. Or perhaps Miss Taylor will see to it.” She winced again.

“I can call for a doctor—”

“Just bruises,” she assured him, eyelids heavy. Their gazes interlocked. “Just bruises,” she repeated, quieter.

Merritt studied her features for several seconds, memorizing the curve of her jaw and the length of her eyelashes, trying not to growl at the swelling. “You sound less like a dictionary when you’re tired,” he offered.

She laughed, then winced, free hand cradling her split lip.

“Sorry.” He felt like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“I don’t mind,” she offered once she’d recovered.

Leaning back, Merritt begrudgingly released her fingers. “I should get you something to eat. Then you should rest some more.” He stood and pulled the chair back to where it had been.

“Merritt.”

God knew he liked the sound of his Christian name on her lips. “Hm?”

She pinched folds of her blanket. “I might like something to read, until I’m hale again.”

His ego pranced. “I have three-fourths of a most excellent story, if you’re interested.”

She smiled very carefully, so as not to hurt herself. Then squinted at her glasses on the bedside table. “I . . . that is, if you don’t mind—”

“Would you like me to read to you?” he offered, and the slightest bit of pink glowed under her bruises. “I do voices.”

She chuckled, again holding her lip so it wouldn’t stretch. “I would like that very much.”

Nodding, he slipped out of the room. Breakfast first, reading second. And he didn’t mind the tasks in the slightest.

At this point, he’d do anything she asked of him.

Word of Silas Hogwood had been hastened to England, and the household and the local authorities had scouted the island, though the only significant find was her bag. A week after the terrifying ordeal, Hulda had regained enough strength to slip into normalcy again. She dressed herself, choosing her corded corset instead of the whalebone one, pinned her hair, and carefully straightened the wires of her glasses. She’d look into getting a new pair next time she was in town, which would be tomorrow, as Myra had sent a panicked windsource pigeon in response to Miss Taylor’s telegram about the attack. Hulda had assured her she was fine and would speak to her in person imminently. For now, she’d have to ignore the scratches haloing the lenses of her spectacles. Her vision wasn’t quite good enough for her to go without them.

Hulda worried she wouldn’t have a leg to stand on in her inevitable debate with her employer regarding her extended stay at Whimbrel House. But despite what had happened, she still ached to stay, now more than ever.

A faint chop sounded through her window. Pulling aside the curtain, she watched as Merritt set a narrow half log on a chopping block, then swung an axe around to split it into two. He’d tied his hair back for the exercise. After splitting a second one, he set the axe down and shook out his hands. Pulled a splinter from his palm. His shirt was open and sweat-soaked. Safe behind the drapes, Hulda didn’t feel the need to look away. Though the longer she stared, the snugger her midsection became, as though her corset were tightening all on its own.

It’s too late now, she thought, biting the inside of her healed lip. I can’t persuade myself out of this one. She was in too deep. All these days she’d been abed, tucked and secure, but in truth she’d been falling. Falling into a depth that couldn’t be measured—falling further every time Merritt came to check on her, every time he read to her, every time he subverted Beth and brought her the dinner tray himself. Every time he held her hand . . .

A shuddering breath escaped her. She was in love with him. She’d only known him a little over a month, but she loved him.

And she thought, with a daring, stinging hope, that he might love her, too.

Clasping her hands together, she felt his touch in memory. His thumb tracing patterns across her knuckles. It was utterly terrifying to make such assumptions, no matter what the evidence . . . but she wanted it so badly. Was it so wrong to want something, just one thing, that couldn’t be bought in a store or persuaded via résumé? Hadn’t she waited long enough? Hadn’t she paid her dues to society, watching all her friends, family, and acquaintances grasp that one thing she had always wanted, yet strived to convince herself that she didn’t want?

Oh, it hurt. It hurt in such a curious, singular way.

Dropping the drape, Hulda checked her hair once more in her mirror, then pinched her cheeks, grabbed her shawl, and set out into the house, quietly closing her door behind her. The carpet undulated like the ocean on a breezy day, brightening in yellow spots around her feet.

She laughed. “Hello, Owein. It’s nice to see you, too.”

The spirit had been absent from her room, as far as she knew, during her recovery. She wondered if he’d been fearful to bother her, or if Merritt had demanded he let her rest.

The spots of color followed her to the stairs, where she paused, hand on the railing. Something that had been bothering her resurfaced in her mind. How had Mr. Hogwood found her? How had he known where she was stationed, let alone when she would be out? There were a handful of spells that could aid him in the discovery, but he would have first needed to narrow it down to at least the Narragansett Bay area, and the place was so underpopulated, it seemed an unlikely place for him to start his search. True, he would assume she’d kept her employment with BIKER, but their files were confidential, and she was almost always stationed elsewhere.

She’d worked the question over and over in her mind the last few days, never coming up with even a fragment of an answer. Nor had she any notion of how Merritt had found her. A communion stone only relayed sound, not location.

Owein popped into the portrait in the reception hall, changing the woman’s hair to match the style Hulda wore. She smiled at him before stepping outside, the autumn chill quick to greet her.

Merritt’s back was turned toward her. He split another log, adding it to a sizable pile. Either he preferred a very warm house in the winter, or he was taking out some sort of physical frustration on the trees.

Which gave her another pause. Strife and truth. Had that premonition been about Mr. Hogwood? It had certainly been strife filled for all of them, but the incident felt more personal to Hulda than to him. Had the reading already come to pass, or was it yet before them?

Merritt dropped the axe and turned, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. His expression brightened upon seeing her, which created the sensation of a hundred hatching butterflies in her stomach. “Hulda! You look well!”

She touched the side of her nose, where she knew a yellowing bruise still resided. “Well enough, I suppose.”

“Better than me, surely.” He glanced down at himself before self-consciously buttoning up his soiled shirt. “Not off for a walk again, are you?”

She warmed at the unsurety in his voice. “Any walks I take for the time being will be accompanied ones, I assure you. Fortunately, the turning of the season is upon us, and it will be much less pleasant to exercise out of doors.”

He smiled. “And what exercise do you have planned for within doors?”

It shouldn’t have made her blush, but she did, anyway, blasted cheeks. But Merritt simply chuckled, which eased her embarrassment.

He reached for the axe, then crossed the yard to lean it against the side of the house, giving the logs a break for a moment. “I’m happy to escort you, though I fear I smell like a boar.”

She picked at the end of her shawl and walked closer, until there was but a pace between them. She made a show of tilting her head. “I do not smell anything except the marsh.”

The smile he gave her was lopsided, like that of a mischievous boy. Still, he straightened his shirt and brushed back his hair, making himself as presentable as he could, before offering up his elbow. Biting the inside of her cheek to keep her expression smooth, she took it, letting the heat of his arm seep into her fingers.

She could smell him, as a point of fact, but it wasn’t a foul odor. Hardly. He smelled masculine, with a hint of cloves and orange twigs from that cologne of his, mixed with freshly chopped wood. She was entranced by it, so much so that she didn’t speak for the beginning of the walk, merely took in his scent and the crisp air and the glimmer of sun on her shoulder.

Merritt broke the silence, though his tone was easy. “Baptiste has been beside himself that we’re out of eggs. Now he wants a henhouse in addition to the cow.”

She grinned. “Well, we—you—certainly have the space for it.”

Merritt surveyed the island stretching before them. “Never built a henhouse before, though my mother kept them. Should be simple enough.” He glanced back. “If I leaned it up against the house, that’d be one fewer wall for me to set.”

They pushed through some reeds to a new trail, one Hulda suspected Baptiste had worn into the land. There was still some tightness in her back, but the walk eased it. She noted that Merritt crunched through the grasses off the trail so she could take the easier path, and it relaxed her stride even further.

“Mer—Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda said, “if I may solve a mystery with you.”

He glanced at her. Did he look to her lips? “Which mystery?”

Which, indeed. “That night, with Mr. Hogwood. How . . . did you find me? It was dark, and I was far from the house.”

He blew out a long exhale and rubbed the back of his neck. “You have Owein to thank for that one. He pointed me in the right direction.”

That was not the answer she’d been expecting. “Owein?”

He shrugged. “He’s tall. Must have seen it for himself.”

Hulda peered in the direction of the incident. It had been far off . . . even a person atop the house’s roof would not have seen it without some sort of spyglass. “How would he have told you? Did he . . . write it?”

“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 nothing wrong with 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 nothing appeared 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?

His knotted emotions only made him warier of their surroundings. If this dogged Mr. Hogwood had struck once, who was to say he wouldn’t strike again? He could, Merritt was certain. Because if Merritt had shot something truly vital, there would have been a body. And he wasn’t sure how much the watchmen could do against a man like Silas Hogwood, or how long the constable would be willing to lend out his officers.

Maybe they should move back inland for a little while. He didn’t savor the idea of abandoning Owein for long, but . . .

Hulda leaned forward. “What are you thinking about?”

Blinking, Merritt steered the boat for a moment, ensuring they stayed on course. “He who shall not be named.”

Hulda nodded solemnly, then looked out across the bay.

They docked and took a tram into Boston, which let them off on Market Street. From here, their individual errands would take them different directions—Merritt to his editor to discuss the book hanging in a satchel off his shoulder, and Hulda to the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms to check in with her boss, Myra Haigh, and do whatever it was enchanted-house keepers did. Hopefully not get transferred.

They passed a group of rowdy men in the Union Oyster House. Once they’d distanced enough for easy conversation, Merritt drew himself up and swatted away the nerves that clung to him like flies. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous.

“Hulda.” He’d been calling her that more and more, and she never corrected him, which was one good sign of many. When she glanced up at him, he found it hard to meet her eyes. You’re thirty-one years old, he reminded himself. Act like it.

He cleared his throat. “After our errands today, I’d . . . like to speak with you privately.” Perhaps he should have done it on the boat, where the only thing that could overhear him was a dragonfly, but if it had gone wrong, well, he’d have been trapped in a small boat in a large bay with his rejection.

“Oh? About what?” They stepped apart to let a child and his dog slip through.

“Just to . . . talk.” Imbecile. He paused at the junction he knew she needed to take to head north.

“Oh.” Was that recognition dawning on her face? Since when had Merritt struggled to read people? “I would . . . like that. Before we head back to Blaugdone?”

He nodded. Peered up the street, where his eyes caught on a set of stone pillars. “Meet me at Quincy Market? Would six be enough time?”

She fidgeted with the hems of her sleeves. “I think so, yes.” She smiled. God, she was pretty when she smiled. Why had he not noticed how pretty she was when she first knocked on his door? Hadn’t he likened her to, what, a schoolmarm?

She was a little older than he was, but not by much. The older people got, the less age mattered, in truth. Was it awkward that she was his housekeeper? But she wasn’t his housekeeper; she was BIKER’s. And if his confession that he direly wanted to court her was unsuitable, they could go their separate ways easily, no harm done.

Would she turn him down? But the way she’d held on to his arm for their entire walk yesterday—and it had been a long walk—whispered that she wouldn’t. The way she smiled more easily and chuckled at his attempts to be funny. The way she looked at him . . .

That was, he thought she looked at him in a certain way . . .

He cleared his throat. “I’d best be going or I’ll be late.”

“Six, then,” she said.

He nodded. Hesitated. Awkwardly tipped a hat he wasn’t wearing and turned on his heel. His publisher wasn’t too far; the walk might do him good.

He glanced back when he reached the next street, catching just a flash of Hulda’s skirt as she boarded a cab.

“Excuse my lack of professionalism,” Myra said midpace, “but are you out of your bloody mind?”

Hulda would have taken a step back, were she not seated in a chair across from the director’s desk. It took her a few heartbeats to collect herself. “Should I excuse it?” In all the scenarios she’d concocted of how this conversation would go, none had contained such vitriol. “I’m hardly asking—”

She paused as Myra turned away and grumbled in Spanish, so quickly Hulda could not discern one word from the next. When she turned back, eyes ablaze, she said, “You were attacked, Hulda! By a wayward ruffian! Almost killed, and you want to stay? You’re no longer needed! You said so yourself.” She scooped up Hulda’s report from her desk and threw it back down again.

“I did not say I wasn’t needed, only that I’d confirmed a second source of magic . . . and it wasn’t some ruffian, Myra. It was Silas Hogwood.”

“So Miss Taylor said.” Myra paced, paused, and punched her hands into her hips. “Are you sure—”

Hulda stood, her bag toppling to the ground. “I could not possibly be more sure. I’ve already given his name to the authorities. I don’t know how he fooled everyone into thinking he was dead, but it was him.”

The older woman pinched the bridge of her nose and collapsed into her chair. “I want you to move on, Hulda. I wanted you to move on before your life was in jeopardy, and now I want you off that island even more.”

Hulda frowned, relaxing a fraction, but refused to sit. Her employer was being relentless, and she didn’t understand why. Normally, Myra was much more amenable. Certainly, her attitude would make sense if she knew the truth, but Hulda knew Myra too well to fear her employer would invade her mind without permission. There was too much respect between them. Too much trust. So she couldn’t know that while Hulda wanted to stay for the coast and the air and little Owein, she also very much wanted to stay for the love of a man. A man who wanted to speak with her later in what sounded to be a very specific manner.

Her pulse quickened at the idea of it, and she swiftly banished the thoughts, fearful they’d be so strong Myra would hear them without trying. So she studied, very hard, the grain of the desk before her, picking out abstract pictures and shapes, and asked, “Are you lonely?”

Myra shook her head. “I’m fine, really.” Myra was also single, albeit a divorcée. Her entire world was BIKER, though as a psychometrist possessing the spell to read minds, she could easily find employment in dozens of fields. Her dark eyes lifted. “I am. But there is work to be done—”

“In Nova Scotia?” Goodness, Hulda had adopted a terrible habit of interrupting, hadn’t she?

Myra’s face fell. “Not . . . yet, for Nova Scotia. But.” She hesitated. “There are a few fundraisers I’ve been planning, plus some extensions into the west. And the east.”

“Which I would love to stay and hear about, if you’ve the time,” Hulda pressed. “But otherwise, outside of the issue with Mr. Hogwood, I would like to stay until something new is prepared.”

Myra’s nail scratched into the desk hard enough it would start pulling up splinters at any moment. “Hulda, I don’t understand why—”

A knock broke the question, and Miss Steverus poked her head in. “Ms. Haigh, I just received a notice from Mr. Maurice Watson. He wants an appointment today.”

Hulda tipped her head. Maurice Watson. Why did that name sound familiar? She searched her thoughts but couldn’t pinpoint it.

Myra cleared her throat. “I’ll address it myself momentarily. After lunch.” Myra met Hulda’s eyes. “Do you have time for lunch?”

Smiling, Hulda nodded. “Always, for you.”

The meeting with Merritt’s editor, Mr. McFarland, had gone better than expected. He was an amiable fellow Merritt’s age, who had a dark sense of humor and a severe widow’s peak. They’d spent a long time together . . . because Mr. McFarland had been reading Merritt’s sample pages. Silently. Many wouldn’t understand this, but often the lack of compliment—and critique—was a very good thing. It meant a person was engrossed. And engrossed was the best thing a reader could be.

He’d left the mostly finished manuscript with Mr. McFarland, eager to hear what he thought of the rest of the story, and if he’d like the twist that Hulda had helped him brainstorm while on bedrest. He supposed he had Silas Hogwood to thank for the inspiration—having the corpse his protagonists had spent half the novel searching for turn up alive was an excellent turn of plot, though it would mean changing the ending he’d begun to piece together, not that he minded. Another reason why planning ahead was a bad idea.

Speaking of planning ahead . . . he was almost to Market Street, which marked the cusp of the conversation he’d alluded to earlier with Hulda. Perhaps she’d forget about it. But there was little point in procrastinating. In truth, the anxiety in waiting for something was often worse than the thing itself.

Merritt thought he might be casual about it. Casual was safe. Just ask her to have dinner with him, not at the house. Night was descending, which meant the travel home would be dark regardless, so they could go tonight. If she was strange about it, he could blame an empty stomach, which was not a falsehood. He was rather famished.

But if she says yes, it could be due to her own famishment, he thought, then wondered if famishment was a word. He’d have to look it up later. Perhaps slip it into his novel so his editor would do the research for him.

He slipped around two old men prattling on the side of the street and came around the corner of Quincy Market, which glowed with a display of bright lanterns no doubt intended to attract straggling guests before its doors shut. He found Hulda quickly, near the far side of the market, standing close to a lantern as if to keep herself warm.

Merritt picked up his pace to reach her. “Were you waiting long?”

She perked up. Good sign. “Not at all. Five minutes at most.”

“How was BIKER?”

“It was . . . interesting. I’ll be at Whimbrel House for a little while longer.” Her eyes peeked over the silver rims of her glasses and searched his. “I also visited an optometrist and filed my own report with the city marshal, so I’ve kept busy.”

“For Hogwood?” he asked.

“It certainly wasn’t for you.”

He chuckled. “That’s a relief.”

She rolled her lips together. Merritt thought back to the conversation they’d had about the romantic subplot in his titleless book. Never been kissed. It had been a while since he’d kissed someone himself. Did he still remember how? Would those lips be warm to the touch, or cold from the evening chill?

“And your editor?” she asked.

He blinked to clear his thoughts. “Oh. He’s fine. I mean . . .” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “It went well. He seemed to like the book.”

Her eyes brightened. “Good!”

“Indeed, for I do not have the patience to rewrite it.” Someone exiting the market bumped into his shoulder, forcing him to sidestep. The man rushed an apology before hurrying on his way. Merritt pressed a hand to the wall to gain his balance, and his thumb landed beneath a familiar name. One that shot lightning up his spine.

“You mentioned,” Hulda spoke quieter, “wanting to talk to me about something?”

The earth shifted beneath his feet, until the outer wall of the Quincy Market was down, with gravity yanking him toward it.

Mullan, the name read. Merritt moved his thumb. Ebba C. Mullan.

His pulse quickened until his rapid heartbeat was the only sound inside his skull. He exhaled shakily, and suddenly he was eighteen years old again, standing in the middle of the street after a heavy rain with nowhere to go. No family to take him in, no fiancée to soothe his hurt, no child to take his name, no promises left to keep—

“Can’t be,” he breathed, taking in the entirety of the poster pasted to the wall of the market. Trying to remember how to read. To think. It advertised a concert in Manchester, Pennsylvania, which would pay tribute to the great German musicians. Small print on the bottom third of the page listed the members of the orchestra. Fate had glued his hand right to her name: Ebba C. Mullan, flutist.

Ebba Caroline Mullan, his Ebba, had played the flute. She’d been devoted to it. At that moment, he could hear it ringing through his memories: her playing in the front room while he read a book, chiding him for not listening—

“Merritt?” Hulda asked from somewhere very far away.

One of the scars crisscrossing his heart began to bleed. He’d never found out what had become of her. Only that she hadn’t wanted him, just as his father hadn’t wanted him. He’d never gotten any closure, even from her family—

“Merritt?”

He forced air into his lungs. Tried to anchor himself to reality. “Ebba,” he wheezed. He pointed to the name. “This is . . . Ebba.”

Hulda pushed up her glasses. He tried so hard to focus on her, but something had ruptured in his mind. Something he had locked and buried and poured shovelful after shovelful of dirt onto. Something he had shot up dummy after straw dummy to mask, to hide.

“Who is Ebba?” she asked.

It spread like a sickness, seeping into his arteries, veins, capillaries. “The one . . . the reason my father . . .”—he swallowed—“. . . disowned me.”

Another something ruptured at the thought of his father, but he shoved it down with a hard swallow.

And Ebba . . . She’d been all he’d had left until she wasn’t. She’d vanished as swiftly as the snapping of two fingers. Shattered his world in an instant and left him to pick up the splintered pieces. He still didn’t know why. That question plagued him more than anything else, even the heartbreak. He’d stepped up, ready to make it right, to take her to the nearest church and work two, three jobs if needed to provide for their family. She’d accepted what he had to offer. Until she vanished. No letter. No word. No trace.

And here she was. In Manchester.

His mind yawned and gaped, stretching the wound wider, until it bled. He was over it. He’d been so good at pretending it didn’t affect him—

The performance was tomorrow night. If he left now, booked a hotel, got up when the kinetic tram got running . . . yes, he could make it, if the show wasn’t sold out. He didn’t care how much the ticket cost. He could finally know. He could finally glue together at least a few of these broken pieces . . .

Hulda’s gloved fingers brushed his wrist. “You look sick.”

He shook his head. “I-I’m fine.” Stepping back from the poster, he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.” The lie came so easily, for he’d spent the last thirteen years practicing it. “I . . .” I need to talk to you. But he was unraveling. He couldn’t announce his intentions to Hulda when he was unraveling. She wouldn’t want him if he was unraveling, just as Ebba hadn’t wanted him—

He cleared his throat. Desperately tried again for an anchor. “I . . . I’ll see you back to the boat. Wait, no.” He didn’t want Hulda traveling home on her own in the dark, not with the attack so recent. Squeezing his eyes shut, he did some silent calculations. Yes, he could manage. Return her to the island and sail back here. “We need to head back now. I need to—” Flustered, he gestured to the poster. “I need to do this.”

Hulda, stiff, glanced between him and the poster. “But it’s in Manchester.”

“I know. I know.” He rubbed his eyes. “But I have to . . . I have to see her. I have to know.” He could take Hulda with him, but then she’d see all his broken pieces. She’d see the broken things pushing out of the darkness, slicing him open, turning him to mulch—

He turned from the poster and started for the dock. His thoughts had devolved into bees, his skull the hive, and sticky honey coated everything. It couldn’t be coincidence! Her family had refused to speak to him. Not then, not in the letters he’d written to them in the ensuing years. He’d never understood it, but now he could. Now he could.

Hulda wasn’t with him. He turned back. “Hulda? Please, I need—”

She shook her head. “You see, Myra invited me to dinner. At the Oyster House.”

Jittery and cold and lost, Merritt glanced down the road. Tried to form a coherent sentence. “The Oyster House?”

She nodded. “Yes. BIKER business. Many of us are meeting . . . to discuss Nova Scotia.”

His blood pumped fast, eager to get him moving. He had time. He could mask his agitation well enough to see her taken care of. And once he was better, once the mystery was resolved, then he could talk to Hulda. Then he could tell her what he wanted to tell her. “Let me take you there.”

“It’s only three blocks.”

“Hulda—”

“I actually see Miss Steverus now.” She waved to someone in the distance. “Please, Mr. Fernsby.” She smiled tightly. “You’re in a hurry. Don’t let me hold you up.”

Merritt’s gut clenched. His gaze shifted once more to the Oyster House. His brain nailed itself to that poster. “You’re sure? It’s no trouble.”

“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. Prefer it?

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.