Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(34)

He opened the file on Willow Creek, a thatched cottage in New York, and wrote the address on his forearm with a grease pencil, along with the magic it possessed. Stowing that file away, he moved to the next, a mansion near the Hudson . . . but it had been exorcised. Damn. Such a waste. The next was a house in Connecticut, which had several residents, something that would make his work harder. But he smeared the address onto his skin all the same.

Sidestepping, Silas pulled out the last file on this shelf. A place called Whimbrel House in Rhode Island. His brow quirked as he saw a newly added list of spells. This would do very nicely, and—

He paused, staring. The person in charge . . . Could it be? Hulda Larkin. So we meet again.

He’d thought of her often, while he was trapped in Lancaster. Wouldn’t it be fun to see her again? She’d never interested him before, but . . .

Silas snapped the folder closed and smiled. Things seemed to be going his way again, weren’t they?

To be sure.





Chapter 14


September 13, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

“I am quite positive that the spirit of a wizard is in possession of the facilities,” she said.

Merritt paused. Everything paused. His blinking, his breathing, his mental faculties.

Forcing a smile, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Mrs. Larkin. Might I speak to you outside for a moment?”

He pushed past her without waiting for an answer. The hall ceiling started dripping, red again, and he found it very difficult to believe it was paint. He darted past the problem area, down the stairs, and across the reception hall, practically leaping outside. Part of him feared the front door would not open—that the house could read his mind—but he made it outside in one piece, recalling as he stepped outside that psychometry had not been included in Hulda’s report.

He did not stop until he was some distance from the house, ensuring it would not hear him. Hulda followed behind, closing up her umbrella as she walked.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Fernsby?” she asked once she caught up.

“Problem?” He kept his voice low. “There is a ghost living in my house!”

She didn’t respond right away. Like she expected further explanation. “And?”

“And?” He stalked away, then back. “And why are you so calm about this?”

“Because, Mr. Fernsby”—she planted hands on hips—“this is not the first possessed house I’ve been acquainted with, nor will it be the last. You of all people should know that fiction is just that. Do not lean on the ghost stories of your childhood.”

“Ghost stories have origins,” he hissed.

“From superstitious witch hunters, perhaps,” she countered, two lines forming a Y between her eyebrows. “I assure you, the house is just the same as it was before. The only thing that has changed is that we have now identified where the magic comes from!”

“From a poltergeist.”

She frowned. “Do you think all of the dead are malevolent ghouls waiting to feast on the flesh of the living?”

Merritt paused. Considered. “That was a good line, Mrs. Larkin. You should write a book.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Listen.” He put up his hands, as though illustrating with them might help him make his point. “It was kind of cute, when I thought I was dealing with a half-sentient kitchen or armoire. It is utterly horrid that there is an actual walking spirit from the grave floating around, watching me dress, breathing down my neck, and dropping me into pits!”

Hulda breathed deeply but nodded, which made him relax a hair. “It is simply that, on occasion, a person of magic does not wish to pass on to the world beyond, and instead finds a new body. Houses are large, made from natural materials, and often social, without a preexisting soul. It’s a rational choice.”

Merritt breathed out, long and slow, through his mouth. Grabbed some of his hair at the roots. Released it. Glanced back at the house. It seemed so normal from out here. Then again, he’d thought the same when he first arrived, before it trapped him inside and tried to murder him in the lavatory.

They’d reached a truce, hadn’t they?

But how trustworthy was an ancient soul?

“Whatever is haunting this place,” he spoke nearly at a whisper because all the goodwill they’d built with Whimbrel House might very well be lost if the ghost overheard them, “it’s been haunting it a long while. And it obviously has issues.”

“I believe,” she said carefully, “it’s merely forgotten standard decorum.”

“Standard decorum.” He grabbed his hair again. “Forgive me if a slip of standard decorum is not enough to balm . . . this.” He made a general gesture toward the place. “I mean . . . can’t we make him . . . go away?”

Hulda’s face fell. Only a fraction, before she covered it up, but Merritt saw it nonetheless, and it transported him back to the hole in the kitchen, where she confessed her reasons for preserving the house as is.

“Shouldn’t it, I don’t know,” he tried, “be laid to rest? Houses can’t really die, right? What if he doesn’t even want to be here anymore?”

“Or her,” Hulda remarked.

“For the sake of my sanity, let’s choose one pronoun to work with. How do we make him go away?”