Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(14)

He nodded.

She walked with confidence to the door, though she had to utilize the crowbar once more to see it open, and then out came the umbrella as they passed through the . . . paint. The ward on the stairs held the banister in place. Merritt focused on the back of Hulda’s head so he wouldn’t see the portrait in the reception hall watching him.

To his surprise, the house allowed Hulda to open the door, revealing late-afternoon sun . . . beautiful sun. It filled the reception hall and banished the shadows, and Merritt breathed easily for the first time since he’d arrived.

Hulda poked through the doorway with her umbrella first, then, clasping her ward, stepped through.

And nothing happened.

He let out a deep sigh. “Thank goodness.” But the moment he tried to follow her, the doorway snapped and shrunk to the size of his torso, barring him from leaving.

A sob threatened to leave the base of his throat. “You blasted thing!” He pushed one of the wards against the wood. It didn’t budge.

“Do not antagonize the house, Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda warned, running a hand over the shrunken doorway. “There’s a great deal of magic in these walls, and for whatever reason, it does not want you to exit.” She patted the warped door. “I also would not suggest crawling through this.”

He had the grisly image of his body pinching in half, and shuddered.

“The thing is,” Hulda continued, “I came out only to give the place a gander. I don’t have my belongings with me, just a small suitcase.” She tapped her chin. “I have your current address in New York on file. I will see your things brought in. Between making those arrangements and packing up more of my own things, I will need two days.”

Two days. “I can’t survive that long.”

“Be kind to the house,” she said. “And keep your wards.” She considered. “Perhaps one day. Do you have enough to eat?”

His shoulders slackened as he recounted what he brought. “I’ve some cheese and gingersnaps.” He wouldn’t starve to death, at least. Merritt paused. “Wait, can you post something for me?” He’d started a letter to his friend Fletcher, currently living in Boston, in his notebook, but that was currently under the carpet . . .

“Of course.”

When he didn’t move, she retrieved her notebook from her bag and flipped to a clean page before handing it to him. He was tempted to read what she’d written in there, but . . . priorities.

Leaning on the doorway, he penned a hasty letter informing his friend of his predicament, though he made it sound lighthearted. Bad habit of his. He signed it, folded it, and handed everything back to Hulda.

“Please hurry,” he begged.

“I do not dawdle,” she said, lifting her nose. But her eyes softened. “And of course. I will aim to return by tomorrow evening.”

She turned to leave, paused, and turned back, rummaging through her sack until she pulled out a tin lunchbox. She passed it through the shrunken door without word, then started for the coast.

Inside was an apple and a ham sandwich.

Merritt sat down to eat, and the front door slammed shut.





Chapter 5


April 7, 1827, London, England

Silas’s mother was dying.

She hadn’t opened her eyes for two days. Her breathing was raspy and shallow, her face sunken and pale.

It wasn’t a surprise. She’d been steadily declining for years. Her light had become so dim Silas wondered if he’d notice when it snuffed out completely.

Deep down, he knew he would.

Clenching and unclenching his hands, he glanced to his mother’s door. Christian had just left the bedchamber. Silas had already turned the servants away and locked up behind them. His mother wouldn’t make it to the end of the week. Maybe not even the end of the day.

It was, in a way, a mercy to test this on her.

In January, Silas had found an enchanted cottage in the Cotswolds, a simple house imbued with the elemental spell of controlling water, inhabited by an aging owner who didn’t mind, or didn’t notice, Silas’s snooping about. Reliving that night with his father, Silas had worked through the spells in his blood—spells he’d learned were just the right combination to take. Necromancy to connect to life force . . . a house wasn’t a living thing, of course, but magic was. Chaocracy to break up the magic and reorder it. Kinesis to move it from vessel to vessel—house to him. The process with his father had been angry and quick. With the house, it was calculated and careful.

And it had worked.

A house wasn’t a living thing, which meant it couldn’t die. That cottage in the Cotswolds still stood and would continue to do so for some time. So while his father’s death had zapped his spells from Silas, nothing could take the elemental water spell from his person. As for the resident . . . modern plumbing or a housemaid would replace what he had lost.

Now, one of the most powerful necromancers in England lay dying in bed before him. And when she died, her magic, carefully bred and cultivated, would die with her.

Unless Silas’s new theory proved correct.

Silas possessed one alteration spell from his paternal line—the ability to condense, to shrink. The cottage had given him the ability to control water. He’d tested it again and again, alone, and felt confident he could use it here.