Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(29)

Masking a frown, Hulda stepped into the room and said, “Mrs. Larkin, if you please.”

“Right! My apologies.” A flash of embarrassment swept his face, which was quickly replaced with nonchalance. “I want your opinion on something I’m writing.”

Hands on hips, she retorted, “I am not an expert on—”

“Everyone reads, do they not?” he interrupted. “You see, I’m writing an adventure story, taking place in New York. My protagonist is a young woman named Elise Downs, and she’s a Scottish immigrant—though I might change that. Either way, she’s just arrived in the city for the reading of a will, only to find the address for her lodgings is wrong. Then she witnesses a murder in a nearby alley.”

Hulda stiffened. “Good heavens.”

“Excellent response.” He grinned, and something about the motion—or perhaps it was the candlelight—made his eyes look green. “But I have a quandary. I would think any sensible woman would run, and Elise needs to be sensible to be likable. But I also need her to see the timepiece one of the murderers has on his person, so I think she should go in and try to save the bloke . . . What do you think?”

She frowned. “I think I would not be venturing into alleyways on my own in the dark. I assume it’s dark.”

“I don’t think murderers function as well in the day.”

Pushing her glasses up her nose, she said, “I must confess that I don’t read much in the way of fiction. I won’t be a great help to you.”

Mr. Fernsby reeled back. “What? Who doesn’t read fiction? What else is there to read?”

“Receipt books, histories, the newspaper—”

“All of the hogwash, the last one most of all.”

Hulda folded her arms. “Did you not work for the press, Mr. Fernsby?”

He smiled. “How else would I know? Now, about Elise—”

Hulda rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Does it have to be a murder?”

“Why shouldn’t it be a murder?”

“Because murders are frightening.”

“They’re exciting. In fiction, that is. I had two in my first book, and it did rather well.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps if it were a mugging, it would still be exciting, but not so dire that a brave young woman wouldn’t run in and try to startle the thieves. Or perhaps there is another witness with her, someone who emboldens her.”

He considered a moment, tapping his index finger against his lower lip. “I suppose they could meet earlier . . .”

“They?”

He snapped his fingers. “That might just work. Thank you, Mrs. Larkin. You’ve been a great help.”

He turned back to his notebook and tore the paper he was working on from its spine, then began anew, scrawling at a speed Hulda couldn’t help but be impressed by.

Leaving him to his work, she ventured downstairs to find something to eat and search for a tub for a bath. “Now, where did I put the cured duck?”

The farthest kitchen cupboard opened.

She smiled. “Thank you.” She pulled the wrapped meat free, then turned around, scanning the kitchen, the floor of which had been polished and fully resewn by the house. “I don’t suppose you know where the tub is?”

A great belch emitted from the hearth, sending a cloud of soot into the air. Hulda shielded her eyes as the tub, covered in grime, fell from the chimney.

She coughed and waved her hand to dissipate the cloud. “Really, Whimbrel House!”

The window opened.

“Thank you.” She stifled another cough and crossed to the tub. Goodness, it would take her the better part of an hour to scour the thing!

Ultimately, however, the scouring wasn’t at all an issue, for Mr. Fernsby did not go to bed for a very long time.





Chapter 11


October 16, 1835, Liverpool, England

Silas burst into the manor from the rain. He’d only run from the carriage to the door, but the weather was torrential, and his coat and hat were already dripping. He had a spell that could whisk the water away—the ensuing cost of dehydration was manageable—but he wasn’t supposed to have that spell, and thus would not perform it where anyone might see him, such as the maid running up to take his sopping things.

Giving her his coat and hat, Silas continued down the hallway, leaving wet boot prints in his wake and shaking water from his curling hair. His latest outing had been successful in ways he hadn’t expected. He’d been dreading the evening’s activities, for he’d had to spend it at his neighbor’s ball to keep up appearances, and being a wealthy bachelor always brought unwanted attention. But he’d since learned the stepmother of a Miss Adelaide Walker possessed an incredibly rare hysteria spell, one she’d been sanctioned not to use by the King’s League of Magicians, for its danger. The spell that could inflict pain on another person, just with a thought!

If Silas could get his hands on that spell, his grisly work could finally end.

He’d collected a number of spells since relocating from humans and houses alike, bolstering himself and his defenses, assuring his freedom and welfare. To add such magic to his person would surely put him above all those who might seek to overthrow him. He didn’t want much—he didn’t desire the crown or political merit, didn’t seek land or prestige. He just wanted assurance.