Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(25)

What issues did Mr. Fernsby have with his father? Why didn’t he keep spirits? And why had he inherited this forgotten house, left on an island in the middle of Narragansett Bay?

In truth, it wasn’t Hulda’s business to know. But staying out of clients’ business had hurt her in the past. Not that she thought this would be another Gorse End catastrophe, but she wanted to know.

Seemed discovering the source of this place’s magic wasn’t the only secret Hulda had to unwind.



Merritt needed wood glue and more nails, but considering his limitations, the work was coming along nicely.

He’d been in the kitchen half the day, hardly remembering to eat, measuring and cutting and sanding floorboards. When he got sore, he worked on the cabinet door, then buffed away as much of the scorch as he could, which was most of it—the house hadn’t let him get far with the matches. He stopped once, and only once, to glance at the windowsill that had eaten Scarlet’s scarf, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. Wasn’t anything he could do about it at this point.

Hulda checked on him a couple of times, but she never said anything, just peeked in. Fletcher came by, too, chatting with him while he worked, forcing him to eat. Merritt was grateful his friend had up and left home to help him. It was a sort of cycle of theirs, though neither of them had ever pointed it out.

As the day eased on, Merritt pushed the darkness back little by little, like an overgrown cuticle, until he felt more himself again. Fletcher was due back to Boston and his accounting work tomorrow morning, but Merritt . . . Merritt could do this. This life. This house. This change. He was nothing if not adaptable.

The sun was half-set when Merritt stood and stretched his back. The repairs weren’t perfect. The wood didn’t match. Part of the gap still showed. But the cupboards looked unscathed, and no one was going to break their legs walking across the floor, so that was success.

Progress.

Hulda’s and Fletcher’s voices sounded softly from the dining room. In the kitchen, there were three wards total, including the one on his person, which Hulda had reminded him hours ago he should take off.

What are the side effects if I don’t? he’d asked.

Indigestion and stubbornness, one of which you’re not accustomed to, she’d retorted.

Merritt smirked and stepped back, ensuring he hadn’t missed anything. Picked up a bent nail and pocketed it. Glanced to the forearm-long crack he hadn’t been able to patch, down into the dark cellar below.

He wished he understood this house, but even the expert hadn’t wrapped her head around it. And he wished the house understood him. Was it even capable of such a thing? Hulda seemed to think so; otherwise she wouldn’t talk to it.

He crossed the floor. Closed the toolbox.

The house was old. His lawyer had said there’d been no known residents for a hundred years. What a long time for a house to stay empty.

He glanced back to that crack, mulling it all over. Remembered one of the suggestions Hulda had made when he was stuck in the root cellar. Pausing, he listened to the walls, the ceiling, the glass.

It creaked slightly, though there was no sign of wind outside and no people upstairs.

No people.

Merritt’s idea solidified, sticking to him like a briar on his shirt, just uncomfortable enough to notice. He chewed his lip and tried to peel it off, only to find another briar beside it.

He’d always considered himself good with metaphors.

He slipped from the kitchen, not too concerned that the doors would slam on him, and passed through the darkening breakfast room to the dining room, where Hulda’s enchanted lamp beamed from the center of the table. Fletcher leaned back in a chair, facing the window and not Merritt, watching the elms in the illumination of the purple-hued sunset. Hulda had her nose in a cupboard and a receipt book in the crook of her arm.

Merritt slipped by both of them, into the reception hall. Passed the ward on the stairs and up. The way to the left was safe and warded. The way to the right—

A few smoky shadows curled in the hallway. The library was silent. Perhaps Hulda had tamed it, or maybe it was merely waiting for a target before it started hurling books again.

Steeling himself, Merritt walked right, past the bedroom and the library, to the sitting room door. He opened it.

The windows had returned, letting in violet, orange, and red sun rays. They fell over chairs and sofas, a dark fireplace, a scenic portrait on the wall, and an empty corner that might have once borne a pianoforte or a harp. Seemed the right size. As Merritt watched, those smoky curls reformed themselves in the corner, muting the sunset. The ceiling warped like it was being stretched by a torrent of rain water. The carpet ruffled like the fur of a threatened cat.

Gooseflesh rose on Merritt’s arms. One by one, he removed his fingers from the doorknob.

And stepped inside.

The door didn’t slam shut behind him, but as he moved to the center of the room, it creaked on its hinges, easing shut with the practice of an experienced lover. The floorboards creaked and the baseboards popped. It was angry, and Merritt felt it. He could almost . . . hear it.

Then, with cold fingers, Merritt took the ward off his neck and tossed it behind him.

The far wall broke from the others and rushed forward, knocking furniture from its path, upturning the carpet, charging for a body-shattering blow—

Merritt closed his eyes and formed fists with his hands—