His gut tightened further.
The dining room turned black.
“Mrs. Larkin,” he began, but he didn’t put enough effort into the name. She didn’t hear him.
She enacted the spell, using the full name, Crisly Stephanie Mansel.
And . . . nothing happened.
Merritt’s insides were strange. Anxiety bloomed from his navel. His chest was tight. And yet . . . relief oddly loosened his shoulders.
Hulda shook her head. “I . . . I don’t understand it. It couldn’t have been the parents. They didn’t have the right . . . mix.”
Beth said, “Maybe it is the youngin.”
Hulda sighed. “I did purchase enough for experimentation.” She pulled out a third sheet. Enacted the exorcism again, this time for Helen Eliza Mansel.
Nothing happened.
“I know these stones are good!” Hulda stamped her foot, abandoning her post to check the rocks.
Merritt dared to step into the reception hall. “Are you forgetting something?”
“I do not forget things, Mr. Fernsby.” She finished circling the room, then planted her hands on her hips. “I do not understand it. We’ll have to look for more graves. If it is not the children, it must be someone else entirely.”
Not one to be thwarted, Hulda attempted it one more time for Horace Thomas Mansel, and then Evelyn Peg Turly. Both were as anticlimactic as the first three.
Baptiste grumbled. Beth said, “Such a bother.”
Merritt shrugged. “I suppose things will have to be abnormally normal for another night. Beth, Baptiste, you’re welcome to turn in for the evening. Hopefully you wake up where you rested your head and your ceilings don’t drip, hm?”
Beth offered a small curtsy. Baptiste looked around curiously before shuffling into the shadows.
As he departed, Merritt turned to Hulda. “He is most excellent with venison. It’s a pity you missed it.” He took in the hard lines between her brows. “I’m sorry you had to make the trip.”
Hulda waved away the apology. “I would be happy for the failure if it didn’t seem so utterly illogical.” She started, perhaps surprised by her own honesty, and cleared her throat. “Well, since my stay is extending, I’ll give you this.” She went to her usual bag—the one with all the tricks in it—and pulled out two selenite stones, each about the size of Merritt’s fists. They bore the same dark seal of three curved lines, not unlike parentheses, growing in size, transcribed within a caret pointing to the right. Or left, depending on how he held it.
“Are these communion stones?” He’d heard of them—they were quite useful in the revolution—but had never used one himself.
“Indeed. And they’re expensive, so please treat them with care. When I leave, I’ll need to bring both back to BIKER. If we need to communicate while apart, these will allow it. Press your palm into the seal for about three seconds before speaking. Take your palm off first.” She looked at the reception hall like a disgruntled parent might glare at a child. “We wouldn’t have needed them if this had been successful.”
He passed his stone from hand to hand. “Hardly your fault.”
She sniffed. “It literally is my fault.” She paused. “I rarely guess wrong.”
“But”—he gently prodded her with an elbow—“now you’ll get to stay long enough to try Baptiste’s venison.”
She pulled back from him, and the change of shadows made her cheeks look ruddy. Not wishing to cause her discomfort, Merritt pocketed the stone and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have a scene to finish.”
Snatching his manuscript, he tucked it under his arm and ventured upstairs.
He wasn’t sure how much the wizard in residence really wanted to stay, because the ceiling dripped on him the entire way to his office.
After breakfast the next morning, Beth and Baptiste set out to find more gravestones, leaving Merritt to draft a letter to his editor and Hulda to organize . . . whatever it was that housekeepers organized. He’d begun to fear she’d gotten very bored with Whimbrel House since it was one of the smaller abodes she’d been assigned to. Which led Merritt to imagine what it would be like to have a new housekeeper. His mind instantly pictured Mrs. Culdwell from his old apartment, and he shuddered. Truthfully, though, when the house was only just a house, he might not need staff at all. There was only himself to pick up after, himself to cook for . . .
There was something invigorating about living alone. A . . . lack of rules, so to speak. Merritt could wash his socks wherever he wanted. He could work at night and sleep during the day. He could pace the hallway and talk to himself out loud, which not only helped him sort out stories, but also helped him understand his own flights of fancy. Being able to talk aloud to someone who always agreed with you could do wonders for the soul.