“Perhaps we’ll send Mr. Babineaux out with the musket,” she murmured.
Miss Taylor shook her head. “I wouldn’t have seen it, I just . . . sensed something. Then it ran away, but not where any real wolf could run. Maybe it’s just the shadows.”
Hulda nodded. “But I think we’ll all feel better if we send a large French man out with a musket, nevertheless.” Mr. Fernsby certainly owns his share of firearms.
Miss Taylor chuckled. “I did want to ask you, Mrs. Larkin, about taking some time away.”
The hopeful glint in her eyes caught Hulda’s interest. “There’s always the possibility. What have you in mind?”
Suddenly shy, Miss Taylor looked away and pulled down her sleeves. “Well, I saw there was a dance in Portsmouth; some boys were passing out notes about it the last time I went to town to fetch supplies. I thought it might be fun to go. I don’t get much opportunity to socialize.”
“I can hardly fault you for that.” Hulda hadn’t been to a dance in . . . over ten years. Thirteen? Fourteen? She’d never felt at place in dance halls. Not because she didn’t know the steps, but because she spent most of her time occupying the wall. “When is it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’ve certainly earned a night off. And do take the whole night, Miss Taylor. I don’t want you trying to navigate these waters in the dark. Do you need a recommendation for a boarding house?”
“My thanks, but I’ll be staying with a friend.” She smiled, though it looked to be more from nerves than humor. “Well, I don’t know how to dance, and I was wondering if you did.”
Hulda softened. “Do you need lessons?”
She nodded, eager. “I mean, I know how to dance, but not like they do in Portsmouth. No one danced like that in the South, I mean.”
“I’m happy to teach you. And perhaps you could teach me as well.” She moved to pull a shawl closer, only to realize she wasn’t wearing one. “Tonight after the men go to bed, hm? In my room.”
Miss Taylor beamed. “My thanks.”
Waving away the gratitude, Hulda merely said, “I could use the exercise.”
After dinner, while Mr. Fernsby enjoyed a game of cards with Mr. Babineaux, Hulda went upstairs to compile an official record of her attempts to categorize the house, as well as write up the symptom she believed indicative of a secondary source of magic. Symptom, singular, because she had yet to witness a repetition of the wardship spell, and she’d been testing the doors and windows often. Whatever the source, it was likely small, possibly wavering. Her best guess was a wooden beam or floorboard made from a tree that had absorbed magic during its lifetime. The inconsistency suggested it might be beginning to rot. She had yet to prove the theory correct, however, which rankled her. Seldom had she ever expended so much effort to diagnose an enchanted house, and this one wasn’t even particularly large.
Setting down her report, she worked her hands, rubbing growing cramps out of the muscles. Perhaps she should stay up tonight and see if the magic was more active after sundown. Miss Taylor would keep her company for a little while, with this dance practice of theirs, and afterward she could roam the house in her socks, padding around so as not to disturb anyone. She’d been sewing together some charms to tuck into out-of-the-way places in the hopes of finding the wayward spell, and with a little more work, she could be hanging them before dawn.
Deciding to document that undertaking as well, Hulda retrieved her pencil and began writing, only to have the tip snap on her second line. Sighing, she searched for the Lassimonne sharpener, but it wasn’t in its usual place. Likely Mr. Fernsby had taken it. Miss Taylor always put things where they belonged, and Mr. Babineaux never wandered upstairs.
Standing, Hulda stretched out her back as much as her corset would allow, then made her way down the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs, where Owein was twisting the carpet downward in the semblance of a whirlpool. Not to bother her, she thought, but because he was bored.
“Evening, Owein,” she said, and a narrow path of still carpet stretched across the way, allowing her passage. Nodding her thanks, she crossed the hall, stopping at Mr. Fernsby’s office. The door was ajar, the room half-illuminated by orange sunset. Lighting a candle atop a table by the door, Hulda ventured to the cluttered desk. There were three cups left there, along with a handkerchief, a smattering of pens and pencils, and a few crumpled pieces of paper, which were not cheap. She’d have to suggest a means of reusing them, for the backsides were perfectly functional. In truth, though, something about the mess was oddly endearing. Beside the crumpled papers sat a blue-jay feather, of all things, a single shoe without laces, a chunk of Mr. Fernsby’s manuscript, and, yes, the pencil sharpener.