Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(55)

She offered him a reassuring smile. “It is hardly beneath me to soak a cravat, Mr. Fernsby. I’ve had my fair share of ink stains. They are inevitable.” She held out her hand.

He hesitated half a second. “I believe you made it very clear that you are not the maid, Mrs. Larkin.”

“Then we’d best not tell anyone I secretly wash cravats in my spare time.”

He laughed, the sound relaxing parts of her she hadn’t realized were tense. Bolstering her spirits. It was a beautiful sound, really.

He handed her the cravat, and Hulda tried and failed not to notice that Mr. Fernsby’s shirt was wide open, revealing a good triangle of his collar and chest. The peek of hair there was darker than that on his head—

Averting her eyes, Hulda set the cravat near the sink and forced her thoughts to other things before she could flush. If she did, Mr. Fernsby might misinterpret it as embarrassment related to his recent confession. “Would you like to review a menu with Mr. Babineaux? I wanted to put in a food order for the house.”

He kneaded his hands together. “Oh. Well . . . I don’t really have a preference. You’re welcome to decide.”

Hulda nodded and picked up a separate ledger, switching to the page marked with the week’s dates. “Then I will see about him planning the venison, since it comes so highly recommended.” She wrote down venison and potatoes, before glancing up to ask Mr. Fernsby if he had—

She suddenly couldn’t remember what she was going to say. He was looking at her with . . . curiosity? Incredulity? Interest? She couldn’t quite tell. But it caught her off guard. She didn’t like the way it made her heart kick. She dropped her eyes to her ledger. What was I about to say?

“I was thinking,” he said, saving her from a blunder, “about what you said the other day. That you had other things to do in town. Did you visit BIKER again?”

She scrawled something else in the ledger, giving her hands something to do. “It is unnecessary for me to report so often.”

He eyed her. Voice lower, he asked, “I know it’s none of my concern, but you weren’t looking for him again, were you?”

Hulda opened her mouth. Closed it. Shut the ledger. “I think breakfast is ready—”

“You know you’re safe here—”

“It isn’t a matter of my safety,” she whispered, glancing toward the breakfast room. She sighed and gestured for Mr. Fernsby to follow her. If he was going to pry, he might as well do it where they were both comfortable.

In truth, the only confidant she really had was Myra, and Myra would likely dismiss her anxieties again. Because that’s what they were. Anxieties. Unreasonable thoughts. But . . . she liked assurances. She relied on proof. As soon as she had some, she could logically work her way out of the knot her fears had tied her into, and everything would be fine again.

The first thing she noticed upon entering the living room was that several chairs were sinking into the floor.

“Owein!” Mr. Fernsby called cheerily. “How are you this morning?”

The furniture paused midsink and flashed yellow.

“I think he’s feeling rather chipper,” he interpreted.

The chairs rose back to the surface, and the floor solidified. Hulda sat on the chair closest to her, smoothing her skirts. “Perhaps because he’s no longer being tossed out.”

“I have no intention of tossing out any of you,” he said, taking up the chair closest to her, with only a small table between them. “I’m already working on my next argument to convince you to stay.”

Hulda tried to ignore the fluttering the words started in her gut, and this time she did a fairly good job of it. She had a history of misinterpreting words, and given that she was somewhat emotionally compromised with her client, she knew the likelihood of misinterpretation was high. Besides, she understood precisely how Mr. Fernsby felt about her—he’d said so himself: he was used to her. Humans liked comfort and disliked change as a matter of course.

“I sent inquiries to England,” she confessed, listening for Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux. While she could use a confidant, she didn’t want the entire household nudging into her affairs. “To establish whether he is still imprisoned and ensure that, either way, he hasn’t immigrated here. Once I know that, I can put it behind me.”

“But if he were here,” Mr. Fernsby spoke carefully, “he wouldn’t find you.”

She shook her head. “I doubt it. BIKER wouldn’t release such information to a private citizen. Assuming he did get out of prison, I’m sure he would prefer to get on with his life than seek me out. He won’t have been released, though.” She swallowed. “He’ll be behind bars for the rest of his days.”

“For misuse of magic?”

She sagged into her chair. “You do have a remarkable memory, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “When things are interesting.”

“I am not a storybook, Mr. Fernsby.”

“I never said you were.” His tone was completely serious.

She ran her thumb along the groove in her armrest. “Mr. Hogwood had developed some sort of method for extracting the magic out of another person.”

Mr. Fernsby stiffened. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. He has an impressive pedigree. His parents were both members of the Queen’s League of Magicians—King’s League then. He used some sort of combination of magic to take spells from others. I know he did. He was crazed with it. Secretive. I saw it happen.”