Hulda smiled. Something warm and strange ballooned in her chest.
The house was utterly terrible, as one can expect a haunted house to be. But fortunately for the rogue, someone competent came by. Competence claimed she was sent by a special organization with a truly terrible acronym, but truthfully her visit had been arranged by divine intervention.
The house （which later became a talking dog, but that is a story for another day） gradually settled down under her hand, and so did the rogue. In fact, the rogue found he no longer slept in and made pastries the highlight of his day; he woke （relatively） on time just to see Competence chewing absently on her lip while she was nose deep in a book, or chattering with the staff, or admiring the sunset when she thought no one was looking.
The balloon swelled. Rings of heat formed around Hulda’s eyes. She turned the next page, covering the second half with her hand, terrified she would read ahead and ruin it all.
Competence helped the rogue write what was likely a terrible novel, hired help who would become his friends, and provided him with conversation that was both amusing and deep. Very soon, the rogue found that he wanted nothing more than to share that house with her forever, though there was the tricky business of her refusing to use his Christian name.
Hulda laughed. A tear pooled in the corner of her eye.
The rogue, of course, was a rogue for a reason. He had a less-than-savory past, involving a contumelious （Competence would appreciate the complexity of that word） father and a tricksy belle, which had left him with some heavy thoughts and （mostly） without an inheritance. Plus, unfortunately, both the rogue and Lady Competence shared the trait of being very poor communicators when it came to important and uncomfortable things.
A second tear formed. Hulda wiped it away with her thumb. Smudged her glasses, but didn’t bother to clean the lenses.
And so it was that the rogue went on a mission to uncover the truth of his labyrinthine （there’s another word for you） past when he had intended to tell Competence that he was falling madly in love with her.
A sob tore up her throat. Hulda clapped a hand over her mouth, fearing Miss Canterbury would hear it, and continued reading through increasingly foggy spectacles.
Competence, in turn, determined to move out immediately. Which the rogue very much hoped was a way of dealing with heartbreak because, if so, that meant Competence likewise might be falling in love with him. Or, at the very least, strongly tolerated him.
She laughed. A teardrop fell on the paper and smudged the penned likewise. She felt like her ribs were pulling apart in the most fascinating way. Her heart pumped like it was skipping rope. Pleasant prickles danced across her scalp.
And so, after some nonsense with a supernecromancer that is hardly important to the story, the rogue determined to tell Competence how he felt in the hope she’d return to him someday. He lucked out in that he got to do it in a very strangely arranged letter, as he always was a better writer than speaker.
Take your time, Hulda. I’ve kept the communion stone in my pocket.
Absolutely Yours—Merritt.
Speechless, Hulda turned the page, only to see the continuation of Elise and Warren’s story. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to read it. Not now.
Collecting the papers together, she clutched them to her chest and hurried from the window seat, out into the hallway. Her sister was playing the pianoforte in the front room, so she ran to see her, uncaring that her eyes were probably red.
“Danielle!” she burst out, causing her sister to pause midmeasure and swivel on her bench. “Danielle, I need to leave immediately. Could you take me to the tram station?”
Hulda hadn’t been away for even a fortnight, yet the island seemed different when the dinghy driver banked to drop her off. The place was filled with color, hues of yellow, orange, red, and brown. The green in the reeds and grass was slowly fading with the promise of winter. Songbirds still trilled in half-bare trees. Frost glimmered where the branches cast shade.
Taking a deep breath, Hulda pulled her shawl close and made her way to Whimbrel House. Nothing hung on the line, though perhaps it had been too cold to dry much of anything today. No one chopped wood, though the axe protruded from the stump in the yard. There was a faint smell of rosemary and sage wafting from the kitchen window, which served to bolster Hulda’s spirits and calm her nerves. She knew the house had changed, but she felt it, too, in a way she couldn’t quantify. As though a sense outside of the five—or perhaps six—that she possessed whispered it. And yet it still very much felt like home.