Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House #3)

Chapter 23

March 7, 1847, London, England

Outside of an augury lesson, collecting one’s hairs on a tabletop might seem eccentric, if not somewhat unsanitary. But Professor Griffiths’s methods had proven nothing but beneficial, and so she followed this suggestion as well, snipping and scattering several hairs from the back of her head. The more she could learn of her future, the more she could protect her now . Finally, unfocusing her eyes, she waggled her fingers over the hairs as though she were about to perform a parlor trick.

To her utmost delight, a vision came. Of her exiting the building in the same dress she had on now. A vision just shortly in the future, but there it was!

“You’re smiling.” Professor Griffiths sounded amused.

Withdrawing her hands, Hulda picked up her glasses and propped them on her nose. She didn’t have to focus on being unfocused when her eyes did so naturally. “It worked! I saw myself exiting this very building.”

“Without any trouble, I hope.”

“None at all.” She’d had more visions since arriving in London than in the last month, maybe even two months, combined. “To think how much more concentrated this ability would be if I’d met you earlier!”

“It is certainly unfortunate.” He held a pipe in his hand with the tip just in his mouth, though it wasn’t lit. His eyes dropped down to Hulda’s left hand. “When did you say you were getting married, Hulda?”

The question took her aback, as did the use of her first name. Was this the first time he’d used it? She couldn’t recall. But the man had been nothing short of a blessing, especially with his willingness to meet with her on the Sabbath. “April 12,” she answered.

“That’s quite a ways out, still. Banns take only three weeks. Is it a complicated affair?”

“Not at all.” She swept her hair up; it felt silly to have it just lying there in plain sight. “I’ve a lot of responsibility with BIKER. I only recently became its director; there’s quite a bit to reorganize.”

“Of course. I’m sure it’s in most excellent hands.” He reached over and collected a stack of cards upon a stack of newspapers in the crowded room beside his office. Shuffled them, then began laying them on the table face up; the cards were either black or white and had simple shapes upon their faces: circle, star, oval, square, and so on. “Remind me of his name?”

It wasn’t unusual for them to share conversation during these visits, but outside of her first arrival, Professor Griffiths had never showed an interest in her upcoming nuptials. “Merritt Fernsby. He’s a writer.”

“A writer? That is precarious employment.” He said it in a friendly tone, not looking up from the cards as he started a second row. “And he’s American?”

“About as American as one can be.”

He chuckled at that. “And you two went to school together, was it?”

“Hardly.” She nearly snorted and inwardly congratulated herself when she didn’t. “He inherited a magicked home last September and used BIKER’s services to tame it.”

“Only this past September?” He glanced up. “So you haven’t known him long.”

That gave Hulda pause. Haven’t known him long. Many couples wed in a much shorter time frame. By all means, were it not for BIKER, they’d probably have held the ceremony before Christmas. But she also reflected on his remark about Merritt’s being a writer. Yes, it wasn’t a steady income, but Merritt lived comfortably. And Hulda’s employment sealed any concern for—

For . . .

She completely lost her train of thought, and this time it wasn’t a side effect of augury. Professor Griffiths was single—he was a widower. He always seemed happy to see her. He was even willing to come into the office to meet with her on a Sunday. And now he was interrogating her over her fiancé, hinting at subtle negatives ...

Surely Gethin Griffiths wasn’t ... interested in her ... was he?

Of course he isn’t! What a bizarre place for her thoughts to go. No one was interested in Hulda, save for Merritt Fernsby. Merritt was a complete and utter anomaly in her life. Literally the only man who had ever, in all her nearly thirty-five years, returned her feelings. Merritt was kismet. The dangling carrot at the end of a very long rope. No one else had ever or would ever suit her.

To be fair ... had she never met Merritt, Gethin Griffiths would certainly be the kind of man she’d aspire to know better. He was a little older, yes, but healthy and well kept, with a highly esteemed profession and keen mind. Not unlike Silas Hogwood’s steward Stanley Lidgett, before Hulda realized the man was a humbugger.

Professor Griffiths laid down a third row of cards. What was it he had asked? Oh, September. “We’ve been through a great many ordeals together.”

He simply nodded. “I do hope this Mr. Fernsby isn’t causing you any undue stress.”

Another pause. Why would he suggest something like that? Hulda certainly never had ... though her upcoming vows did cause her some anxiety, and there was that awful vision she’d had of Merritt with another woman. She really did try not to dwell on it, but it was etched in her brain. She’d even dreamed about it the other—

The shapes on the cards highlighted a pattern of triangles, and Hulda’s augury kicked in. Not for Professor Griffiths, who’d laid the cards, but for herself. And Merritt, being forefront on her mind, immediately swirled into it. And that was Whimbrel House, specifically the north wall of his bedroom, and he had Hulda pressed up against it with his hands under her skirts—

“Dear me.” Her own voice sliced through the vision, killing it instantly, and her entire body grew hot as a whistling kettle. She fanned herself, touched cool fingers to her cheeks and neck, desperate to cool the instantaneous flush consuming her entire body. The thought of burning red as an apple in front of Professor Griffiths only increased the heat, and therefore her utter humiliation.

The professor stood. “My dear, are you quite all right?”

She cleared her throat. “I will be in just a m-moment. Some water, if you don’t mind.”

He thankfully swept from the room, giving Hulda an opportunity to fan herself to the extreme.

At least she was fairly certain she still had Merritt’s ring on in that premonition. Oh, heaven help her. She needed to stop thinking about him period during these lessons. How embarrassing! Professor Griffiths was going to ask what she saw, because surely he knew she’d seen something.

Hulda stood, back erect, and focused on squirming one toe at a time, anything to put her mind elsewhere. She also started reading the headlines of the nearest errant newspaper. Much to her relief, she felt only warm by the time Professor Griffiths returned with a cup of tepid water. She accepted it gratefully and drank slowly.

“Whatever happened? Something I said?” he inquired, standing perhaps a little too close ... Don’t think about that, or you’ll redden up again.

Lowering the cup, Hulda cleared her throat. “My apologies—”

“No need to apologize—”

“I merely saw a pattern in the cards. I’d been thinking of my sister and witnessed an event that she wouldn’t care for me to have seen. Family drama.” She purposefully rolled her eyes, hoping that would lend to the lie.

Thankfully, Professor Griffiths, being the gentleman he was, didn’t pry. “Yes, of course. Would you like to end for today?”

Hulda checked the nearest clock. “Perhaps show me what you’d intended with these cards, and then I shall adjourn until tomorrow.”

He nodded, a smile tempting his mouth, and sat down. “Now, the idea is randomization ...”

And it was okay, Owein was saying as the sun began to sink in the English sky, disappearing beyond distant trees and the peak of a cathedral. We went all the way to the back of the cave. I touched the stone with my nose.

How fortunate there were no bears. Merritt chuckled. They approached Cyprus Hall and had been communing long enough that he had no voice left to him, and in his ears sounded a faint, constant ring. In truth, he’d used more communion today than any other day in his life. Mayhap he would never speak again.

It’s just a color, Owein went on as Merritt entered a side door of the building. A bustling kitchen hand nodded to him before hurrying down the connecting corridor. Darkness, I mean. It’s just a part of the world. Part of life. It makes sense to me now. And my darkness ... that’s a piece of my story, like a chapter in one of your books. I’m not supposed to tear it out. It makes me stronger. It adds to what I’m facing now, and what I’ll face in the future. It’s part of me, just like my legs or my magic or my mind.

Merritt paused as they came upon the gallery. One of the guards glanced at them and passed by. That is very astute. I dare say a very mature philosophy. One that I should remember.

Owein seemed to smile. It’s about time I grew up, I think.

Merritt smiled. Not too quickly, now.

They walked a little farther, coming up on the blue drawing room. Owein said, Hulda’s here.

Merritt listened past the steady ringing. How can you tell?

She has the clackiest shoes, he answered, and Merritt emitted a voiceless laugh. Her strides always sound the same. She doesn’t walk slowly to anything.

Agreed.

They entered the grand hall. Sure enough, Hulda was there, crossing from the vestibule. She spied them immediately and clacked her way over. “Merritt, I would really like to speak with you. Privately, if it isn’t too much of a bother, Owein.”

Owein barked his compliance and headed to the blue drawing room.

Merritt held up a hand in an attempt to ask what was wrong.

“Perhaps we should ...” Hulda turned about, looking for an appropriate place to converse. There were some chairs set out in the hall, near a pillar, and she gestured to them. “I suppose no one is really about on a Sunday.” As though to test the claim, another guard passed in an adjoining hall. Still, she crossed toward the seating arrangement, and Merritt followed. It wasn’t until they’d sat that she asked, “You’re mute, aren’t you?”

He shrugged his apology. With Owein gone, his larynx would begin readjusting.

She sighed. Glanced around once again—there was little Hulda disliked more than the risk of another eavesdropping on a private conversation. “I, well ...” She flushed. “I have something I want to say, and I find it highly incredulous, but I thought I should tell you regardless, especially before my next lesson tomorrow.”

He cocked an eyebrow. This wasn’t work related. Hulda never got flustered about that.

“I feel that ... I think that ...” She worried her hands. “Well, it’s come to my attention ... that is, the possibility , and it’s only just that. An assumption—”

Merritt put his hands on both of hers, stilling them.

She drew in a deep breath. “I have an odd feeling that Professor Griffiths might be ... perhaps ... interested in me.”

Merritt laughed.

She ripped her hands away. “I know it’s preposterous, but hear me out—”

“Hulda.” Her name was only a whisper between chuckles, but at least he could form the basic sounds. “I am not laughing because another man has noticed you. I’m laughing because you’re so adorably uncomfortable about it.”

She drew her brows together. “Well ... then I suppose ...” She sighed. “Men are not usually interested in me.”

“You surround yourself with foolish men. Which I thank you for.” Still a whisper.

Her posture softened. “Professor Griffiths and I get along very well. We’re both academics, both augurists. I would like to think our time together has been pleasant. And today he suddenly began inquiring somewhat intensely about you, about our wedding date—”

“Inquiring how?” There was a slight squeak that time.

“How long we’ve known each other, which he suggested wasn’t really very long at all. And he said writing isn’t a reliable occupation.”

“That’s the truth,” he murmured.

She gave him a pointed look that told him he tested her patience. “He seemed to hint that you may be a source of stress in my life, and that it was peculiar we were waiting so long to get married.”

“I believe,” he rasped, “both are accurate.”

“Merritt Fernsby, take this seriously!”

He smiled, and when she moved to swat at him, he caught her hand and pulled her in, placing a delicate kiss on her mouth. Then, staring quite directly into her eyes, he croaked, “I do take it seriously, Hulda. And I believe you. Anyone worth their stones would see you’re a catch. But I’m not worried about it.”

She frowned. Searched his face. “Not at all?”

“Do you love me?”

Hulda never liked discussing vulnerable emotions, but they’d been together long enough that the question didn’t catch her off guard. “Of course I do. That’s a rubbish thing to ask.”

“Then I’m not worried.” He released her hand.

She considered that a moment. “In truth, I’m not sure what I wanted you to say. Dismiss it, accept it, fly off in a jealous rage ...”

“I can try for the last once my voice returns, if you’d like.” His words were already clearer and less wheezy, but he wouldn’t sound quite himself for at least another quarter hour. In truth, part of him did want to meet this professor, to size him up. He was a man, after all. He had protective instincts , as Mr. Gifford at the Genealogical Society would say. But he and Hulda were perfectly shaped cogs in a slightly eccentric clock. His future was and always would be with her.

She bit down on a smile. “I suppose it’s too late for a stroll.”

“I’ve been strolling all day.” To punctuate that, he stretched out his legs. “But I think you’d be interested to hear what the Druids told me about root systems. Perhaps I could interest you in a short walk to check our wards, and then in a library getaway until Lady Helen summons us for supper?”

Hulda smiled. “I would like that very much.”