Elijah Clarke
Hulda rolled her eyes again—a bad habit she’d formed as a child and was hard pressed to overcome. While the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic had the most magnificent ancestry records in the Western Hemisphere, it was also a glorified organization for arranged marriages. Groups like it had existed for centuries, ever since mankind had realized magic wasn’t an unlimited resource. Ultimately, their mission was noble. Yes, the world would prosper from the continuation of magic. It provided energy, pushed public transport, grew crops . . . where it still existed, anyway. It was simply unfortunate that the only way to increase its presence in the world was through selective bedding.
Still, perhaps it was hasty of Hulda to dismiss the letter so readily. It felt somewhat invasive to be traced on her great-grandmother’s pedigree, but it wasn’t like Hulda would ever make a match on her own. She was thirty-four years old and had never even been kissed by a man, let alone courted by one. Peradventure she should hear this Mr. Clarke out, while her body was still capable of creating offspring.
“I don’t know,” she murmured aloud. “It’s just so . . . awkward.” And the process would likely be rife with disappointment. She couldn’t stand the thought of being paired with a man who would regard her with disgust or disdain. Her heart might shatter.
“My goodness, has someone died?”
Hulda stiffened, smoothing her face and folding up the letter at the sound of Myra’s inquiry. “Not at all. I was just thinking.”
“Glad I caught you. I have a free hour; would you like help in the library?”
Hulda smiled. “Yes, I would. Thank you.”
“Not a problem at all.” Myra turned, but Miss Steverus was coming their way, and Hulda didn’t have time to warn either of them. The women crashed into one another, sending papers flying.
“Ms. Haigh!” Miss Steverus exclaimed. “I’m so sorry!”
Hulda quickly stood from her chair. “It’s all right, let’s pick them up.”
Myra laughed. “You’d think I’d be able to ‘hear’ you coming, Sadie.” She bent down to pick up papers.
Hulda crouched to reach for one, but her mind registered an odd pattern in the parchments. Before any of them could pick up the first document, a vision flashed through Hulda’s mind.
A wolf. A wolf in a . . . library?
Miss Steverus grabbed several papers, destroying the premonition before it had fully manifested. Hulda blinked, trying to recall the shapes and colors. The animal had appeared large, black in color . . . not unlike the wolf she had seen on Blaugdone Island. Then again, wolves didn’t have a lot of variety among them, did they? But what on earth would a wolf be doing in a library? Her premonitions were finnicky, but they were unambiguous. She was no dream reader; what she saw was what would be seen, in some indeterminate amount of time. But this was just outlandish. Perhaps, had the papers gone undisturbed, it would have made sense.
Now . . . what had she been doing? Ah, yes, the paperwork. Such a meddlesome thing, to experience the side effects of far-seeing when she hadn’t intentionally used her ability. Forgetfulness loved to accompany divination. But what did the vision mean? Her augury was usually more . . . concise . . . than this. And this wasn’t the first time it had shown her a large dog.
Was the reading for Myra or Miss Steverus?
“Could you pass me that one, Mrs. Larkin?”
Flashing to the present, Hulda grabbed the paper closest to her and handed it over. “Yes, sorry.”
Myra glanced at her. “Did you . . . see something?”
Hulda shook her head. “Nothing important.” And it often wasn’t.
But after the events of the day, Hulda wasn’t comforted by that fact.
Chapter 16
September 15, 1846, Portsmouth, Rhode Island
The history of Whimbrel House was so obscure it took Merritt two hours to find the records he sought, which included colonial census records, deed records, and recorded deaths from the Salem witch trials, since the latter had been mentioned in Hulda’s file. Still, he cautioned himself not to be too optimistic. Records that old were often spotty, with gaps in the timeline, and the Narragansett Bay tended to be lumped together as a whole without individual islands, when it was bothered to be mentioned apart from Rhode Island itself.
Merritt would have called it a successful enough day, but someone very official looking stopped him on his way out to tell him he couldn’t just take the records. If he wanted the information, he would have to copy them by hand.