“You should see if you can find any communion stones,” Miss Taylor suggested. “So we can talk to you when you’re away.”
Hulda nodded. “I requested them; I’ll have to see if they’ve arrived.” New stones were hard to come by, due to the dilution. But not impossible.
Merritt reached into his pocket, though he’d left his wallet in his room. “Do you need fare or anything? Company?”
For some reason, the offer had Hulda stiffening. “Not at all, Mr. Fernsby. This is BIKER work; they will cover the costs. And I am quite used to doing things on my own.”
She didn’t even look at him when she spoke, which had him thinking back on their conversation and wondering if he’d said something wrong. When he determined he hadn’t, he decided Hulda must simply be prickly in the mornings.
“I’ll at least walk you to the boat. Work on tramping that path. Beth, would you go collect Baptiste? I very much want to eat whatever he made this morning.”
With a dip of her head, Beth marched southward.
Hulda was grateful to leave Rhode Island.
She had a tendency to overthink things. She knew this about herself. Those closest to her—her family, Myra—knew that about her, too. Sometimes having a mind running as hot as a steamboat had its advantages. It made Hulda productive. She was an excellent juggler of tasks and an expert on many subjects.
But sometimes it tortured her, especially when her thoughts fell outside the comfortable realm of logic. And nothing was more illogical than emotions.
And so, leaning against the side of the speeding kinetic tram on her way to Boston, she found herself analyzing her every interaction with Mr. Fernsby this morning thrice over to ensure she had been strictly professional and nothing more. Only after she finished the third evaluation did she feel comfortable, certain that she’d maintained her decorous position.
She hadn’t had any of the lemon drops yet. In truth, she was afraid to, like they might be some sort of ambrosia that would warp both mind and resolve and transmute her into a desperate twenty-year-old again.
She sighed. Another reason not to read fiction. Really, Hulda.
She’d telegrammed ahead to the Genealogical Society; they should be expecting her. The kinetic tram had a stop close to their headquarters, so Hulda wouldn’t need to hire additional transportation. She should be excited for the work ahead, for she’d always liked solving mysteries. There was something incredibly validating about sorting through questions to find an encompassing resolution. In this case, though, she partially dreaded the answer. Once they had the wizard’s identity set, she would have to exorcise the fellow, leaving Whimbrel House as ordinary as the next place. Of course, she’d truly have no need to stay after that. She and Miss Taylor both would be recycled elsewhere. Which was a good thing.
She ignored the displeasure weighing down her lungs as she strode from the station and onto familiar Boston streets, her sensible shoes clacking on the cobbles.
The building for the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic was impressive; four times the size of the hotel that accommodated BIKER’s offices. A sculpture of a great tree stood in front of it, and Grecian columns coddled the doors, which were heavy, Hulda noted as she pulled one open and slipped inside. The ceiling was high in the large reception space she entered, which had an enormous half-circle desk. The man behind it looked frail, though he couldn’t have been any older than forty.
He stood immediately. “Miss Larkin?”
Her title of Mrs. didn’t exist here. “I am.”
“Excellent.” He stepped around the desk. “Right this way. Mr. Clarke took lunch in his office so he wouldn’t miss you.”
Hulda blinked away surprise. “Very kind of him.”
They passed the stairs and took a hallway north, then east, to a large office without any doors. It had a smattering of bookcases within, a heavy oak desk, and a large window, the sill of which was completely covered in various ferns. A taxidermy head of a buck jutted out from the rightmost wall.
The man on the other side of the desk set down a half-eaten sandwich and stood. He looked to be about sixty, with a nose possibly more prominent than Hulda’s own, though while hers protruded in the bridge, his stretched forward at the tip. He had dark eyes and white hair. That is, where he still had hair, in a ring above his ears and chops that ran down his cheeks. His smile was pleasant as he came toward her, hand extended. “Miss Hulda Larkin?”
She nodded and shook his hand firmly. “I am. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Clarke, especially at the last minute. In truth, I expected to speak with one of your employees.”