“Mer—Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda said, “if I may solve a mystery with you.”
He glanced at her. Did he look to her lips? “Which mystery?”
Which, indeed. “That night, with Mr. Hogwood. How . . . did you find me? It was dark, and I was far from the house.”
He blew out a long exhale and rubbed the back of his neck. “You have Owein to thank for that one. He pointed me in the right direction.”
That was not the answer she’d been expecting. “Owein?”
He shrugged. “He’s tall. Must have seen it for himself.”
Hulda peered in the direction of the incident. It had been far off . . . even a person atop the house’s roof would not have seen it without some sort of spyglass. “How would he have told you? Did he . . . write it?”
“Uh, no.” His nose crinkled as he tapped into his memory. More likely than not, Owein was illiterate, given his upbringing. “I just . . . I was outside, calling for you. And he said, ‘She,’ like he was referring to a woman. To you.” He met her eyes. “And then he . . . pointed, I suppose. But without pointing.”
Hulda drew back, slowing their pace, but kept her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I-I’m not sure such a thing is possible. Owein . . . his ‘body’ is Whimbrel House, not the island. His magic is trapped within those walls.” She gestured to the building. “He has no jurisdiction outside of it.” Unless the tourmaline ran deep . . . but those were wardship stones. Nothing that would empower him to speak.
Merritt appeared chagrined, and Hulda wished she had presented the information in a softer manner. “I’m honestly not sure, then,” he confessed. “Perhaps it was just luck. Or divine intervention.”
She nodded, accepting the answer for now. “Either way, thank—”
“Mrs. Larkin.” His voice was firm, his lips mischievous. “Thank me again, and I’ll feel compelled to behave in a very knave-like manner in order to restore balance to the universe.”
She was tempted to play along. To ask, And what knave-like manner would that be? But such impulsivity was not natural to her, and she gave him a simple nod instead. “If you insist.”
Reaching over, Merritt guided her arm through his, pulling her closer until their elbows locked, simultaneously sending the butterflies in her stomach fluttering to her extremities. They continued their walk at a leisurely pace, Hulda occasionally picking up her skirt when it snagged on weeds. Lifting her head, she saw a figure shifting in the distance and tensed.
Merritt’s other hand covered hers. “It’s a watchman. They’ve been here all week. Never more than one; we’re a little out of the way for the constabulary. But they’re either on the island or boating through the bay.”
Hulda relaxed. “Kind of them.”
“Hulda.” He paused. “Would you tell me about your family?”
She wondered at the change in subject. He didn’t look at her but at his feet, leaving her eager to see into his mind, to pry apart what he was thinking at that moment. Why inquire as to her family? Then again, he didn’t really have one of his own. Or he did, but they weren’t . . . his, anymore. The reminder sat like a wet sandbag in her chest.
“I’ve both my parents still,” she explained, “and a younger sister. Her name is Danielle. She lives in Massachusetts with her own family.”
“She’s married?”
“Yes, to a lawyer.” It had been a bittersweet day, Danielle’s wedding. Hulda had been happy for her sister, truly, but it was hard watching a sibling four years her junior win the game of love and matrimony when she herself had no prospects. Many of the guests had seen fit to comment on that fact. A soft chuckle passed Hulda’s lips when she said, “We don’t look much alike. I take after my father. She takes after my mother.” As she said it, she self-consciously touched her nose.
Feeling Merritt looking at her, she dropped her hand. Quietly, he asked, “Do you think taking after your mother is connected to her being married?”
Suddenly embarrassed, Hulda tried to mask the discomfort with a shrug. “She and my mother are both pulchritudinous,” she murmured, finding comfort in the intellective and overly specific word.
“Pardon?” he asked.
A twig crunched under her foot as she walked, her feet in perfect rhythm with his. “Beautiful,” she simplified.
“You know, the interesting thing about writing,” he said, changing the conversation once more, “is actually the readers. Novels critically acclaimed by one person are detested and even burned by another. When I wrote for the paper, the press would occasionally get letters either commending my points or criticizing them. Sometimes we’d get both for the exact same article. Especially the one I did on the steel plant.”