Page 52 of Heir of Uncertain Magic

“I do think,” she amended, “it might be nice to spend it at Whimbrel House.”

A ghost of a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re correct.” She squeezed his hand before pulling away. “I don’thaveto do anything. I’m a free woman, Mr.Fernsby.” She took up her spoon. “I can only imagine what horrors two bachelors—three, if youcount Owein—have been visiting upon that poor house, and Christmas celebrations can only make it worse. If nothing else, you should be supervised.”

He chuckled. “Why do you think I’m trying so hard to retrieve Beth?”

She bit down on a smile and pulled off another piece of roll. “The real problem is how to get a fir across the bay and to the island. I’ve no desire to decorate a weeping cherry.”

Nodding, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Thanks to the speed of kinetically powered ships, Hulda received her response concerning Mr.Baillie’s genealogy two days after requesting it. She saw the letter atop a stack MissSteverus had collected that morning, and quickly swiped it before MissRichards returned from her tea. Surely, despite Hulda being the addressee, the LIKER secretary would have opened it. She seemed to enjoy being in the know.

Hulda did not open the envelope until she was safely tucked away in her room downstairs, which she’d warded with a linen spell-turning ward containing tourmaline right at the door, something that ensured the room was her safe haven from the cloud of conflicting emotions she often felt upstairs. She’d been tempted to ward the window as well, but it wasn’t good for the body to be around too many wards, so she’d determined to play it safe.

Hulda tore the top of the envelope in a neat line and retrieved the letter inside.

MissLarkin,

It dismays me to say I cannot fulfill your request without the proper paperwork; you know how it goes. If you send me form 26A, I should be able to dig up the information you need, but privacy laws bind my hands otherwise.But I didn’t want to send you only written disappointment, so I made a stop at the local paper archive and did a little digging. It’s probably not what BIKER wants, but alas.

Alastair Baillie is thirty-seven years old and was born in Leeds. Couldn’t find any public information on his parents. He studied at Oxford and graduated in 1831. He currently works for the London Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms (did you know that?), though he’s done court work. His most notable work was with the will and probate of Silas Hogwood, as well as his defense for Hogwood versus the Crown in 1836.

Hulda nearly dropped the letter. She reread that last sentence. “Silas Hogwood?” she whispered. Her lungs struggled to take in air as two separate dilemmas overlapped. This was entirely unexpected.

Alastair Baillie was Mr.Hogwood’s estate lawyer ... and his attorney.

It doesn’t matter. Silas Hogwood is dead.Merritt had crushed in the back of his skull with a crowbar. Hulda had watched him take his last breath. And while Silas was a necromancer, among other things, no necromancer could resurrect his own corpse.

Swallowing, she continued reading.

Thought that was interesting, so I looked into it a little more (it was no trouble). Apparently Silas Hogwood passed away recently—surprised it wasn’t bigger news, considering his trial being widely publicized.

Mr.Baillie also worked on that case with the food poisoning at the royal ball back in ’37, which is interesting. Right before LIKER hired him, I think, but I couldn’t find specifics in the periodicals.

Happy to send you a transcription of the articles if you like. If it’s simply the family line that holds interestfor you, forgive an old man his musings and ship over (or telegram) 26A.

Sincerely,

Marcus Duggat

Hulda slunk into a chair and read the letter again from the beginning, suddenly no longer interested in Mr.Baillie’s bloodline—she wouldn’t be able to get a form to order them legally, besides. Finished, she set the letter down, then rubbed gooseflesh popping up beneath her sleeves. Even in death, Mr.Hogwood haunted her. Still, hewasdead, for real this time, so why did this revelation bother her so keenly? Of course he would need a lawyer over his estate and hearing. Why not a lawyer with a sharp enough reputation to work for LIKER?

She wondered, again, at Baillie’s question regarding Mr.Adey. Hulda highly doubted the detective had revealed his true purpose for his inquiry; he’d wanted to speak to Hulda alone, without even Merritt in the room. Even so, she could not help wondering whether Mr.Baillie knew that the other man was searching for Silas. Was Mr.Baillie still connected to Silas Hogwood, or had their relationship terminated after his incarceration and falsified death at Lancaster Castle?

Hulda exhaled a breath, which mussed a loose strand of hair that hung against her forehead. Reaching up, she smoothed it back and tucked it beneath a pin before digging into her bag for her communion stone. Pressing the rune, she murmured, “I’d like to talk to you as soon as you’re able. In person.” She needed to share the information, and with Myra gone, Merritt was her closest confidant. Though how much she could trust Myra were she present was uncertain.

Forcing herself to stand, Hulda steeled herself and reached for the door, pausing just before she touched the knob.Better to know than not to know,she thought, and crossed to the small desk in the corner. She scrawled out a quick note, unconcerned for her penmanship, to Alice Pearshold, one of the maids who had worked under her at GorseEnd. Although Alice wasn’t associated with either enchanted household society, the two women had kept in loose touch since Mr.Hogwood’s arrest. Acting like she’d only just heard the news of Mr.Hogwood’s demise, Hulda asked MissPearshold if she knew anything further about the court case or the dealings of the estate. She signed her name at the bottom of the letter, then added,Please send your response to Whimbrel House, and scrawled the address for its Portsmouth mailbox.

She absolutely would not let any curious secretaries or wayward hysterians get their hands on that letter.

Owein knew how to use a door. It wasn’t easy, without thumbs and real fingers, but he knew how to do it. Still, Merritt had said he’d cut a swinging entrance in the back door for him soon, with hinges on the top, because otherwise either the doors got scuffed with Owein’s attempts at opening them or everyone had to take turns letting him out to poop or run or chase mice. He could do it himself, but everyone had gotten mad at him when he’d warped the back door—it still didn’t fit in the frame just right, even though he’d fixed it—and he hated the side effects of alteration spells even more than those of chaocracy. He never knewhowhis body would mutate, or how long it would last, or how painful it might be. So he waited for Merritt to cut him a door.

When the others were gone, Baptiste left the back door cracked open, just as it was now. Owein pushed into the house with his nose, then used the top of his head to close the door. He shook off frost and water from his coat, then stood by the stoked oven for a count of ten to warm up. Checked on Baptiste, but he was sleeping. Baptiste stayed up even later than Merritt did and napped in the afternoon a lot. Owein let him be. Baptiste gotmadwhen he was woken up, and now that Owein was no longer a house, he wasn’t immune to other people’s ill tempers.

Owein sniffed around the kitchen. Everythingsmelled. Good, bad, and in between. And everything left traces of smells, like snails left traces of snot. He could find things by smell faster than any other way, except maybe sound. He snuffed around, finding a few morsels and crumbs around the oven and the edges of the cabinets, since Merritt and Baptiste didn’t sweep as thoroughly as Beth did. Then he used his back leg to scratch behind his ear—he still thought that was funny, though he couldn’t really do it any other way—and scampered into the breakfast room for more morsels. He found a hard piece of dried meat and ate it up. He wanted to savor it, but the dog side of him scarfed it right down.

He didn’t know how the dog side worked, but he didn’t mind it. He was just happy to have a body. To be alive.

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