Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(15)

Magic was tied to the body. So if he could preserve the body, the magic would live. In a sense, his mother would live on. In him.

He glanced to the door again. Listened. No sound of anyone coming or going. He glanced at the old clock on the mantel. The second hand seemed too loud.

Removing his gloves, Silas took one last long look at his mother before laying his hands on her, one on her forehead and the other on her chest. Necromancy first. He carefully wound the spell down, finding her magic, gathering it, holding it. It took much longer than it had with his father. Because there was more to be had, perhaps, but in his experimentation with the cottage, he’d also realized he’d stolen only a fraction of his father’s magic that night outside the stables. To collect all of his mother’s ability would take time.

He glanced at the door as nausea curled through him—the counterbalance to necromancy. Would someone come by, despite his orders? Test the lock? If it was Christian, how would he explain?

Focus. The second hand tick, tick, ticked. He shifted to chaocracy and broke his mother’s spells apart—he’d inherited a portion of most of them, which made it easier. He truly had to focus here, for chaocracy caused confusion, and if he faltered, he might lose her magic forever. Too much time passed before he felt ready to shift to kinesis to transfer the magic, his joints stiffening the longer he pushed the spell. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the exertion, but—

Yes. His body trembled as new magic burned within him, strengthening existing spells, lending him new ones that hadn’t been inherited. The nausea intensified. Where was he? Focus. He had to finish. He had to—

Mother. But she was dying, anyway. He reminded himself she was already good as dead.

Water. Shrink. Condense. His mouth dried as he worked, and a strained mewing escaped his mother’s throat. He felt his shoulders mutate as his mother’s body gradually warped and shriveled, taking on a dark-green cast. His bones enlarged and pushed against skin as hers waned and withered, until the spells could pull nothing more out of her.

Blinking dry eyes, Silas grounded himself. Remembered where he was. What he was doing. The clock on the mantel said . . . but surely two hours hadn’t passed . . .

His mother was unrecognizable. Not only as herself, but as a human. Her body was dark and ghastly, about the length of Silas’s forearm, and wrinkled as a fingertip after an hours-long bath. Her limbs had sucked into her body, leaving little flaps behind. Her face had caved into itself until there was no longer a face at all.

And the new spells, her magic, still burned brilliantly within him.

He’d done it. A sharp chuckle ripped up his throat. He’d done it.

Footsteps in the hallway brought him back to himself. He grasped his mother and wrapped her in one of the clean towels left by the side of the bed. Loosened the buttons of his coat to hide his malformed shoulders—that side effect would pass in time, but any who saw it would know he’d done something. Timing his escape carefully, he fled the room for the wine cellar, where he could stow away his mother and better preserve her.

Once he returned, he would need to act shocked and confused that the body was gone. He could never explain to anyone what he had done.

No one would understand.





Chapter 6


September 7, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

While Merritt waited, his wards arranged around him—not on his person, as they’d begun making him queasy when he wore them—he told himself all the benefits of staying on Blaugdone Island.

No more rent. No more landlords. No more pestersome neighbors. An office to write in. Lots of space. Lots of reading available, once the books stopped hurling themselves at him. And the island was beautiful, not that Whimbrel House was allowing him to enjoy it.

And he certainly wouldn’t be bored.

Essentially, this house was a challenge, and besting a challenge was progress, and progress was success, as far as Merritt was concerned. Progress was something he could achieve all on his own, regardless of what he had lost—or who had abandoned him—along the way.

Something shifted upstairs. He wondered if the breakfast room had dropped down. It had moved last night, replacing the bottomless pit of the first bedroom.

Merritt had slept in the reception hall.

Wards now on his person, he shuffled through the kitchen for a knife, hoping dearly that the house could not somehow wield it against him, and was surprised by how calm the place was being. Shadows still lurked in the corners and snuffed light from the windows, but otherwise it was . . . he dared not say peaceful, but tolerable.

And yet, as Merritt ventured up the stairs, he felt like the place was watching him.

Deep breaths. She’ll be back today. It felt better facing this place with another person, especially one who understood it far better than he did. But it was . . . interesting to think Hulda Larkin would essentially be his roommate.

He wouldn’t call her a roommate, of course. Not to her face. He imagined he’d be scolded for that.

Entering the largest bedroom, he paused, adjusting to the sunbeams streaming through the window, the light smell of dust, and the overall pleasantness of the space.

“You know,” he said to the ceiling, standing clear of the door in case it slammed again, “we would get on swimmingly if you could make everything like this. I’d even weed the foundation outside.”

The house didn’t respond.