“Is it on your résumé?” Merritt pressed as he followed. “Can I see it?”
Hulda ignored him. “I’ve already turned down the bed for you. Mr. Fernsby tends to sleep in late, so you may visit his room last in the mornings.”
“I’ll tell you mine,” Merritt continued. “Zero. Now you go.”
Beth chuckled. Perhaps it was beneficial to have others about the house.
Hulda cast both of them a withering look. “If it is so important to you, Mr. Fernsby, BIKER calculated me to be a twelve. High percentages are very rare among common folk.”
He nodded. “What do you think the queen is, then? Fifty?”
Rolling her eyes, Hulda took the suitcase and laid it on the bed. “Miss Taylor, let’s start in the library.”
Merritt followed them down the hallway. “Sixty? Goodness, it’s not seventy, is it?”
Hulda ignored him again, opening the door to the library, where books were flying. He highly doubted she would do anything to stop him from being whapped in the side of the head by a soaring volume, so he begrudgingly left the women to their business.
It wasn’t until he returned to his notebooks—thankfully all in one piece—that he realized he’d forgotten to ask what kind of magic Beth had.
Pulling out a new piece of paper, he wrote himself a note to visit the closest public library the next time he left the island. He was going to check out a few books on magic.
Miss Taylor toured the house, asking appropriate questions, and set to work the moment she was done, stating, “I can unpack when everything is clean.”
Truly, Hulda had not heard more beautiful words in some time.
Thankfully, Miss Taylor had basic kitchen skills, which was one of the reasons Hulda had hired her, Myra’s recommendation being the other. Later that evening, she prepared dinner with minimal assistance from Hulda and announced that she would venture to Portsmouth in the morning to gather a new batch of supplies. Everything was beginning to run smoothly.
With the dishes tucked away and both Miss Taylor and Mr. Fernsby retiring to their rooms, Hulda took the opportunity to tour the house once more, trying to pass through its spaces in different patterns than was customary. Her dowsing rods were in her bag, but her stethoscope remained around her neck. She studied each charm to see if it had changed—none of them had—and even purposefully knocked over a few things in hopes her divination spell might give her a hint, but of course the fickle magic rarely worked that way. If anything, she’d only get a glimpse of her own future.
She was nearly at the point where she might need a candle when she started back down the hallway from the direction of the bedrooms. Paint began dripping—though this time it was gray—so she opened her umbrella and walked slowly, searching the corners of the space, trying to peer through its walls, so to speak. As she stepped into the library, as expected, books started flying. Today, the house was flinging black-spined volumes, of which there were many.
Hulda nudged a single foot into the room, not wanting to risk being struck, though the house had thus far spared her physical harm. But as she was about to brave her other foot, she happened to glance over her shoulder to the hall.
The paint rain had ceased.
She paused. Glanced into the library. Pulled her first foot out but left the door open.
Within seconds, the paint began again, pattering as it had before, vanishing into the carpeting like it had never been.
“Hmm,” she said aloud, stepping fully into the library. Books began flying. She peeked into the hallway. No drips.
She stepped back into the hallway. Drips.
Facing the hallway, Hulda walked backward until she passed into the sitting room. One step, two steps, three—
The furniture began rumbling as though coming to life. And the paint drips stopped.
A smile lifted her mouth. Well, there you have it.
“Mrs. Larkin.” Mr. Fernsby exited his bedroom at the other end of the house, holding a piece of paper in his hand. “This is going to make me sound like an imbecile, but how do you spell privilege? Is there not a d in it? I swear . . .” He glanced up, likely noting her expression. “What have you done now?”
“It’s spelled p-r-i-v-i-l-e-g-e, Mr. Fernsby.” She put a hand on her hip. “And I have discovered Whimbrel House’s source of magic.”
The furniture stopped rumbling.
Mr. Fernsby smirked. “I don’t suppose my lawyer was right and it’s haunted.”
“Why yes, Mr. Fernsby,” she replied in all seriousness. It fit. A single ghost could only do so much at once, and the magic hopped from room to room, as though trying to impress her. “I am quite positive that the spirit of a wizard is in possession of the facilities.”