Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 17

September 18, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

A few days after hiring Baptiste, Merritt groggily woke to the sun in his eyes—he’d forgotten to close the drapes last night. The remnants of a strange dream clung to the inside of his skull. Something about a giant tree and talking goats and the Mississippi River being a deity, but the more he tried to piece it together, the more disjointed it became, until he felt like he was trying to drink clouds and couldn’t remember any details at all.

Rubbing his eye, he propped himself up on one elbow and glared at the window.

Then promptly froze, breath caught halfway up his throat.

That was not his window. The drapes were wrong, and so was the carpeting. And that dresser . . . it wasn’t his, nor was the mirror above it. His confusion only mounted when he saw his dresser was still here, against the wall closest to him. His wall, his corner, his laundry basket. But beside the laundry basket . . . part of that wall was not his wall. It was white compared to his cream. And the other half of his bed was not his bed. The blankets didn’t match, and in fact appeared to have been messily fused with his own.

But more importantly, there was a woman sleeping in them. Specifically, Hulda Larkin.

He gaped at her, alarm running up his navel and refracting off his sternum and into his limbs. He desperately tried to remember last night—

Only, the half of the bed Hulda was in wasn’t his bed.

He let out a tense breath. The house had shifted again, during the night! Reforming bedrooms, cutting his and the housekeeper’s in half and gluing them together!

And he didn’t have pants on.

Cool sweat broke over his forehead as he secured the blanket to his hips and tried to figure if it would be better to sneak away or to wake Hulda immediately. Neither could end well.

He scooted toward the edge of the mattress, making a vow to start sleeping fully clothed from now on.

As he pushed his feet over the edge, he glanced back at Hulda, ensuring she was still asleep. She was, probably because she was lying on her side, her back turned to the window. The blanket rested across her ribs, revealing the gauzy sleeves of her nightgown. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a braid that was barely still plaited; most of the walnut locks had freed themselves and waved over her neck and pillow. She didn’t wear her glasses, of course.

He’d never noticed her eyelashes before. They were dark and full and splayed across the crest of her cheeks. And the way the morning sun poured from the window . . . she looked almost angelic.

Then he noticed that her nightgown dipped, revealing a good eyeful of milky cleavage.

Admittedly, he stared at that for a few seconds longer than he should have. He ought not to have stared at all. But he was a man, and . . . God help him, she was going to murder him.

It’s not my fault! his thoughts spat as he sped from the mattress and grabbed yesterday’s trousers, pulling them on with impressive speed. He’d determined to sneak away and alert Beth, have her wake Hulda, when he turned and saw the portrait from the reception hall was standing upright on the carpet, watching him with an impish smile.

Merritt shrieked. Hulda bolted upright. It took only a few heartbeats for her to shriek as well.

“Where am I?” Her accusing eyes landed on him as she snatched the blanket and shielded herself.

Trying to tamp down his flustered nerves, Merritt managed, “It would seem the house decided two bedrooms should be one during the night.” Then, in self-defense, “I only just discovered it myself.”

Admittedly, it was fascinating to watch Hulda’s face darken to the redness of a high-summer rose.

He backed away. “I’ll . . . get Miss Taylor.” He nearly knocked over the portrait in his haste to escape, unsure if the ensuing sound of mortification was from the door hinges or Hulda’s mouth.

Might be better for the both of them if he didn’t find out.

Suddenly Mr. Culdwell back in New York did not seem as bad a landlord as Merritt had always thought him. He had never rearranged his things—his furniture, his windows, his walls—while he slept. Lord knew he’d had enough of magic to last him the rest of his life.

All the more reason to get on with the exorcism. He buttered a piece of toast. Baptiste had already eaten—he made it a habit to eat before anyone else did, but that might be due to the fact that he woke up before anyone else, including Hulda, who kept a schedule so rigid even the military would be impressed.

Her schedule was, understandably, not so rigid today. She came to breakfast late, her shoulders stiff and her nose high, a folder of papers in her hands.

Merritt perked up. “Do tell me you’ve discovered who our wizard is.”

Pulling out a chair, Hulda sat. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Fernsby. I’ve only just started sorting through them. Though you’ll be pleased to know the house is fixing its second floor.”

A snap of wood upstairs punctuated the statement.

The slightest flush could be discerned under Hulda’s eyes. Merritt determined he would say nothing more on the matter other than “Thank you,” as he assumed it was Hulda’s expertise that had convinced this wretched house to put itself back into order.

Setting down his half-eaten toast, he said, “Remind me why a wizard inhabits a house.”

“Usually two reasons,” she answered without glancing up, pulling out papers from the file. “They’ve been tethered to it somehow, or their life purpose was unfulfilled in some important way. But a person must have significant magical ability to move their spirit into an inanimate body. Not just anyone can do it, which is why it’s becoming a less common phenomenon.”

“Could you do it?”

She glanced his way. There were flecks of green in her eyes. “No. And I wouldn’t want to, besides.”

“But what if you knew you were doomed for hell?”

She sighed like a tired nanny. “Really, Mr. Fernsby.”

He shrugged. “Just saying.” Leaning forward, he looked over his census notes and reached for a paper with dates in the seventeen hundreds. “So if we need a magic fellow, it’s likely to be someone further back, before magic diluted.”

She peered at his page. “Possibly, but not necessarily. Magic usually subtracts, but with the right parentage—”

“It adds,” he finished.

She nodded. “May I?”

He handed the paper to her. She scanned it. “I wish they included more information. But I suppose we weren’t a real country yet.”

Something like the shattering of glass, but in reverse, echoed from upstairs, making him wonder whether Beth had gotten downstairs before the house’s realignment. Just how slowly had the house shifted in the night, so as not to wake anyone? Sneaky.

“Does the body . . . have to be close?” He rubbed gooseflesh from his arms. “The wizard’s, I mean. Does his body have to be in the thing he inhabits?”

“Not in it, but one can hardly travel far as a spirit. The wizard would have had to be quite close. On the island itself, I’d say.”

Merritt lifted his feet. “You don’t think its corpse is under the floorboards, do you?” A shiver ran down his spine like a hungry spider.

Hulda slammed down the paper. “Of course! Are there any marked graves near the house?”

“No. Well . . .” He glanced out the window. “I’ve been focused on other things and admittedly haven’t toured the entire island. The grass is so long, it could hide just about anything.”

“If we can find graves”—excitement leaked into her voice—“that will narrow it down. These documents state who lived here, not who died here. Very smart, Mr. Fernsby.” She stood.

Merritt followed her lead. “Of course. I just . . . wanted you to figure it out on your own.”

She was already out the door.

Frowning, Merritt called, “Are we not going to finish breakfast?”

After enlisting Beth’s and Baptiste’s aid, the four of them ventured outside, Hulda leading the way. Merritt paused near the empty clothesline, adjusting his scarf as he slowly scanned the island. His island. That was still such a bizarre thing. For a while, he’d wondered if his grandmother had bequeathed it to him as a curse. But in truth, the place had proven to be a pleasant adventure.

Except for the merging of his and Hulda’s bedrooms. And the shrinking lavatory.

Just think how pleasant it will be when the house is just a house again. His stomach tightened a hair at the thought. He saw Beth and Baptiste holding back and called, “Well, let’s split up. We’re looking for grave markers.”

Beth’s eyes widened slightly. Baptiste shrugged one shoulder.

“Miss Taylor to the east”—that was the smallest section of land, relevant to the house—“Baptiste south. Mrs. Larkin, do you have a preference for north or west?”

“I will take the west, Mr. Fernsby. The north has been thoroughly trotted from all the traipsing back and forth to and from the boat.”

“Only one part of it,” he countered.

The four of them split up. Beth walked slowly, running her hands over the top of the grasses, and Baptiste headed for a short hill for a better vantage point. Hulda marched straight ahead, perhaps thinking to start on the beach and work her way back.

Merritt began at the house and walked back and forth through the grass, moving north by a pace every time he turned. Reeds bowed under his feet; weeds crunched. He startled a cottontail on his fifth pass. “Sorry,” he offered, though the thing was so quick it likely hadn’t heard him.

He squelched around a small pond—more of a large puddle, really—surrounded by common reed. Probably not a good place for a grave. But was anywhere in a marsh a good place to bury a body?

What would they do if they came up empty-handed?

How long would it take him to simply cut down eighteen acres?

He was on his twenty-seventh pass when a breeze blew from the Atlantic, rustling the tall grass around his knees. The way it flowed over the meadow made it look like an ocean itself, green and gold. He searched the ripples for a cross, a stone, a break in the plants, but saw nothing. Where are you, wizard?

Something pulled his mind northwest. He ignored it, continuing on his back-and-forth path, but it tugged again, as if someone were groggily saying, Over there.

He glanced back at the house. He’d wandered some ways from it, but it was still there, perhaps watching all of them. Did it know what they were doing?

Licking his lips, Merritt changed direction and moved northwest, scanning the grass, running his fingers along its tallest tips as Beth had done. A hare watched him warily from behind an elm, ears twitching. A spindly weed as tall as his shoulder swayed with the breeze.

He stubbed the toe of his shoe on a rock.

“Surely not,” he said, and parted the grass.

Not was right. It was just a rock.

Sighing, Merritt released the plants, only to spy a sliver of slate through them just as they closed.

Moving over a few feet, he parted the grass again.

There, as high as his shin, was a weathered rock embedded in the ground upright. Years had crumbled away its edges and face, but there was a distinct 7 on it.

He grinned. “I found something!”

Grabbing handfuls of grass, he began yanking it from the ground, clearing space around the stone. By the time Hulda and Beth came running over, he’d found a second similar stone, a little smaller, a few feet away.

Baptiste might not have heard him.

“Brilliant,” Hulda said, helping him tug away grass. Beth announced she’d found a third, and bent the surrounding plants at their bases, stepping on their stalks to encourage them to lie flat.

Four stones in all, one clustered near the initial two, one of them fallen over.

Hulda ran her hand over one of them. “Hardly legible. Beth, would you search the area and see if there are any more?”

Nodding, Beth set off walking toe to heel, prowling like a puma.

Merritt had brought out a notebook and pencil from the library; he tore out a page and placed it against the first gravestone, then dragged the edge of the pencil lead back and forth to make a rubbing. The 7 came through clearly, as well as a birthday that said 162, the last digit of the year consumed by time.

He held up the rubbing to Hulda. “O . . . A-C-E. That’s the first name. And M-A . . . E-L.”

After tearing out a second paper, Merritt handed it and the pencil over, and Hulda took a rubbing of the second stone. The family name on the fourth stone had been preserved well enough for them to read it in full: Mansel. It seemed they were all Mansels.

Merritt snapped his fingers. “Horace.” He pointed at the gaps between the letters in the first rubbing. “H-O-R-A-C-E. I bet his name was Horace.”

Hulda nodded. “It certainly fits.”

The wife’s name was indiscernible. But with some sleuthing and guessing, they determined the other two graves belonged to Dorcas and Helen.

“All daughters,” Merritt commented. “How terrible for dear Horace. No wonder he chose to stay behind. Needed a break from all the femininity.”

Hulda scoffed. “I’m sure.” She wrote down the names and what they’d been able to glean of the dates. “This is good. This is a start. The Genealogical Society might have this on record. They’re very thorough. Even if these persons weren’t magically inclined, they might still have records for them.”

Miss Taylor returned, holding up empty hands. “No others around here, Mrs. Larkin.”

“Good. That narrows it down more.” Standing, Hulda brushed off her skirt. “I think we should still check the rest of the island, but there’s seldom reason to scatter the dead, and given the house’s history, I doubt we’ll find any other grave markers here. Still, best to be thorough.”

Merritt stood as well, ignoring his muddy knees. “And what if the Gen Society doesn’t know anything?” He blanched. “We won’t have to exhume them, will we?”

“I hope not,” she retorted, and Merritt’s stomach turned.

Miss Taylor asked, “Could we not ask the wizard which one she is?”

“And why would she answer?” Hulda looked sidelong at Merritt and lowered her voice. “Mr. Fernsby wants to exorcise her.”

Merritt shrugged. “Can you blame me?”

She glanced down at the rubbings, and a twinge of guilt wormed through his stomach. “I suppose not. It’s early enough in the day that I could leave for Boston now.” She stood quickly, and Merritt caught a distinct tearing sound. Turning sideways, Hulda clicked her tongue and held up her skirt. Part of the hem was thoroughly torn. “What a bother. But I’m not surprised. I’ve mended that same spot twice already.”

Merritt shifted weight from foot to foot. “Do you want to change before you go?”

She waved away the question with a quick flick of her hand.

“You should see if you can find any communion stones,” Miss Taylor suggested. “So we can talk to you when you’re away.”

Hulda nodded. “I requested them; I’ll have to see if they’ve arrived.” New stones were hard to come by, due to the dilution. But not impossible.

Merritt reached into his pocket, though he’d left his wallet in his room. “Do you need fare or anything? Company?”

For some reason, the offer had Hulda stiffening. “Not at all, Mr. Fernsby. This is BIKER work; they will cover the costs. And I am quite used to doing things on my own.”

She didn’t even look at him when she spoke, which had him thinking back on their conversation and wondering if he’d said something wrong. When he determined he hadn’t, he decided Hulda must simply be prickly in the mornings.

“I’ll at least walk you to the boat. Work on tramping that path. Beth, would you go collect Baptiste? I very much want to eat whatever he made this morning.”

With a dip of her head, Beth marched southward.

Hulda was grateful to leave Rhode Island.

She had a tendency to overthink things. She knew this about herself. Those closest to her—her family, Myra—knew that about her, too. Sometimes having a mind running as hot as a steamboat had its advantages. It made Hulda productive. She was an excellent juggler of tasks and an expert on many subjects.

But sometimes it tortured her, especially when her thoughts fell outside the comfortable realm of logic. And nothing was more illogical than emotions.

And so, leaning against the side of the speeding kinetic tram on her way to Boston, she found herself analyzing her every interaction with Mr. Fernsby this morning thrice over to ensure she had been strictly professional and nothing more. Only after she finished the third evaluation did she feel comfortable, certain that she’d maintained her decorous position.

She hadn’t had any of the lemon drops yet. In truth, she was afraid to, like they might be some sort of ambrosia that would warp both mind and resolve and transmute her into a desperate twenty-year-old again.

She sighed. Another reason not to read fiction. Really, Hulda.

She’d telegrammed ahead to the Genealogical Society; they should be expecting her. The kinetic tram had a stop close to their headquarters, so Hulda wouldn’t need to hire additional transportation. She should be excited for the work ahead, for she’d always liked solving mysteries. There was something incredibly validating about sorting through questions to find an encompassing resolution. In this case, though, she partially dreaded the answer. Once they had the wizard’s identity set, she would have to exorcise the fellow, leaving Whimbrel House as ordinary as the next place. Of course, she’d truly have no need to stay after that. She and Miss Taylor both would be recycled elsewhere. Which was a good thing.

She ignored the displeasure weighing down her lungs as she strode from the station and onto familiar Boston streets, her sensible shoes clacking on the cobbles.

The building for the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic was impressive; four times the size of the hotel that accommodated BIKER’s offices. A sculpture of a great tree stood in front of it, and Grecian columns coddled the doors, which were heavy, Hulda noted as she pulled one open and slipped inside. The ceiling was high in the large reception space she entered, which had an enormous half-circle desk. The man behind it looked frail, though he couldn’t have been any older than forty.

He stood immediately. “Miss Larkin?”

Her title of Mrs. didn’t exist here. “I am.”

“Excellent.” He stepped around the desk. “Right this way. Mr. Clarke took lunch in his office so he wouldn’t miss you.”

Hulda blinked away surprise. “Very kind of him.”

They passed the stairs and took a hallway north, then east, to a large office without any doors. It had a smattering of bookcases within, a heavy oak desk, and a large window, the sill of which was completely covered in various ferns. A taxidermy head of a buck jutted out from the rightmost wall.

The man on the other side of the desk set down a half-eaten sandwich and stood. He looked to be about sixty, with a nose possibly more prominent than Hulda’s own, though while hers protruded in the bridge, his stretched forward at the tip. He had dark eyes and white hair. That is, where he still had hair, in a ring above his ears and chops that ran down his cheeks. His smile was pleasant as he came toward her, hand extended. “Miss Hulda Larkin?”

She nodded and shook his hand firmly. “I am. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Clarke, especially at the last minute. In truth, I expected to speak with one of your employees.”

He gestured for her to sit, and the secretary discreetly left them. “Perfect timing is perfect timing. I hope your travel was fair?”

Hulda sat, propping her bag on her lap. “Quite, thank you.”

Mr. Clarke retook his own chair, sliding his lunch off to the side. “I’m so grateful for your response. It’s hard for us to find magically capable women who aren’t already spoken for or too old to—”

“Mr. Clarke.” Hulda was not one to interrupt, but her cheeks were already flushing at his insinuation, and she did not care to further darken them. “You have mistaken me. In my telegram, I stated I was here to research the Mansel name.”

Fortunately, Mr. Clarke did not seem insulted—he merely chuckled. “Ah, yes, so you did.” Reaching over, he picked up a small piece of paper, the telegram itself. “I was hoping we’d be able to discuss both things.”

Hulda straightened as tall as she could in her chair—sometimes a stiff spine made her flushing recede faster, and there were few things she loathed more than being red in the face, especially in front of a man. “I am still . . . considering the other matter of business. But today I’m here on behalf of the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms.” Snapping open her bag, she pulled out her list of names, as well as the rubbings of the graves. “I have a possessed house on Blaugdone Island and need to find the identity of the inhabiting wizard. These graves were found nearby.” She handed the papers over.

Mr. Clarke pored over the papers for several minutes. Hulda remained silent. She didn’t mind silence, especially when there was work being done.

“Very well done, Miss Larkin,” he finally said. “Some fifty years ago, we did a survey of early colonial townships—by we, I mean those before me—all the way back to the Mayflower.” He shrugged. “Could be forty or sixty, with this brain of mine. And with this brain of yours”—he held up one of the rubbings—“you would be an excellent genealogist.”

She smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, but I am safely employed for the time being.”

Gathering the papers, Mr. Clarke stood, and Hulda followed suit. “Take these out to Gifford—he’s the one who saw you in. He’ll personally take you down to the files you need. If they’re not there, well, then I haven’t been doing my job.”

Hulda shook the man’s hand once more. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Clarke.”

“Thank you. Do see me when you’re finished.” Sitting down, he pulled over his lunch. “So I can better explain what my earlier letter didn’t.”

Hulda nodded, if only to be polite, then left, her steps carrying her a fair bit quicker than they had before.

In the basement, Mr. Gifford carried the box of Narragansett records to a table for her and lit a second lantern. Hulda pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders as she sat in the single chair available; it was cold in this vast, earth-scented space.

“Everything should be right there for you,” the secretary said. “Do you need help?”

Hulda shook her head. “I shan’t keep you from your post. I’m accustomed to file digging.”

Mr. Gifford tipped his head. “You know where to find me.”

With that, he left her to her box. Lifting a candle, Hulda scanned the handwritten tabs, making sure she could reorder the documents if she had to overturn the whole thing to find what she needed.

However, Mr. Clarke and his predecessors had indeed done their job well, and she found the information she wanted quickly, in a thin folder labeled Blaugdone, Gould, Hope Islands, 1656–1750.

She thumbed through a few fragile papers before pulling out one with the Mansel name on it. It was a long parchment, about three feet, folded into thirds. Shifting the box to the ground, she flattened it on the table and brought the second candle closer. A date scrawled in remarkable penmanship on the bottom stated that these records had been created in 1793. Hulda briefly wondered how many gravestones the recorder had had to uncover.

“There you are.” She pressed the tip of a well-manicured nail to the name Horace Thomas Mansel. His birth, christening, and death dates were neatly printed beneath his name, followed by brief handwritten notes on his calculated magic. His wife’s name—Evelyn Peg Turly—was beside his, her information arrayed in a similar manner, though her christening was marked as unknown. These records were made well after the family’s passing, so their magical potential must have been estimated. Ch14 was penned under Horace. Co6? beneath Evelyn.

Ch was shorthand for chaocracy, which the house certainly had. Co was shorthand for communion, which, thus far, Hulda had not witnessed. However, the question mark suggested uncertainty.

“And a Crisly,” she said, following a line to Horace and Evelyn’s firstborn child. She and her children had been buried in Baltimore—it appeared she’d gotten married and moved off the island, which explained why her grave marker wasn’t with the others. All daughters, indeed.

Crisly likely wasn’t the wizard of the house, despite her magic markers. Baltimore was too far away. Unless the records had gotten it wrong and Crisly had died and been buried at Whimbrel House. It was a possibility.

Crisly’s younger sisters matched the graves: Dorcas Catherine and Helen Eliza, the latter of whom had died at the age of four. She was also likely not the wizard they were searching for; magic typically manifested closer to puberty, though Hulda had begun experiencing flashes of divination when she was ten.

Chewing on the inside of her lip, Hulda traced the family line backward, to their English records. Here, she thought, tapping her finger on a great-aunt who had Al2? scrolled beneath her name. Alteration, two percent, estimated. The house had alteration. Hulda should attempt a calculation of her own and mail it to Mr. Clarke when this was finished so he could update his records. Either this aunt had possessed a greater amount of magic than was listed or one of the other Mansel ancestors had possessed some, either unknowingly or without any record. It wasn’t uncommon for magic to skip generations and remanifest later—it was all a trick of the bloodwork. Regardless, the magic must have originated from somewhere, if their wizard had so much of it.

Both Horace and Evelyn had magic in the blood, which suggested their children might have been stronger than either of them, making Dorcas Hulda’s prime suspect. Regardless, she had full names, which meant a successful exorcism. She just needed to purchase the supplies.

“Sorry,” she whispered to the faded names before folding up the paper. “But it isn’t my choice.”

She left the box on the table—heaven forbid she catalog it wrong and have it lost for the next person. As she walked through the darkness toward the stairs, her mind pulled back to Portsmouth.

Yes, sleeping on the matter had calmed her nerves somewhat. But the sighting of that man, that “doppelgänger,” still bothered her. She was in town, she had time . . . perhaps she could do some research on the Hogwoods while she was here. If only to find a logical source of comfort. While the Hogwoods were English, the Genealogical Society had imported records from all over, Europe especially, so they might have what she sought.

Hulda returned to the shelves, taking her lamp with her. Her feet felt like anvils as she browsed names, each passing letter sticking to her brain like it was coated in tar. She finally paused at the box she wanted, but instead of taking it to her table, she rifled through it then and there. She sighed in relief when she found the correct line—a great-great-somebody had immigrated to the States in 1745, bringing his records with him.

The Hogwood family line was extensive, their family tree much larger than the Mansels’, the writing smaller and more compact. Fortunately, she need only lower her gaze to the past fifty years to find his name: Silas Hogwood. He had one brother whom she had never heard of, and his family’s magical line was well documented, not a single question mark in the lot.

K12, N24, Al6, Ch6. Kinetic, necromantic, altering, and chaocratic spells were all innate in his bloodline, and there was a chance he had a scratch of augury. A great deal of magic for any one person to have, likely from the purposeful breeding of it. His mother’s pedigree certainly focused heavily on necromancy.

Hulda shuddered. A man born so powerful, rendered more so by the clever thieving of others’ abilities . . . How had he figured it out? But surely the constable had destroyed all his batteries.

She folded the chart back together. The exercise had made her more uneasy, not less. As though seeing Silas Hogwood’s name written on parchment made him more real. She returned the files to the box and the box to the shelf, straightened her spine to the point of pain, and marched on her way. If she feigned confidence long enough, she’d embody it. Eventually.

Upstairs, she thanked Mr. Gifford and started for the doors, and just as she was on the cusp of escape, she heard Mr. Clarke call out, “Miss Larkin!”

She politely turned about near the tree statue, in a sliver of shade cast by its coppery leaves. “Mr. Clarke. I found just what I needed. Thank you for your service.”

Mr. Clarke reached up to tip his hat toward her, only to discover he wasn’t wearing one. “Not a problem at all! I am, of course, still hoping you’ll be using our other services.”

Hulda touched cool fingers to the back of her neck and ensured her features were well schooled. “You’re a very forward person.”

He chuckled. “In this line of work, you have to be. I’ve got more able men than women, Miss Larkin. You could have your pick.”

A flush crept up her neck despite her efforts. “I do believe marriage is a mutual endeavor.”

“Of course, of course. But this is for the betterment of society. You seem a very capable woman. I can think of two . . . maybe three who might be suited to your lifestyle, if you’d give them a chance. Well, I suppose it depends on your age preference.”

The blush crept over her jaw, but she prided herself on the smoothness of her voice. “That is a bit personal.”

“Think about it, Miss Larkin,” he pleaded. “I myself don’t have a lick of magic in me, but I wish I did. You love yours, do you not?”

The question made her pause. So direct and unexpected. “I . . . do, yes. It’s proven very helpful to me.” It’s what had tipped her off about Silas Hogwood, among many other things.

“Would you not want your children to have that same gift? Or even more of it?” He rubbed his hands together. “Think of how much more we could do if we had more magically capable persons in this country. We’d have more kinetic trams and sustainable energy, healthier crops, better futures, calmer minds, stronger—”

“You’ve made your point,” Hulda assured him. “I will . . . think on it.”

Mr. Clarke nodded. “Send me word, and I’ll give you information on those beaus I mentioned.”

The word beaus had her stomach tightening. “Thank you, Mr. Clarke.”

He shook her hand again, and she headed back to the refuge of the street. She would head for the post office. She needed to look up some names and addresses, and while she was there, she’d send inquiries to a few constabularies and the warden at Lancaster Castle, the prison where Silas Hogwood was held. With luck, she’d receive confirmation from the warden that Silas Hogwood was still safely behind bars. That all of this worry was, again, the workings of an overthinking mind.

That, and she needed to order at least one new dress.

Glancing up to ensure the road was safe to cross, she thought she saw Mr. Fletcher Portendorfer turning the corner, but he was gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure.