“Mrs. Larkin?”
Mr. Fernsby was studying her, brows tight together. Pulling away from him, she nodded to her health and walked briskly toward the stairs.
The nosing on the first step separated from the riser and snapped at her.
Pulling out another ward, she hung it on the newel cap, and the impromptu mouth clapped shut. She turned back to Mr. Fernsby, who stared at the wooden mouth with wide eyes. Stiffening her spine to lend them both courage, she said, “Move quickly.”
And they did, but upon reaching the second floor, Mr. Fernsby nearly toppled back down the stairs. His face paled in the magicked light of her lantern. “Not this again.”
Blood dripped from the hall’s ceiling.
Hulda sighed, grateful to see something familiar. “This is an old trick.”
Mr. Fernsby gaped. “How can you be so complacent about all of this?”
“I told you, Mr. Fernsby.” She crouched and held out her light, watching as the “blood” hit the carpet and fizzled out of existence. “I’m a professional.”
He mumbled something under his breath that she couldn’t discern. Standing, she held the lamp higher. “I believe it’s paint. The house would need to have conjury to produce actual blood, and despite the rats, I doubt it does. Else this is by far the most impressive house I’ve had the pleasure of trespassing.”
The house groaned and clicked, sounding much like the lavatory had before closing in on them. She ignored the gooseflesh parading up and down her arms.
Mr. Fernsby reached out and let some of the paint plop on his hand. “Is it?”
“Is there anything painted red in this house? It could be moved from that, then ‘melted,’ as the furniture was.”
He glanced at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “I . . . I’m not sure. It’s been . . . dark.”
She offered him what she called a “business smile,” and his shoulders relaxed. “I will know for sure when I finish my report. How many bedrooms?” Reaching into her bag, she withdrew her umbrella and unfurled it over their heads before heading left.
“F-Four, I think.”
The first of which, fortunately, had an open door. It was fortunate because it had no floor.
Hulda held up her light, but the seemingly bottomless pit sucked it up.
Mr. Fernsby stumbled back. She closed her umbrella. “I’m sure the floor will return. Houses dislike being incomplete.”
“Do they now?” Sarcasm punctuated the question, which Hulda disregarded.
They moved toward the next room, and again the house slammed the door, though Hulda had expected that. She moved on. The room at the end of the hall was presumably where the central bedchamber lay.
Ensuring the door would not take off her head, Hulda peeked inside. At first glance, it looked like a perfectly ordinary bedchamber. No shadows, no cobwebs, no rats . . . one of them would need to clean those up, because based on the smell, Hulda was certain they weren’t illusionary, which would fall under the second school of magic: psychometry. Indeed, the space looked quite pleasant. The sun shined through a rain-spotted window, the bed was made, the floor relatively clean—
Mr. Fernsby cursed, startling Hulda.
“Whatever is the matter?”
He strode into the room, a much more confident man than the one who had answered the door. “My notebooks were right here on this side table!” He ran his hand over the furniture. Opened a drawer, revealing some sort of pistol within. Searched the four-post bed and swept his hand beneath it, revealing a musket. Goodness, how many firearms did a man need? And he hadn’t even moved in yet! “I know they were. I was writing in one shortly before you arrived.”
Fishing into her bag, Hulda retrieved her dowsing rods and held them before her gently, keeping her fingers steady. She walked heel to toe, first toward Mr. Fernsby, then toward the other side of the room. The rods slowly pulled apart.
She prodded a lump in the carpet with her toe. “I believe they are here.”
Merritt stared at the lump like he was missing his spectacles, then marched over and inspected it. “But . . . how? The carpet is nailed in! How am I supposed to retrieve them?”
“I believe you have three choices. Pull up the carpet, cut them out, or wait for the house to return them.”
He gaped at her, but before he opened his mouth, she added, “I would recommend restraint when it comes to disparaging the house. We need it to be our ally.”
“Right. Ally.” He rubbed his palms into his eyes. Let out a long puff of air.