Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(24)

And it just so happened the movers who’d delivered his things had loaded them into two large wooden crates. Possibly just enough raw material to patch the floor.

“Mind fetching those crates?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the kitchen’s maw. He imagined Fletcher nodded, for his footsteps toed out, and a moment later, the front door opened and shut. Like Hulda, Fletcher had been granted freedom to come and go as he pleased. Only Merritt was prohibited from leaving.

Frowning, Merritt knelt gradually, as though the hearth were a bull ready to charge. Holding his breath, he touched the first splintered board.

The house rumbled like the belly of a dragon. But it didn’t buck or twist or drop rats on him.

And so, very carefully, Merritt pulled out a handsaw and got to work.



Hulda’s augury was essentially useless.

She had some control over it, and she used that word delicately. Her only augury spell was divination, or the ability to see one’s future specifically through patterns he or she created. In the case of the house, she wished it would show her the precise moment she discovered its secrets, thus revealing them to her early. But then that would change the future, and her augury seldom gave her the opportunity to do something so substantial. Otherwise, she certainly would have taken advantage of it by now. Thus far, all her augury had done was inform her of Mr. Portendorfer’s coming arrival, which she would have learned about, anyway, and the possible presence of a wolf, which, while peculiar, hardly seemed relevant.

Her dowsing rods, likewise, hadn’t told her much about the house, so she’d carefully collected the wards from her bedroom and set them up in the library so she could search it instead. She made modest use of the wards, hoping that if the books began flying again, they might form a pattern, which would in turn show her something relating to the house’s magical source. She needed to prove herself capable here, for both the health of the house and Mr. Fernsby.

After three-quarters of an hour, however, all she’d found were a few interesting titles on old spines. She noted their location for the future, though she predicted without the aid of magic that the house would likely move them before she got around to cracking open a cover.

She’d just packed up her things when Mr. Portendorfer appeared in the doorway. “Can I be of assistance to you, Mrs. Larkin? Merritt’s up to his elbows in sawdust downstairs, and given the shortage of tools, I only seem to be getting in the way.”

She paused. “He’s making the repairs?” She’d thought those grinding and hammering sounds were the house complaining to her.

He nodded as he stepped into the space, holding his hands up to shield himself from possible projectiles.

Hulda hefted her bag onto her shoulder. “I assure you it’s safe enough for the time being.” She eyed the wards. “At least, it won’t throw anything with dynamism.”

Mr. Portendorfer relaxed and spun, taking in the rows of books. “It would take a lifetime to read all of these.”

“I suppose that depends on how fast of a reader you are compared to how long you intend to live.”

Mr. Portendorfer pointed a finger at her. “You’re a funny one.”

Was she? “It’s unintentional, I assure you.”

He pulled a book off the shelf and tilted it toward Hulda’s lantern. Then did the same with another title, and another one. “I’ve never heard of these.”

“I haven’t looked at even a fraction yet, but many are missing title pages and dates. They’re quite old.”

“Perhaps a librarian in Portsmouth could look them up.”

“Perhaps.” It wasn’t a bad idea, to research some of these titles. She would, if she failed to find clues elsewhere.

His smile grew. “You know, in Cattlecorn, back when Merritt lived with us, we would get so bored in the winters we’d stow away to a small, locally run library when the weather wasn’t too bad. It was four and a half miles away, but it was worth the walk to get out of the house. We’d pretend those shelves were just about anything. Monsters, mountains, the British army . . . you name it.” He laughed. “Not so much reading.”

It was a quaint image, but that wasn’t what caught Hulda’s attention. “When Mr. Fernsby lived with you?”

The mirth faded a fraction. “Oh, well . . .”

What reason would Mr. Fernsby have to live with another family? Did he have no relatives? “Were you at a . . . boarding school?”

Mr. Portendorfer returned the book to the shelf. “Something like that.”

Now, augury did not pertain to the mind, not like psychometry did, but Hulda rarely needed magic to detect a lie. “Something like that,” she repeated, perhaps a little too deadpan.

Mr. Portendorfer sighed. “I mean, we did meet in school. Merritt . . . he and his father . . .” He paused, lifting hands in surrender. “You know, Ms. Larkin, it’s not my story to tell. Merritt is my best friend; I would be doing him a disservice sharing his history when he’s here to tell it. But”—he lowered his hands—“I will say there are few men out there better than he is. He’s got a good heart. I think you two, and whoever else comes along, will get on real nice.”

She nodded, and Mr. Portendorfer departed, venturing down the hallway toward Merritt’s room. Hulda lingered in the doorway, wondering. It wasn’t so odd that a man—a boy—might stay with another family for a time. She could fathom a dozen reasons for it. But the manner in which Mr. Portendorfer defended the history made her curious.