Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(16)

Swallowing, Merritt approached the lump in the carpet. “I need the books back.” Hulda had spoken to the house, so why shouldn’t he? “It’s very important that I get them back. I have a manuscript and notes in there.” He knelt. “I’m going to cut it very cleanly, all right? Nice and easy.”

He touched the knife tip to the carpet. Held his breath. Waited. Gripped the ward around his neck with his other hand. Hulda had said not to wear it long, but he also liked living.

So.

Pushing the knife into the carpet, he sawed a slit just long enough to pull the books out. He felt like he was helping a cow give birth, trying to wedge the things out. It was a worthy metaphor, because he had helped a cow give birth once. In Cattlecorn, after he’d moved in with Fletcher’s folks.

A sigh escaped him as he retrieved the last book and flattened the carpet down. You could hardly tell he’d cut into it in the first place.

He didn’t notice the drawer of the dresser inching toward him until it was nearly under his chin.

Shrieking, Merritt whipped back at the same time the drawer snapped shut, missing his face but snatching the scarf around his neck. It was loosely tied, so instead of choking him, it came clean off.

Merritt’s blood steamed.

Not. The. Scarf.

“Give it back!” He lunged at the dresser, which danced away from him on suddenly mobile bracketed feet. Forgetting the notebooks, Merritt surged up and took chase. The dresser couldn’t fit through the doorway, so he—

The doorway expanded like the mouth of a snake, allowing the furniture passage.

“No!” he barked, grasping its top. It pulled him into the hallway. “Please, stop! Take anything else! Take back the notebooks! Just give me the scarf !”

The drawer with the scarf popped free. For a sliver of a second, Merritt thought the blasted house was going to listen to him.

But the drawer merely skidded off, using its handle like a clam’s tongue, and raced for the stairs, leaving the dresser blocking Merritt.

“HOUSE!” He shoved the dresser down and vaulted over it. “I mean it! Give it back!”

The drawer toppled down the ward-frozen stairs.

Merritt’s eyes stung as he grabbed the banister and charged after it, nearly tripping on the steps.

The drawer scooted through the reception hall and into the dining room.

Panic suffocated him. Notthescarfnotthescarfnotthescarf.

“Please!” he shouted, bursting into the dining room as the drawer slid into the breakfast room. “It’s all I have of her. I’ll do anything! I’ll leave! Back to New York!”

He dove into the now well-lit breakfast room, smashing his ribs into the floor. His fingertips brushed the drawer, but it slid from his grip. Merritt hit his shoulder on the table as he stood and ran after it, into the kitchen.

“House, stop—”

The windowsill separated from the wall, and the drawer tossed the multicolored knit scarf into the separation, which swallowed it like a mouth.

For a long moment, Merritt didn’t do anything. He stood there, near the three-legged stool, chest heaving, eyes wide. Staring.

Then he bellowed like a Viking and lunged for the window, slamming bodily into it.

“Give it back! Give it back!”

He dug his fingernails into the sill and tried to lift it, but the house didn’t budge. Grabbed the ward around his neck and pressed it to the glass, but the house still didn’t move. The spell was over. There was nothing to undo.

Vision tunneling, Merritt turned toward the cupboards and flung them open, rifling through them. A jar hit the floor and shattered. Empty flour sack. Spoons flew into the air, matches and an acid vial, an old lamp, a meat mallet—

He took the last thing and slammed its head into the windowsill, trying to break it off. And while a meat mallet was not made for hammering wood, he did a decent job of it.

The wall shuddered and rebuffed him, sending him flying back. He landed hard on his hip, and the meat mallet arced from his fingers toward the hearth.

Wincing, Merritt pushed himself up, eyes going to the nearly empty vial of sulfuric acid.

Acid used to light the chlorate of potash on the ends of the matches.

He grabbed both, then snatched up the empty flour sack. “You want to challenge me?” he seethed. “Fine.”

He dipped the matches, lighting them. The flames caught easily on the flour sack.

Which he then threw into the empty cupboard.

Fire licked the cupboard walls. For a heartbeat, it seemed it wouldn’t catch.

Until it did.

The entire house bucked. Sounds of shattering glass and warping metal penetrated his ears. The floor rumbled and split, sending a gush of marsh water up into the kitchen, dowsing—and mudding—the cupboards.

But the house didn’t stop there. Because why would it?

The great chasm in the kitchen jerked apart, widening, and swallowed Merritt whole.



Merritt groaned. Cold seeped through his clothes and into his skin. His head and back ached, and . . . No, he was still breathing. Just took a moment to remember how.

His hand brushed moist, dark soil. His other brushed the ward still secure around his neck. He lay supine, staring up at the hole in the floor of his kitchen. Wondered why it was still open at all. Maybe his ward prevented the house from closing over him. Maybe the house was reeling from its own injuries.