“Do call me Merritt.”
“Thank you, but no.”
He shrugged. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to take charge of that? I don’t know heads or tails of maids and cooks. Perhaps you could choose those you’d get along with. I trust you would do it justice. In a sense, they would be your staff, no?”
He knew by the way she tilted her head to the side that she was considering it.
“The résumés are on my dresser.” He’d moved it back last night.
She nodded. “Very well. I’ll see it done.”
He bowed his thanks. “And I, Mrs. Larkin, am going to run like a fool.”
Turning, he took off across the island, barely hearing Hulda call out “As long as you come back!” over the wind whistling past his ears.
When was the last time he’d run?
Well, he’d done so when he was late to an appointment with his editor, but city running wasn’t the same. This . . . He felt like he was ten years old again.
He ran, leaping reeds and trampling goosefoot, ducking under slippery elm branches and startling rabbits and mice alike. He tripped once on a narrow stream hidden by grass, then again on an uplifted tree root, but he didn’t care. He laughed, then shouted, then did what he considered a very good imitation of a seagull—a party trick he’d discovered in his adolescence.
He ran until his lungs burned, until the house was a lump in the distance. He faced west, toward the mainland, and considered. He was out. Free. He could go back to the city if he wanted to. His things were here, yes, but he could get them shipped out before the house knew what was happening.
And yet, though he’d promised nothing, he felt as if he would be breaking a trust, not only with Whimbrel House, but with Hulda and BIKER as well. That, and . . . what precisely did he have to go back to?
Homeowner, he reminded himself. Progress.
He could do this. See it through. And the place really was lovely. What better environment to give him inspiration for his book?
I should really work on that. He chewed his lip as he strolled, watching his foot placement a little better now, though if he were to break an ankle, best he do it while Fletcher was still here. The thought reminded him that he couldn’t take too long if he wanted to see his friend off.
He walked until he reached the north coast, which was rocky and uneven, high in some places, low in others. More stones than seashells, but he picked a few up as he went, turning their smooth sides over in his hands, skipping flatter ones into the bay. He grinned, listening to the salty breeze rustle leafy shrubs. It almost sounded like a song.
As he came around a boulder, he paused, seeing a dark shape on the other side. Upon closer inspection, he discovered it was an old two-person boat lashed to a rusted spike, its rope worn and filthy and hanging on its last thread. The boat was badly weathered, but when he freed it from its binds and inspected it, he found no holes. In fact, its hull bore a barely there seal of two loose spirals intersecting. The same seal that stamped every single kinetic tram he’d ever ridden.
Curious, and without an oar, he pushed the boat into the water and pressed the kinetic seal. The boat moved of its own volition, inciting a startled laugh from Merritt. He quickly shut off the magic and, with some effort, got the boat back to shore. “This will be fantastic,” he said to no one in particular, “for getting to and from Portsmouth.”
There was no public transportation between Blaugdone Island and the mainland for resupplying. He, Hulda, and Fletcher had all hired private boats to get here. Return voyages had to be scheduled ahead of time, as Fletcher had done, unless one had a communion stone, windsource pigeon, flare, or another sort of signal to summon transportation. Or, perhaps, to alert the nearest lightkeeper you were in need of aid. There were two lighthouses between Blaugdone Island and the mainland. Merritt would have to introduce himself and get on their keepers’ good sides.
As Merritt dragged the boat farther ashore to keep the tide from lapping at it, he wondered if resupplying was something this staff would do. And how much it would cost to pay them. Easier to just do it himself, really. But Whimbrel House was wild, and a magically inclined staff would admittedly prove handy. Especially since Merritt had a book deadline coming up and hadn’t written a word of it since arriving.
Patting the boat goodbye, he traipsed back to the house, outlining the next two chapters in his head as he went, and, after waiting with Fletcher for his ride back, came up with a couple of splendid ideas for a third.
Two days after Mr. Portendorfer departed, Hulda learned something terribly grievous about her new client.