Silas shut his eyes, the darkness of old memories surfacing. He fought against the tide, pushing it down. He’d already paid his dues for those sacrifices. He’d already suffered the loss. It had nearly broken him. Shredded him, then rebuilt him into something stronger. Something that could conquer anyone and anything. Something that could carry on the legacies of the fallen.
He opened his eyes. If only his father’s husk were on these shelves, shriveled and still able to feel pain, so Silas could inflict upon him every ounce of suffering the man had imparted onto him. But his father had played a different part—he’d opened the doorway. Or perhaps God had, and his father was merely a pawn.
Stepping back, Silas shook himself. No time for reminiscing. He knew the island well by now. He was ready for the clairvoyant. Ready to take on his wolf form and live wildly for days until his opportunity came, if that’s what it took. Then he would move on. It was almost over. Surely it was almost over, and then he would live in power and peace the rest of his days. Break away from this parasitic life.
For now, though, it was time to add to his collection.
Chapter 26
October 5, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Mr. Portendorfer stayed the weekend, leaving after dinner Sunday night. The day after his departure, Hulda was forced to consider her predicament. It floated through her mind as she aided Miss Taylor with the day’s tasks, even going so far as to scrub wainscoting, wash windows, and repolish silverware. When that wasn’t enough to still her thoughts, she combined half-empty vials of ink in Mr. Fernsby’s office and swept the carpet. Organized her clothes by color. Ordered herbs in the kitchen by name and took stock again of dwindling supplies. Trimmed her nails.
In the end, though, work could not distract her from an inescapable truth: she couldn’t put off Myra forever. So she put her bag over her shoulder that evening and ventured outside, knowing no one would question her goings-on if she had her bag with her. She would appear busy, and it would afford her time to think.
She walked north, winding through weeds and plants that grew low to the ground, following a saltwater brook through the property. The cooling air invigorated her; the sound of birdsong and sight of bright leaves calmed her spirit. Her bag of tools bounced at her hip with every other step.
Yes, she wanted to stay at Whimbrel House. No point in attempting to pother her way out of that one. She would prefer not to resign from BIKER in order to keep her position, especially since paying her out of pocket would be a drain on Mr. Fernsby’s wallet. Neither did she want a demotion. Perhaps she could barter with Myra, do an on-and-off-again position where she spent most of her time on Blaugdone Island but took on an occasional job when a new enchanted structure was found and required her attention. Such an arrangement would require her to be gone for weeks at a time, but that was nothing the other staff couldn’t handle. Mr. Fernsby would fare just fine with a part-time housekeeper.
Beyond that . . . it wasn’t reasonable to think of the possibilities beyond that. Hulda would get carried away with herself, and that would be no beneficence, especially for her.
Crossing the brook, Hulda allowed herself to stroll and enjoy the open sky, which slowly colored with sun. Sunsets were always prettiest when there were clouds to reflect the light, and the perfect amount of them swam overhead. She went over what she would say to Myra—it would be better to discuss the matter in person and offer a logical argument, something that would conceal her emotional attachments. She could offer to train Miss Taylor in housekeeping. That seemed a viable reason to stay, did it not? And the training wouldn’t add a single penny to BIKER’s allotted budget for the house. Perhaps she could even offer to survey the other isles in Narragansett Bay. Perhaps there was magic yet to be found—
“Hello, Hulda.”
Her body reacted to the low voice before her mind did. It seized, stung by a sudden chill. Her organs drooped as she turned around to meet a dark, penetrating gaze framed by wild, dark hair.
She mouthed, Mr. Hogwood. He was there, in the flesh, standing over her, dressed simply and in muted colors, his eyes narrow and mouth pinched. Older than she remembered him. Rougher.
How . . . How was he here? He was supposed to be dead!
He grabbed her.
Panic burned through her limbs like fire. She twisted free and bolted away, tall grasses pushing her back, mud sucking at her shoes. Her skirt yanked backward; she fell forward. Her magnifying glass fell from her bag.
Her bag.
Kicking at Mr. Hogwood, she fumbled through the satchel, pushing aside dowsing rods and her umbrella, her fingers brushing the selenite communion stone.