Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(12)
There was no research on such a phenomenon—Silas had sought it with diligence. Subtly, for he didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to himself. It was easy for family, friends, and authorities to believe that Henry Hogwood had overdrunk himself after the dismissal of his career, beaten his son, and then succumbed to alcohol poisoning. But Christian, Silas’s younger brother, suspected something was amiss. That, or Silas was unreasonably suspicious. But better suspicious than unprepared.
He considered it, for half a heartbeat. The King’s League might have literature the rest of them didn’t. It might lead him to the answers he sought.
And yet Silas strode to the blazing fire beneath the mantel and tossed the letter in, envelope and all. He loomed, watching the wax seal melt and sizzle, until it was indiscernible among the ash.
“You’ll never have me,” he whispered to the flames. He still bore the scars his father had given him, inside and out. Scars that reminded him of what had been—and what would never again be.
Because no one, even old King George himself, would have authority over Silas. No one would overpower him again.
And Silas was willing to do anything to keep that true.
Chapter 4
September 6, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Merritt sunk into his armchair opposite Hulda—Miss Larkin—Mrs. Larkin, wondering at her as he did so. Two days ago, he would have thought it very peculiar to have a stranger suddenly appear at his door, show herself in, and give him a tour of the place. But that was before Merritt had been more or less swallowed by an evil enchanted house that rained fake blood and real rats, and whose lavatory had nearly skewered him in multiple places.
Things seemed calm now. At least, he could pretend they were calm, with these wards sitting about him and an obviously competent wizardly housekeeper making the floorless rooms and cobweb nooses appear commonplace. And she had a card. Who was he to question her? He was desperate for help. Besides, she’d gotten his wallet back.
He might have seen all of this as excellent story fodder if it weren’t for his commandeered notebooks.
And the lavatory. God help him, he was never going to defecate again.
Hulda Larkin was writing something by the light of her lantern, giving him time to study the room around him. And, when he finished that, to study her. She seemed to be in her midthirties, and she had a sort of schoolmarm air, what with the high collar of her sage-colored dress and the severity of her aquiline nose, which was, perhaps, her most prominent feature. A delicate pair of silver-rimmed glasses perched upon it—the most delicate Merritt had ever seen, as though chosen specifically to be as invisible as possible. Her dark-brown hair was pulled up simply while still hitting the beat of fashion, and a few curls brushed her cheekbones. They were high cheekbones, which lent to her upturned eyes, while also mirroring the square shape of her jaw.
She looked up at him. Her eyes were either brown or green; he wasn’t close enough to tell, and her irises had been the least of his concerns during their adventure in the lavatory.
“I’ve determined the house persists on spells of alteration and chaocracy, which explains the”—she gestured to open air—“severity of the enchantments.”
“Shape-shifting and destruction. What a delight.” Magic had not been a part of his life up until now, though he remembered enough from his school days. Alteration involved changing of some sort, whether objects, one’s physical self, or other spells. And chaocracy was simply a mess.
“More or less,” Hulda agreed. “Now, there is the matter of hiring staff.”
Merritt held up a hand, stalling her, and retrieved her card once more, examining its simple, crisp black lettering. “So your institute, BIKER”—strange acronym—“are magic tamers?”
A slight line formed between Hulda’s eyes. “BIKER trains adroit individuals in service who are specifically sanctioned for the caring and operating of enchanted buildings.”
His lip ticked. “You talk like a dictionary, Mrs. Larkin. A British dictionary, though the accent’s wrong.”
She turned her nose up at the sentiment. “I will not apologize for being well educated.”
“In London?”
“Perhaps.”
In truth, speaking to another person, about anything, was making him feel better about the situation. And perhaps he was mad to consider staying, but he did want the situation to improve. This place would make for a fantastic novel, for one thing, and he didn’t have much to go back to. His apartment in New York was being swept out from beneath him, and he’d have to devote all his time to finding housing elsewhere. He’d prefer to be writing. “And what makes you adroit? Which you are, don’t get me wrong.” He stowed the card away. “But are you a wizard or something?”
She let out a long breath through her nose. “If you must know, I am an augurist.”
He blinked. He’d half meant it as a joke—magic had been so diluted over the years it was rare to find anyone with special ability. Most historians agreed that magic had come about at the “turning of the world,” associated with the life of Christ, given that there were eleven schools—equal to eleven apostles, minus Judas. Magic passed down through blood, but it diluted every time, splitting spells and abilities until there was barely anything left to split. Only targeted breeding had kept it alive in medieval times, namely in aristocratic societies. Indeed, the English monarchs were some of the strongest wizards in the world.