“Ghost stories have origins,” he hissed.
“From superstitious witch hunters, perhaps,” she countered, two lines forming a Y between her eyebrows. “I assure you, the house is just the same as it was before. The only thing that has changed is that we have now identified where the magic comes from!”
“From a poltergeist.”
She frowned. “Do you think all of the dead are malevolent ghouls waiting to feast on the flesh of the living?”
Merritt paused. Considered. “That was a good line, Mrs. Larkin. You should write a book.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Listen.” He put up his hands, as though illustrating with them might help him make his point. “It was kind of cute, when I thought I was dealing with a half-sentient kitchen or armoire. It is utterly horrid that there is an actual walking spirit from the grave floating around, watching me dress, breathing down my neck, and dropping me into pits!”
Hulda breathed deeply but nodded, which made him relax a hair. “It is simply that, on occasion, a person of magic does not wish to pass on to the world beyond, and instead finds a new body. Houses are large, made from natural materials, and often social, without a preexisting soul. It’s a rational choice.”
Merritt breathed out, long and slow, through his mouth. Grabbed some of his hair at the roots. Released it. Glanced back at the house. It seemed so normal from out here. Then again, he’d thought the same when he first arrived, before it trapped him inside and tried to murder him in the lavatory.
They’d reached a truce, hadn’t they?
But how trustworthy was an ancient soul?
“Whatever is haunting this place,” he spoke nearly at a whisper because all the goodwill they’d built with Whimbrel House might very well be lost if the ghost overheard them, “it’s been haunting it a long while. And it obviously has issues.”
“I believe,” she said carefully, “it’s merely forgotten standard decorum.”
“Standard decorum.” He grabbed his hair again. “Forgive me if a slip of standard decorum is not enough to balm . . . this.” He made a general gesture toward the place. “I mean . . . can’t we make him . . . go away?”
Hulda’s face fell. Only a fraction, before she covered it up, but Merritt saw it nonetheless, and it transported him back to the hole in the kitchen, where she confessed her reasons for preserving the house as is.
“Shouldn’t it, I don’t know,” he tried, “be laid to rest? Houses can’t really die, right? What if he doesn’t even want to be here anymore?”
“Or her,” Hulda remarked.
“For the sake of my sanity, let’s choose one pronoun to work with. How do we make him go away?”
She sighed and folded her arms, though it looked more like she was hugging herself. “I cannot legally stop you from pursuing that route. But if you do so, the magic will be stripped away. Lost.”
Merritt frowned, hating the worm of guilt in his chest. “And you’ll be unemployed.”
“If I may remind you yet again, Mr. Fernsby, I am BIKER’s employee. Should you choose to proceed with the exorcism, they would see to my vocational direction, as well as Miss Taylor’s.” Hulda’s usual rigidness returned in full force. “In the meantime, removing the wizard will take some work.”
Absently picking at lint in his pocket, he asked, “Like what?”
“Like learning the identity of the soul within these walls.” Turning, Hulda took in the house like she was seeing it for the first time. “We cannot call him out if we don’t know his name.”
“I see. And how do we do that?”
“Research, Mr. Fernsby.” Hulda loosened her arms and gripped the umbrella’s handle. “A great deal of research.”
Beth walked into Merritt’s office with a feather duster in one hand and the mail in the other. She’d taken his little kinetic boat across the bay to Portsmouth this morning to post mail—all of which was Hulda’s—and pick up supplies.
“Some missives from the post office, Mr. Fernsby,” she said, handing him three letters.
Merritt hesitantly plucked them from her fingers. Now that he knew the truth about the house’s magic, he was very aware of everything he did, like the wizard in residence was watching him. Supposedly he could only haunt one room at a time, but he could be lurking, and the awareness of that made Merritt fidget. He thought to utilize the wards again, but he didn’t want to make the haunter angry. “I don’t have a box at the Portsmouth post office.”