“Stewards?” Mr. Fernsby thumbed through the papers, his forehead wrinkling a little more with each one.
“Yes, someone to look over the financial aspects of the house and land—”
“I don’t need a steward.” He stifled another yawn.
“Then you may start with the maids. I will see myself settled in. I brought several things of use for taming the manor, and intend to begin work on diagnosing the house first thing in the morning.”
He closed the folder. “Finding the source of magic, you mean.”
“Precisely.” It usually wasn’t too hard of a task—most homes were not secretive about the sources of their power. Gorse End had been tricky, as the old magic had changed in her interim as housekeeper, but that had been Mr. Hogwood’s interference—
Closing her eyes, Hulda reoriented her thoughts. The less she thought of Gorse End, the better off she was, even all these years later.
Mr. Fernsby left, muttering to himself—or perhaps over the folder—as he went. Hulda unpacked her second suitcase quickly; she was well practiced at it. As the room smelled of dust, she went to open the window and found it stuck, though she imagined that was the house’s doing, not the window’s. A ward couldn’t muffle the place entirely.
“Do you want to smell musty?” she asked, rapping on the window. “Don’t be silly. Let me open it.”
When she tried again, the pane slid upward. She smiled. Whimbrel House wasn’t a terrible house, just an immature one. “Surprising, given your age,” she murmured, and she rested her elbows on the sill, looking out over the island, trusting the place not to bring the pane down on her. Tomorrow her trunks would arrive, and she would stock the pantry, and the challenge of bringing the house to working order would begin in earnest.
A swarm of gnats flew past the window, forming odd patterns with their tiny bodies. A chill crept down her spine, though she couldn’t quite tell if it was the breeze or her augury. Beyond the passing swarm, she thought she spied two golden orbs in the distance. Eyes. She squinted, making out the silhouette of a wolf against the fading twilight, its form almost indistinguishable from the shadows and trees around it.
She furrowed her brow. Wolves didn’t live in this bay, did they? She hadn’t heard a single howl. Removing her glasses, she wiped them on her sleeve and replaced them.
The wolf was gone, leaving her wondering if it had been a premonition or a shifting shadow, and with no means to be certain of either.
The next morning, Hulda carefully worked about the splintered kitchen and made breakfast. She had it set on the table before the two men roused. When Mr. Fernsby toed into the dining room, as though fearful it might eat him up, he paused. “I thought you didn’t cook.”
Hulda folded her arms. “I am able to cook, Mr. Fernsby, but it is not in my job description. Considering the night you had, I thought it would be appropriate to provide sustenance in the form of legumes and pease porridge.”
Mr. Fernsby’s lips quirked.
That made her eye twitch. “Pray tell what is so humorous.”
“Sustenance,” he repeated, pulling out a chair as Mr. Portendorfer came up behind him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Larkin,” Mr. Portendorfer said. “I was in such a rush last night I didn’t eat dinner, and this smells delicious.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
Mr. Portendorfer offered grace, and the two gentlemen ate. Hulda couldn’t help but feel a little vindicated when Mr. Fernsby’s eyebrows rose. “This is good. Are you sure you don’t want to be my chef?”
“Quite,” she quipped.
Mr. Fernsby paused. “Are you not eating?”
“I already had my fill, thank you. It’s not appropriate for staff to dine with the family.”
Merritt shrugged. “Hardly any family here.”
“The rule still stands, Mr. Fernsby.”
He swallowed another bite before saying, “Please call me Merritt.”
“I prefer formal designations.”
Smirking, Mr. Portendorfer said, “You best do as she says. This one is serious. Don’t let her walk out on you. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Gift horse? I’m paying for her.”
“BIKER pays for me, Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda corrected. “You will be supplying salary for the chef and maid you hire.”
“BIKER?” Mr. Portendorfer repeated.
“That Bostonian place I mentioned,” said Mr. Fernsby.
Hulda departed to let the men eat, using her dowsing rods in the reception hall and the lavatory in the meantime. She hadn’t put any wards in the living room or adjoining sunroom, and dark shadows roiled within, as though the house were having a tirrivee at having been forced into order. When Hulda approached the doorway, her dowsing rods parted, but that was to be expected, as magic was condensed in this part of the house. If she couldn’t find the magical source in the warded rooms, she’d start moving the wards around to better search.