He finished the cold tea with only a slight grimace. She took the cup from him and leaned toward a candle, examining the tea leaves. Sometimes it took a moment . . . Perhaps if magic ran thicker through her veins, she’d have more control over the spell—
Her thoughts flashed. Not to a vision this time, but to words and feelings, like she was touching the tip of her tongue to a forkful of food without being allowed to put the morsel in her mouth.
Strife. Confusion. Longing. Betrayal. Truth.
It flashed away just as quickly, though Hulda continued staring at the tea leaves afterward.
“It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked.
For a brief moment, Hulda forgot where she was. But her augury was so faint, the spell so brief, that the side effect of using magic abated quickly.
Smoothing her forehead, she lowered the cup. A few pretty lies spun beneath her skull. Nicer things to pass on than the discomfort lingering under her breastbone. But Merritt . . . he would want to know.
“Good and bad, I suppose,” she managed, setting down the cup. “There’s strife in your future . . . but strife that will lead to truth.”
“Strife and truth? Sounds religious. I’m not joining the Mormons, am I?”
She blinked. “Who are the Mormons?”
He waved the query aside. Peered into the cup himself. “Well, I see . . . a rabbit. With its ears and tail cut off.”
She smiled. “Perhaps Mr. Babineaux can be persuaded to incorporate that into your future as well.” Picking up his tray, she turned for the door.
“Does it ever bother you?” His voice trailed in her wake. “Knowing the future all the time?”
Her hands tightened on the tray, and the fluttering in her chest died. “Not at all. Because in truth”—she turned and met his eyes, hoping hers didn’t reveal her own truths—“I never really do.”
Hulda was up early Saturday morning, determined yet again to make herself useful. There was nothing she was better at than making herself useful. Being useful made her feel good about herself, regardless of all the nonsense and trepidation going on in her life.
And so she scoured every inch of the house. Walked every foot of carpet with her dowsing rods. Hung charms and moved charms and wove new charms that provided her with zero useful information. She even took Miss Taylor with her, in case her clairvoyance turned up anything, but alas, it did not.
With nothing else she could do inside, Hulda decided to examine the outside of the house. Mr. Fernsby had already set out for a walk, Mr. Babineaux was busy in the kitchen, and Miss Taylor . . . well, Hulda hadn’t checked to see what currently occupied Miss Taylor. It was as good a time as any. She donned her sturdiest dress and shoes, strapped a sun hat onto her head, and ventured outside, her heavy bag over her shoulder.
She started with the easiest tool to use, the dowsing rods, and walked in a tight circle around the house before taking a step out and walking around it again. Another step out, and this time she moved counterclockwise. She repeated this pattern until she was a good thirty feet from the house. Either there was nothing to detect, or she was in need of a new pair of dowsing rods.
Returning to the house, Hulda pulled out her stethoscope and crouched, placing the drum against the foundation. She heard her own heartbeat from the exercise, and waited a minute until it quieted down. Then she shifted over and listened again.
The stony foundation rippled beneath her touch.
Sighing, Hulda sat back on her haunches. “I’m looking for the second source of magic. Do you have wardship spells, Owein? Maybe one pulse for yes, two pulses for no?”
The house remained still for a few seconds, then rippled twice.
Heaven forbid this be easy. She chewed on her lower lip. “Is there a second source of magic? Do you sense it?”
The house shifted slightly, as though shrugging.
That shrug gave her an idea. Placing her hand flat against the foundation, she ran her fingers down to where it connected with the earth. Dug her nails into the dirt, uncovering a sliver more.
“Owein. Do you think you could, hmm, stand up a little straighter? Shift the house up and over a bit, so I can get a look underneath?”
The wall facing her faded to indigo.
“I’m not sure what that means.”
The spot just above her hand rippled twice.
Hulda sighed.
It rippled again, one time.
She paused. “Does that mean you’re willing to try?”
Instead of answering with their new code, the house began to tremble.
Soaring to her feet, Hulda clamped one hand over her hat as stone cracked and wood bowed. She heard a shriek from inside—Miss Taylor—and immediately felt sorry, but it was hard to schedule one’s interactions with a twelve-year-old house-bodied ghost. She would apologize thoroughly in just a moment.