Page 50 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

The extent of Mr.Baillie’s ability still unknown, Hulda wasn’t sure how distant they’d need to be for her to avoid his spells. Still, relief breathed out of her. She was being taken seriously. “Thank you, Mr.Walker.”

“Make my offer to Mr.Fernsby. He’s welcome to drop by and discuss.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

She discussed a few more matters of business with Mr.Walker before taking her handy black bag with her out of his office. He’d requested the next set of files for years 1840 through 1841, but as Hulda turned down the hallway toward the records room, she collided into the last person she wanted to see.

Mr.Baillie.

He too had files in his arms, and they flew into the air when they collided, floating to the floor like fat snowflakes.

“Pardon.” Hulda adjusted her glasses as he adjusted his. She didn’t make eye contact with him, but she was a decent person, so she crouched and helped him pick up the papers, glancing over them quickly to see if they were anything of interest. They were not.

However, the pattern of the mess flashed in her mind, and suddenly she saw Mr.Baillie, posture shrunken, hair mussed, his face shiny with perspiration. Backing away, like he was in some sort of trouble. His face was as serene as usual, but fear glimmered in his eyes. He was looking at something—

The background blurred. She tried to focus on it—

She blinked, and the vision faded. Yet another premonition too brief to make sense. If only she had a few more drops of augury running through her veins!

“If you would.” Mr.Baillie held out his hand, waiting for the papers Hulda still clutched. She’d completely forgotten she held them, but the amnesiac side effect of the spell quickly faded.

Shaking herself, Hulda passed him the papers, but Mr.Baillie stayed put, blocking her path.

“An inquiry for you, MissLarkin”—his voice was flat and apathetic, as it always was, and he forewent any sort of apology for the crash or thank-you for her aid—“concerning the man who came here yesterday evening.”

Flustered, Hulda asked, “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“He said his name was Dwight Adey. His business concerned you.”

A zip of lightning shot from the nape of her neck to her ankles. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I spoke with him. Thank you for your concern.” She moved to sidestep him, but Mr.Baillie didn’t budge, and she certainly wasn’t going to compress their bodies together in order to pass.

“What did he need of you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “It was of a private matter.”

“If you would oblige me,” the lawyer pressed.

Why on earth did the man care about Mr.Adey? Perhaps, were it, say, MissSteverus asking, shewouldoblige. But she detested this man and owed him nothing.

“The situation does not require that I oblige you. If you’ll kindly shift your person to the side so I might pass.”

Footsteps behind her drew her attention; just MissRichards walking by, offering a friendly wave. Whether it was surrender or fear of a witness that made the lawyer stand down, Hulda would never know. But he moved and took off down the hallway, his stride even and unbothered.

Hulda watched him go, put out by his request, unnerved by his association with Mr.Adey. But above all else, she was curious. The unexpected vision of him stuck to her mind like a sandbur.

Was Mr.Baillie in some sort of trouble? Or rather, was he going to be?

She excogitated the idea as she went on her way, finding no solace in the possibility.

“I’m not interested.”

Hulda and Merritt sat in a modish soup-and-sandwich shop not far from the docks, at a table wide enough for public decency near one of several slat windows letting in sunlight. The air smelled of bread and beer. The place operated off an elementally enchanted oven, created by a renowned Dutch elementist in the late seventeen hundreds. The wizard was now deceased, but the magic still held strong, pumping heat through the brick building and keeping the draft from the windows at bay.

Merritt, who had spoken, stirred his spoon through his clam chowder, waiting for it to cool, blinking sleep from his eyes. He’d come to Boston for lunch, both to make any necessary apologies and to hear what had happened with Mr.Walker. Hulda had relayed the whole of her morning’s experience to him, ending with Mr.Walker’s job offer.

“I didn’t think you would be.” Her chowder was untouched. She pulled her roll apart to butter it. Something about the soup shop reminded her of England—the brickwork, perhaps, or the low ceiling. Perhaps it was merely the dreariness beyond the windows, like it might rain any moment. England was beautiful, yes, but it certainly rained frequently.

Merritt set down his spoon. “This doesn’t make sense.”

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