Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(77)

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.”