“Hm.” She set her hands on the back of the chair—eight total. It was a small dining room, though a host could sit twelve if he was in dire straits. The table was already set, though dusty.
Rapping her knuckles on the surface, she said, “Come now, give it up. What is the point? You certainly can’t do anything with his wallet, now can you?”
The floor creaked like they stood on the deck of a ship sailing into troubled waters.
Reaching into her bag, Hulda pulled out a stethoscope, inserted the earpieces into her ears, and pressed the drum into the tabletop. She shifted it around a few places, tapping with her free hand, until she found a spot where the wood sounded compact. Pulling out a smaller ward, she dropped it on the table, and the furniture belched up a well-used leather wallet.
“You’re a saint.” Mr. Fernsby snatched up the wallet before the table could consume it once more.
Gesturing to the west door, Hulda asked, “And through there?”
Mr. Fernsby wrapped his free hand around the ward hanging from his neck. “Admittedly, I haven’t explored that way yet.”
That didn’t surprise her. The doorway was completely dark.
Retrieving the ward and slipping it into her pocket, Hulda pulled free a small lamp. She twisted a dial on it, and it illuminated.
“What is that?” Mr. Fernsby asked.
“Enchanted lamp. Conjury and elemental. Fire.” She held it before them and led the way.
“Without even a match? Why don’t they have those lining the streets?”
“Because they’re expensive, Mr. Fernsby.”
“Isn’t everything.”
Hulda approached the door, holding her light high. According to the blueprints, the breakfasting room was through here—
The door swung for her. She jumped back, but not quite far enough—
Two hands seized her waist and hauled her into the dining room, the door just narrowly missing her lamp. It would have shattered the glass—and the spells—completely.
Mr. Fernsby released her, but that did not stop embarrassment from burning in her cheeks. She held the light away from her face to conceal it, then smoothed her skirt. “Thank you, Mr. Fernsby.”
He nodded, scowling at the door. “Nearly lost my nose to one upstairs.”
This house was proving more troublesome than Hulda had anticipated. She set the small ward on the floor by the door. She’d only brought eight with her, which had seemed like an overindulgence at the time.
The door did not resist her when she walked through this time, though she stepped quickly, and Mr. Fernsby followed suit. The breakfast room was about half the size of the dining room and had another set table that sat four. Walking its perimeter, Hulda said, “You could knock out that wall if you want to host a larger party.”
The house grumbled, like it was a stomach and they the food.
“I don’t intend to even host myself.” He turned suddenly, searching the shadows for something. “This place is unlivable.”
“It would be a great loss to you, to give up so quickly,” Hulda warned. “Whimbrel House hasn’t been inhabited for some time, which may be why the place acts so poorly. You couldn’t even sell it in this state. If nothing else, it would be a financial loss.”
He seemed to consider that.
She stopped at the next door. “I presume the kitchen is through here.” The door did not resist her. It was a little brighter in this room, since flame flickered from an iron chandelier overhead. The kitchen had both a hearth and a woodsmoke stove, as well as good counterspace and a pump-operated sink. “Very nice. Do you have a stool?”
“Nice?” Mr. Fernsby repeated. “Are we in the same house?” He peered around and found a three-legged stool on the other side of the hearth. He brought it over, but had crossed only half the distance when he started shrieking.
“Get it off, get it off !” He flung his hands out, but the stool’s seat sucked onto them, melting and climbing up his arm. It couldn’t seem to get past his elbow, though, which meant the ward he wore was working.
“And how does this benefit you?” Hulda asked the ceiling.
The lights on the chandelier flickered.
Sighing, Hulda went to Mr. Fernsby and grasped his shoulder. “Try to calm down.”
“It’s eating me!”
“It’s simply having a tantrum.” She grabbed one of the stool’s legs, though it was soft as warm wax, and pulled. Despite its liquid state, the stool was still one thing, and it gradually slid off Mr. Fernsby’s arm. When Hulda released it, it plopped onto the floor like a mud pie. She reached into her bag for a ward, but the stool reshaped itself on its own.