Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(58)

BIKER’s seal was on the letter, so Hulda opened it immediately.

Hulda,

How is everything going in the bay? I hope your health is still well and you’ve managed to figure out the possessor. Is Mr. Fernsby still insistent that he or she be expelled?

You may be happy to hear I’m reassigning you. To Boston, for now. There’s always work to be done at the main office. But our team in Nova Scotia is close to uncovering some interesting finds! I don’t think we’ve sent you there yet, have we? We can discuss in person.

Bring your receipts to Sadie; she’ll reimburse you and finalize your payroll.

Best,

Myra

Hulda’s stomach sunk into her pelvis.

She didn’t want to leave.

She liked Whimbrel House. She liked the island and the ocean air. She liked working with Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux. She liked Mr. Fernsby . . .

Pressing her lips together, she paced the length of her room twice before pulling out a parchment of her own. Her hands trembled as she gripped a pencil. Why were they trembling? She straightened her spine and glared at them, willing them to be reasonable. After a moment, they obeyed.

Myra,

Thank you for catching up with me. I’m sorry I haven’t sent you an update on the house; in truth, I thought I had more time. We did indeed learn the identity of the wizard. He’s a twelve-year-old lad named Owein Mansel. Mr. Fernsby determined not to exorcise him, so the house is maintaining its enchanted classification.

As there is no immediate need for me outside office work, I would like to request more time at Whimbrel House. You see, I’ve discovered there is a second source of magic but have not yet determined what. I expect it will prove challenging. Perhaps I will uncover something significant for BIKER or Mr. Fernsby. I will be sure to keep you apprised.

Sincerely,

Hulda

She folded up the paper, sealed it, and affixed it to the windsource pigeon. “Return where you started,” she commanded, and the bird ducked out the window and flew north on a sea-scented breeze.

Perhaps I’m being foolish. Truthfully, she didn’t really want to travel. She used to love it . . . yet the older she got, the more tiresome it became. And the thought of subjecting herself to menial paperwork in the office instead of being here, searching for the second source of Whimbrel House’s magic . . . she didn’t savor it. Perhaps she could hire on as a permanent housekeeper here for a while. Like she’d done in Gorse End. So long as she kept her professionalism in place.

“You can’t simply make a slide!” Merritt shouted from the hall. “You’re going to break my ankle next time! If you want a slide, make it before I start descending!”

She smiled. How long had it been since Owein had enjoyed good company?

How long had it been for her?

As she pulled away from the window, she noticed a figure in the corner of her eye and glanced back. Miss Taylor stood out there, staring northwest, unmoving. Curious, Hulda slipped out of her room, arriving at the stairs just as Merritt convinced Owein to turn them back into stairs.

He caught her eye and smiled, which made her stupid organs do stupid things that she ignored. He held out his hand to her. “Shall I escort you down this dangerous bluff? One never knows what might happen.”

She was about to rebuff him—it was almost automatic for her. But against better judgment, she decided to play along. “Of course, good sir. I have a great need for my ankles today.”

He grinned, and she grinned, and she let him take her hand.

It was only thirteen stairs to the main floor, but Hulda felt as though she’d run a mile.



Miss Taylor still hadn’t moved by the time Hulda reached her, standing about thirty paces out from the laundry line. The petite woman’s eyes were trained somewhere in the deep, grassy meadows of the island, or perhaps just off the visible coast. A breeze swept through, and Hulda noted both the strength of the sun and the quietness of the usual songbirds.

“Miss Taylor?” She approached gingerly. “Are you ill?”

Miss Taylor’s eyes snapped to her as though she’d been roused from a daydream. “Oh, sorry. No. I mean, yes, I’m fine.” Her gaze drifted back toward the shoreline. “Just thought I saw something queer.”

A faint chill crept up Hulda’s arms, despite their long sleeves. “What?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “A wolf. But there aren’t any wolves on the island, right?”

Rubbing at the uneasiness building in her sternum, Hulda said, “There shouldn’t be. Though I thought I saw one once before, too.”

A wolf in a library. Her magic had whispered that to her, too. But what does it mean?

“Perhaps we’ll send Mr. Babineaux out with the musket,” she murmured.

Miss Taylor shook her head. “I wouldn’t have seen it, I just . . . sensed something. Then it ran away, but not where any real wolf could run. Maybe it’s just the shadows.”

Hulda nodded. “But I think we’ll all feel better if we send a large French man out with a musket, nevertheless.” Mr. Fernsby certainly owns his share of firearms.

Miss Taylor chuckled. “I did want to ask you, Mrs. Larkin, about taking some time away.”

The hopeful glint in her eyes caught Hulda’s interest. “There’s always the possibility. What have you in mind?”