Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(22)

Once that was finished, Hulda brought her two bags upstairs and began unpacking her necessities. “Terribly sorry about the kitchen,” she said to the house as she shook out dresses and hung them in the closet. “I will ensure such atrocities do not repeat themselves, but I would greatly appreciate your cooperation.”

The house didn’t reply, which meant the wards were working.

Mr. Fernsby knocked at the door after she’d finished with the first of her two suitcases. “I wanted to . . . thank you, for your haste.”

Hulda nodded. “I said I would return in short order. I am a woman of my word.” She glanced over. “How is it that you know Mr. Portendorfer?”

“Fletcher’s my oldest friend.” He leaned wearily on the doorframe. “We grew up together in New York.”

She took in his appearance. He was a right mess. Mud streaking his hands, face, hair, and clothes. He looked utterly exhausted, which somehow made his blue eyes brighter in the candlelight. “Might I suggest a bath and a change of clothes, Mr. Fernsby? Did you bring that much? Your things won’t arrive until tomorrow.”

Posture stooping, he nodded solemnly. After covering a yawn with his fist, he said, “I think I saw a tub in the kitchen.”

“Pray that you don’t tumble in again.” Opening her other suitcase, Hulda pulled out a thick folder stuffed with papers and handed it to him. “These are the résumés of several BIKER-endorsed persons for employment. You’ll see applications there for maids, chefs, and stewards.”

“Stewards?” Mr. Fernsby thumbed through the papers, his forehead wrinkling a little more with each one.

“Yes, someone to look over the financial aspects of the house and land—”

“I don’t need a steward.” He stifled another yawn.

“Then you may start with the maids. I will see myself settled in. I brought several things of use for taming the manor, and intend to begin work on diagnosing the house first thing in the morning.”

He closed the folder. “Finding the source of magic, you mean.”

“Precisely.” It usually wasn’t too hard of a task—most homes were not secretive about the sources of their power. Gorse End had been tricky, as the old magic had changed in her interim as housekeeper, but that had been Mr. Hogwood’s interference—

Closing her eyes, Hulda reoriented her thoughts. The less she thought of Gorse End, the better off she was, even all these years later.

Mr. Fernsby left, muttering to himself—or perhaps over the folder—as he went. Hulda unpacked her second suitcase quickly; she was well practiced at it. As the room smelled of dust, she went to open the window and found it stuck, though she imagined that was the house’s doing, not the window’s. A ward couldn’t muffle the place entirely.

“Do you want to smell musty?” she asked, rapping on the window. “Don’t be silly. Let me open it.”

When she tried again, the pane slid upward. She smiled. Whimbrel House wasn’t a terrible house, just an immature one. “Surprising, given your age,” she murmured, and she rested her elbows on the sill, looking out over the island, trusting the place not to bring the pane down on her. Tomorrow her trunks would arrive, and she would stock the pantry, and the challenge of bringing the house to working order would begin in earnest.

A swarm of gnats flew past the window, forming odd patterns with their tiny bodies. A chill crept down her spine, though she couldn’t quite tell if it was the breeze or her augury. Beyond the passing swarm, she thought she spied two golden orbs in the distance. Eyes. She squinted, making out the silhouette of a wolf against the fading twilight, its form almost indistinguishable from the shadows and trees around it.

She furrowed her brow. Wolves didn’t live in this bay, did they? She hadn’t heard a single howl. Removing her glasses, she wiped them on her sleeve and replaced them.

The wolf was gone, leaving her wondering if it had been a premonition or a shifting shadow, and with no means to be certain of either.



The next morning, Hulda carefully worked about the splintered kitchen and made breakfast. She had it set on the table before the two men roused. When Mr. Fernsby toed into the dining room, as though fearful it might eat him up, he paused. “I thought you didn’t cook.”

Hulda folded her arms. “I am able to cook, Mr. Fernsby, but it is not in my job description. Considering the night you had, I thought it would be appropriate to provide sustenance in the form of legumes and pease porridge.”

Mr. Fernsby’s lips quirked.

That made her eye twitch. “Pray tell what is so humorous.”

“Sustenance,” he repeated, pulling out a chair as Mr. Portendorfer came up behind him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Larkin,” Mr. Portendorfer said. “I was in such a rush last night I didn’t eat dinner, and this smells delicious.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Mr. Portendorfer offered grace, and the two gentlemen ate. Hulda couldn’t help but feel a little vindicated when Mr. Fernsby’s eyebrows rose. “This is good. Are you sure you don’t want to be my chef?”

“Quite,” she quipped.

Mr. Fernsby paused. “Are you not eating?”

“I already had my fill, thank you. It’s not appropriate for staff to dine with the family.”