Page 6 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

The thought of necromancy pulled Hulda’s mind toward Owein. He—or, rather, the body he’d inherited—came from a strong necromantic family. Technically, he was a second cousin of Silas Hogwood, and nephew of the queen’s necromancer, William Blightree. But Owein had yet to discover any sort of necromantic spells in his person, and he’d certainly tried. Usually, when one wasawareof their magic—she glanced at Merritt—it manifested by puberty. Then again, it wasn’t uncommon for magic to skip generations, even in powerful families. Nelson Sutcliffe, Merritt’s biological father, had no spells to speak of. Neither did Danielle, Hulda’s sister.

“I was thinking of adding an enchanted house into the mix,” Merritt added.

Pattering feet on the stairs announced Mabol—Hattie couldn’t run with an even rhythm yet—and she fumbled with the knob before pushing the door open. “Babby says dinner is ready and come downstairs.”

Hulda smiled at the child’s nickname for their loyal cook. Meeting Merritt’s gaze, she said, “I’ll be right down.”

Merritt nodded, stifling a groan as he rose back to his feet, then promptly stuck his head out the window. He lingered there a moment before coming back in.

“Winkers out there?” she asked, referring to the mourning dove Merritt had made friends with several springs ago, when she’d built a nest right outside his office window. She’d returned to it every year since, and he’d trained her to recognize the family, though he’d keyed her mostly to Owein, who often tromped about the island to Lord knew where. He knew sighting the dove was a signal to come home.

“Indeed she was.” Crossing over to her once more, he placed a gentle kiss atop her head before following their very impatient eldest daughter downstairs. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

“If we’re not on time, the table willbreak,” Mabol insisted, and Hulda clucked her tongue. The child had shown some affinity for augury, but once she’d realized it was special, she had developed the tendency to invent future events, usually in an attempt to get something she wanted.

Leaning back, Hulda rocked for a few minutes until Ellis released her latch, then brought the babe to her shoulder while she made herself modest. Patting Ellis’s back, Hulda made her own way downstairs just as Owein came through the front door.

“How are your studies?” Hulda asked.

Owein merely shrugged. “Want me to take her?”

“I’m all right, thank you.”

The others were already seated—including the Babineauxs—and Hulda took her place at Merritt’s right, while Owein sat at the far end of the table. After her parents insisted she do so, Mabol offered a quick grace:

“Lord, thank you for potatoes and bugs and blue dresses, amen.”

Hulda was about to chide the child, but Mabol got a distant look in her eyes as Merritt served himself a helping of carrots. It lasted only a moment before she blinked. While it was still unclear if Hattie or Ellis had inherited any magic from their parents, Mabol had garnered a portion of Hulda’s augury—she’d been correct with her predictions too often for it to be happenstance.

“Sorry about your owie, Papa.” She frowned.

Merritt, hand halfway to a bowl of mashed potatoes, paused. “What owie, Mabol?”

But the girl had already interested herself in the chicken Beth had spooned onto her plate and offered no answer. Hulda frowned. “Perhaps watch your toes this week,” she offered, noticing from the corner of her eye Owein placing some chicken on a second plate, which he stowed away on his lap. But when she craned to get a better look, the second plate had vanished.

She wouldn’t put it past him to have hidden the thing beneath the floorboards. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed such behavior. But Owein was a private child—no, that wasn’t right. A privateman, however hard it was for her to accept the notion. And pestering him about it would only drive him away, so Hulda let it go. As long as there was enough food to go around and all the china made its way back to the cabinets, she’d be content.

Baptiste passed the carrots to her, and like mother like daughter, she nearly dropped it as the pattern the vegetables made in the bowl ignited her augury. But she didn’t see any “owie,” or even Merritt—she saw a man walking past their vegetable garden, coming toward the house.

“Hulda?” Beth asked.

Hulda blinked. She’d never been strong in her gift, but she’d garnered better control of it over the years. She stared at the carrots, willing the image up again, but it resisted her, and she wasn’t going to forbid the rest of the table root vegetables just so she could play with them and incite her soothsaying.

“A man on the island,” she said. “I didn’t know him.”

“Solicitor?” Merritt asked.

She spooned carrots onto her plate, distracted. “No. He wasn’t dressed well ... but ... there was something vaguely familiar about him.” She turned her thoughts over, trying to place what she’d seen of his face, but to no avail.

“Time will tell.” He took the carrots from her.

Time would tell, indeed. And yet a small, niggling feeling in Hulda’s chest had her worried she might have jinxed herself with her earlier comment about routine. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, she cut into her chicken and focused on casting both work and magic out of her mind.

At least, she would until she finished her supper.

Chapter 3

June 14, 1851, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

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