“And a bloody good job you did! However trustworthy you might think that . . . that criminal is, he is a selfish, power-lusting horror that you unleashed on us!”
Tears brimmed Myra’s eyes. She sank to her bed. “I know,” she whispered, weeping. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me where he is. You owe me that.”
“He’ll kill you.”
“Tell me where he is,” she pressed. “Surely you weren’t so na?ve as to help him without plucking that information from his mind.”
Myra cradled her head. Sniffed.
Hulda crouched before her again. “Myra. I am running out of time.”
“Marshfield,” she whispered. “He’s outside of Marshfield in a rundown house with a gambrel roof.”
An image pushed its way into Hulda’s mind—an image Myra had no doubt stolen from Mr. Hogwood. Hulda saw the dilapidated three-story house clearly, the large oak tree outside it, the surrounding fields.
She could find it.
“If you care for my life at all, you’ll wake the city watch and send them,” she said. “Because I am going. And I’m taking your horse.”
Standing, Hulda snatched her lantern and hurried from the room, not leaving so much as an ounce of gratitude in her wake.
Chapter 31
October 15, 1846, Marshfield, Massachusetts
The farther Hulda rode from the city, the denser the forest grew. Cedars, birches, and oaks crammed together. In the daylight, their autumnal crowns would have appeared lovely, restful. In the dark, they were shadows, walls, and obstacles, terrorizing both her and Myra’s gentle mare.
Hulda never would have found the place had Myra not pressed the images into her mind. Images Myra never should have had in the first place, but Hulda would save her indignation for later. She was in a race against the clock. A race in which she hopefully had the upper hand, as she wasn’t dragging a captive along with her.
The poor horse was exhausted when Hulda neared the house in question. It was an early 1700s building in ill repair, barely distinguishable from the narrow dirt road leading near it. Its walls were dark and slightly bowed in, its windows unlit, its roof sloping as though a heavy snowfall might make the entire thing collapse. She pulled the mare off the road some distance from the house, not wanting to be overheard, though the running of a nearby shallow canal helped muffle her footsteps. Whispering an apology to the mare, for she would not be able to tend to her just yet, Hulda balled her skirts in her hands and crept toward the house.
It appeared abandoned. There was no sound of humans whatsoever, only the mild babbling of the canal waters. Sourness built in her stomach. Had Myra led her astray? Surely she hadn’t turned so far from goodness . . . and surely Hulda could not have beaten Mr. Hogwood to his hidden residence.
Then her toe hit what felt like a very stiff rock, but was in fact a warding wall, much like the one Merritt had accidentally made that day at Whimbrel House.
Pursing her lips, Hulda ran her hand over the spell. It seemed to surround the entire house. Something so large could be cast only by a powerful wizard, which indicated this, at least, was the right place. Stepping lightly, she followed the ward to see if it got any closer to the house. It connected with the canal and stretched on from there. Moonlight reflected off the water.
A dog barked somewhere far off. Hulda stiffened, listening, and reached into her bag for something to defend herself with. A second bark made her pause. It wasn’t distant, but stifled. A third bark, fourth. Kneeling, Hulda pressed her ear to the earth just as a yip! ensued, and the animal fell quiet.
Underground, she thought. Mr. Hogwood had built his lair underground, away from detection. Just like in Gorse End. With as many spells as he’d stolen, he’d likely been able to dig it out quickly.
Certainty thrummed through her bones. Finding the entrance would prove tricky in the dark, though, and she didn’t have time. That, and if Hogwood had other wards more lethal than invisible walls, she could be in a lot of trouble.
Think, Hulda. She dug into her bag. She had no firearms—she barely knew how to use them, and she was hardly going to wander the streets of Boston at night in an attempt to secure one. The only offensive objects she possessed were a letter opener and her crowbar, for what good they would do. At least she had some dice in here—if she could read her own future, she might see how she got into the house, thus saving herself precious minutes. Inching closer to the moonlight, she was about to pull the dice free when her eyes landed again on the canal.
And the grate in its side, leading toward the house.