She studied his profile.
“The point being”—he stepped over a fallen tree branch—“subjectivity is inescapable. If I’ve learned one thing in my line of work, it is no two minds are alike, and there is nothing wrong with that. Some people like mysteries, some prefer histories. Baptiste likes fennel, and I’ve never been a fan of it. But that doesn’t make fennel wrong.”
Hulda swallowed. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“I think you do.” He offered her a flicker of a smile. “Some people prefer women who look like their mothers, and some prefer women who look like their fathers. Beauty is just like a book. Some will not bother to look beyond the cover; others will find the entire tome utterly captivating.”
Her heart pumped with renewed vigor at the statement. Did that mean what she hoped it did? Did Merritt Fernsby truly think she was . . . beautiful? Or was it simply a reassurance for the sake of being kind?
She desperately wanted him to continue, to speak plainly, to tell her all those things she direly wanted to hear.
But he did not. He was careful with his words, just as she was careful with hers, and the conversation shifted to the trip they needed to take into Boston tomorrow, the work Hulda wanted to catch up on, and how Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux were faring. Gradually, Hulda set her hopes and disappointments aside and settled into the security of Merritt’s arm and enjoyment of his companionship, absorbing as much of the beauty of the moment as she could, fearing that someday it would only exist in memory.
Merritt stayed alert the next day as he and Hulda took the enchanted boat across the bay toward Portsmouth. He searched the coastlines of the islands, peered at fishing vessels, listened to the air. But nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. Not a blade of grass or wandering fish seemed out of place.
“You’ll tip the boat, rigid as you are,” Hulda said, one hand on her hat to keep the wind from seizing it. One downside to their convenient method of transportation, though Merritt liked the way the breeze tugged at Hulda’s meticulous curls, like it wanted to force the ever-calculated woman to loosen up a bit.
But she had been doing that on her own, more and more. Since before the odd attack, even. At first, her moments of relaxation had seemed like slipups. She’d catch herself being too casual and button up immediately, until she was more proper and strict than she’d been before. But those moments had grown so frequent that they were just as common, if not more so, as the guarded ones. Which was part of why Merritt felt “rigid” about this outing, though he was trying to relax. Not merely for Silas, but for the woman in the boat with him. Because of what he was planning to do, and how she might receive it.
Truth was, Merritt was in the real meat of the Hulda story now, and he didn’t want to stop reading. Hers was a story he didn’t want to end. But how many pages would she let him turn? What was her ending—their ending—going to be like?
His knotted emotions only made him warier of their surroundings. If this dogged Mr. Hogwood had struck once, who was to say he wouldn’t strike again? He could, Merritt was certain. Because if Merritt had shot something truly vital, there would have been a body. And he wasn’t sure how much the watchmen could do against a man like Silas Hogwood, or how long the constable would be willing to lend out his officers.
Maybe they should move back inland for a little while. He didn’t savor the idea of abandoning Owein for long, but . . .
Hulda leaned forward. “What are you thinking about?”
Blinking, Merritt steered the boat for a moment, ensuring they stayed on course. “He who shall not be named.”
Hulda nodded solemnly, then looked out across the bay.
They docked and took a tram into Boston, which let them off on Market Street. From here, their individual errands would take them different directions—Merritt to his editor to discuss the book hanging in a satchel off his shoulder, and Hulda to the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms to check in with her boss, Myra Haigh, and do whatever it was enchanted-house keepers did. Hopefully not get transferred.
They passed a group of rowdy men in the Union Oyster House. Once they’d distanced enough for easy conversation, Merritt drew himself up and swatted away the nerves that clung to him like flies. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous.
“Hulda.” He’d been calling her that more and more, and she never corrected him, which was one good sign of many. When she glanced up at him, he found it hard to meet her eyes. You’re thirty-one years old, he reminded himself. Act like it.