Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(17)

Maybe Merritt didn’t care.

Grunting, he pushed himself to sitting. His pulse thumped painfully beneath his skull. Prodding his hair, then his neck, he checked for injuries. Just bruises, he guessed. Bad bruises, but bruises had never killed him.

None of it had ever killed him.

Propping his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his palms. Focused on his breathing. In, out. In, out. He sat like that for a long time, trying to tamp down the anger and the hurt. Just when he thought it was finally done, that he was finally cured, it came bubbling up again. Something always brought it up, and he hated it, because it never hurt any less, even so many years later.

He breathed until his throat wasn’t tight anymore. Until his lungs felt a little lighter. Then he stood slowly, testing for other injuries, fortunately finding only bruises. He’d fallen about . . . eleven or twelve feet.

Good news, his house had a root cellar.

At that thought, he glanced around, searching for bodies. Human, rat, or other. But there was nothing here but dirt, roots, and some dripping water.

“Okay, then,” he murmured to himself. “Step one, get back into the house.”

If it didn’t kill him on the way up.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot for Merritt to use to climb back up. There were some boards in the foundation, but none were beneath the hole. Not enough stones to build a tower. And Merritt most certainly could not jump that high. He was a writer, not an athlete.

Sighing, he ran his hand back through his hair, then grimaced at the slick sensation of mud on his forehead. He walked the perimeter of the dark space—which would only get darker after sunset—searching for something to help him. He found the meat mallet and two matches, useless to him without the acid vial.

He tried to climb. He really did. Using the wood of the foundation, he dug his shoes into the mud and attempted to shimmy across the knobs and crevices under the floor. He tried, and he fell. He tried again, and he fell harder, earning himself a new bruise. After the fourth time, he didn’t get back up. He sat, elbows on his knees, and breathed.

“Can you lower something?” he asked the house, his voice strained. “I’m sorry I lit you on fire. I just wanted it back. I need it back.”

The house didn’t respond.

A lump formed in his throat. “If you’re going to keep me down here, can’t I have it back?”

It was stupid to bargain with a magical house he’d just tried to set on fire. He knew it was stupid. The scarf was old. Starting to fray. But it was all he had of her. His sister Scarlet had knitted it for him the Christmas before . . . before all of it had happened, and he hadn’t seen her since. He’d accepted he’d never see her again.

He’d never gotten to say goodbye. To any of them.

Ignoring the mud, Merritt pressed his knuckles into his eyes. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. It was all he had left of her. He had nothing of Beatrice. Would he even recognize her now? She was probably married with kids. Kids. He had nieces and nephews who might not know he existed. And he didn’t know them. And damnation, he should look for them, because they were still his, weren’t they?

But what if . . . what if Beatrice hated him, too?

He laughed. He pressed his knuckles in harder and laughed. It wasn’t funny. It was mad, if anything. But he preferred laughing to crying. Always had.

This was a dark moment. He recognized that. But it wasn’t his darkest, which made him feel a little better. Only a little, but he would take it.

He sat like that awhile, thinking and trying not to think, trying to let go of the scarf, trying to figure his way out. He tried climbing again. Still didn’t work.

Maybe there weren’t any skeletons down here because he was meant to be the first.



Somehow, Merritt had managed to doze. Doze, not sleep, because he didn’t think he’d hear the creaking if he’d been unconscious.

Sitting up, Merritt registered that the sun was casting burnt-orange light through the kitchen above, suggesting the day was growing late. He listened eagerly and then slumped when he realized the house was likely up to its tricks again, creaking and shadowing and moving the walls. But the creaks turned into steps, coming toward him, and he leapt to his feet at the same time he heard a woman gasp overhead.

“What on God’s good earth happened?”

His eyes rolled back as utter relief washed over him. “Mrs. Larkin, you have the voice of an angel.”

The creaks and steps neared, slower this time. Then they stopped. A new light burned overhead, likely that enchanted lamp of hers, and two sets of fingers curled around one of the splintered floorboards. Hulda’s face peeked over next.

Her eyes widened. “Mr. Fernsby! What are you doing down there?”

Exhaling relief, he shoved his dirty hands into his dirty pockets. “The house and I got into a bit of a tiff, you see. I believe I’m being disciplined.”

She blinked. Pushed up her glasses. “Care to explain what happened?”

He didn’t, but he did it, anyway, keeping the tale as surface level as possible.

Hulda clucked her tongue. “I see the drawer. Really, Mr. Fernsby. I told you not to antagonize the place.”

The house groaned as if in agreement.

“In my defense,” Merritt tried to keep his tone light, “it antagonized me first.”

The housekeeper’s nails drummed against the floor. “Let me see if I can get you up.” She vanished.