Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(64)

Finding her feet, she whipped around so sharply her glasses barely held on to her nose. “I swear I will put up enough charms to ward you into the library, Owein Mansel!”

The house stilled.

A few seconds ticked by before Mr. Fernsby said, “It’s the last name. Always wields more power than the first, though not as much as the middle.” His face dimpled in a way that suggested he found this all very amusing but was trying to be polite. “Do you think he has a middle name? That would really drive it home.”

Hulda smoothed her skirt, then snatched her chair and moved it back to its original place. Then a little farther from the settee, as though to make a point she did not care to examine. “Perhaps.”

She picked up her mending and plopped down with a childish amount of righteous indignation. Pushing the needle into her torn hem, she dared to glance up at Mr. Fernsby. He caught her eye with a soft, amused smile. She refocused on her work. Three stitches later, she glanced up again, but he was back to poring over his manuscript. Hulda frowned. She didn’t want to be stared at, after that embarrassing tirade, but . . . perhaps it was silly to want him to notice her more than he did.

Pressing her lips together, she worried she might have muttered some things about Merritt Fernsby aloud once or twice, which little Owein might have overheard . . .

Thank God the spirit couldn’t speak to Merritt and embarrass her further.

She glanced up again. Watched him read. Perhaps she should have resituated herself on the settee. A childish thought, and yet . . .

Footsteps outside the door announced Miss Taylor, who stepped inside with a pearly smile on her face and a stack of letters under her arm—she must have stopped by the post office before returning to the island. Upon seeing the stack, Hulda’s heart leapt, and she stabbed herself with her needle, eliciting a squeak from her lips.

Mr. Fernsby lowered the papers. “Are you all right?”

He was so absorbed by his work she was surprised and stupidly delighted that he’d noticed. “I haven’t pricked myself in years,” she said, shaking out the finger. The tiniest welling of blood marked the skin. “Hardly anything serious. Miss Taylor, what are the letters?”

Mr. Fernsby leaned forward to better see the maid. “Miss Taylor! Did you enjoy yourself? I worry you didn’t if you’re walking so well. I’ve seen many a dancer bleed and blister their feet on the dance floor.”

She beamed. “It was right fun, Mr. Fernsby, my thanks.” She nodded at Hulda and pulled out the envelopes. “I’ve two letters for Mr. Fernsby and two for you, Mrs. Larkin. Plus a package, which I put on your bed.”

The dresses, already?

Hulda pulled the needle free of its thread. “Excellent. I shan’t have to keep piecing this thing together.” Perhaps she could rehem it and send it to her sister, who was shorter than she was . . . but Danielle had much more eclectic taste in fashion and likely wouldn’t wear it.

Miss Taylor crossed to Mr. Fernsby first and handed him his letters before shifting toward Hulda.

“Ah! Fletcher.” Halfway through tearing open the first letter, he glanced Hulda’s way. “He’s visiting next week, with luck. I can take care of preparations.”

“Need I remind you what staff is for?” She allowed some wryness to creep into her expression, which Mr. Fernsby met with a grin. “Owein could likely make him his own room.” Miss Taylor handed her the letters. “Thank you, Miss Taylor.”

The envelopes were in such poor condition Hulda wondered if they’d been sent via conjury—transformed into a shape capable of flying across the Atlantic, then restored to their original form upon arrival—instead of a kinetically powered ship. The former was becoming rather antediluvian. Her eyes sailed to the return address. England, both of them.

Her breath hitched. “If you’ll excuse me.” Draping her torn dress over her shoulder, Hulda headed for the exit. Mr. Fernsby called after her, but she answered only with a reassuring wave as she continued on her way, across carpet that was now pink with large green spots marring it, courtesy of the resident ghost. Hulda barely registered the garishness and arrived at her room with her fingers cold and jittery.

She opened the first letter, from the constabulary of Liverpool. It was brief, the writing little more than chicken scratch.

We’ve no record of any Hogwoods leaving the Merseyside or registering for emigration, but he could have done so at a port city.

She sighed. It was the best she was going to get—few migrants bothered with paperwork, and Mr. Hogwood of all people would hardly wish to leave a paper trail.

Setting the letter aside, she opened the second, from the warden of Lancaster Castle.

Miss Larkin,

I remember Silas Hogwood, but I pulled up his records to be sure. He was imprisoned here, yes, but passed away on June 14 by an unknown cause. He was still healthy, from what I could tell. Quite peculiar.

My apologies if this news brings any distress.

Formally Yours,

Benjamin Canterbury

Hulda stared at the letter, not quite comprehending. She read it again, but the words blurred together, so she sat on her trunk and adjusted her glasses before reading it through a third time, top to bottom. Turned the paper over just in case there was something on the back, then read it again.

Distress . . . yes, it was distressing. How could a healthy man pass away in a prison, where he would have been routinely monitored, without anyone having a clue as to why? Granted, prisons weren’t the most sanitary dwellings . . .