Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(35)

She sighed and folded her arms, though it looked more like she was hugging herself. “I cannot legally stop you from pursuing that route. But if you do so, the magic will be stripped away. Lost.”

Merritt frowned, hating the worm of guilt in his chest. “And you’ll be unemployed.”

“If I may remind you yet again, Mr. Fernsby, I am BIKER’s employee. Should you choose to proceed with the exorcism, they would see to my vocational direction, as well as Miss Taylor’s.” Hulda’s usual rigidness returned in full force. “In the meantime, removing the wizard will take some work.”

Absently picking at lint in his pocket, he asked, “Like what?”

“Like learning the identity of the soul within these walls.” Turning, Hulda took in the house like she was seeing it for the first time. “We cannot call him out if we don’t know his name.”

“I see. And how do we do that?”

“Research, Mr. Fernsby.” Hulda loosened her arms and gripped the umbrella’s handle. “A great deal of research.”



Beth walked into Merritt’s office with a feather duster in one hand and the mail in the other. She’d taken his little kinetic boat across the bay to Portsmouth this morning to post mail—all of which was Hulda’s—and pick up supplies.

“Some missives from the post office, Mr. Fernsby,” she said, handing him three letters.

Merritt hesitantly plucked them from her fingers. Now that he knew the truth about the house’s magic, he was very aware of everything he did, like the wizard in residence was watching him. Supposedly he could only haunt one room at a time, but he could be lurking, and the awareness of that made Merritt fidget. He thought to utilize the wards again, but he didn’t want to make the haunter angry. “I don’t have a box at the Portsmouth post office.”

Beth shrugged. “You do. Comes with the house, I guess. Any forwarding was handled by BIKER.”

Turning the letters over, he saw the first addressed to him in elegant handwriting, without a return address. Shifting it to the back, he lit up as he recognized the stamp of the Albany Sunrise Journal, which he’d published three articles in earlier that year, and tore open the envelope to find an acceptance of a satirical article he’d written about how one could tell a Democrat from a Whig based on how he buttoned his coat, along with a paycheck that certainly didn’t hurt his financial situation. To further bolster him, the second letter was from Mr. McFarland, his editor, and it contained a substantial check for a portion of his contracted advance.

“Praise the Lord and all that be,” he murmured, setting the two letters aside.

Beth had already set to dusting. “Good news?”

“Good news! The world is right, and we shall continue forward in comfort.” He chuckled before turning back to the last letter. Curious, he ripped open the envelope with his thumb and pulled out a single piece of parchment, which was signed at the bottom by a Maurice Watson.

“Never heard of the fellow,” he muttered. He read over the message, back straightening when he got to the meat of it.

What was in the air today? Not that Merritt was complaining, but this last letter could very well be a solution to his ghostly problem, not to mention the financial boost it promised . . . and yet his stomach felt oddly ill at the thought of accepting the offer. Had he grown so attached already? In truth, he wasn’t sure what to do with the sentiment. In his experience, it was always better to adopt an attitude of nonchalance, to keep feelings shallow so that they couldn’t grow teeth. He’d have to be careful moving forward.

“Mrs. Larkin!” he bellowed. When she did not reply, he raised his voice further. “Mrs. Larkin!”

Shuffling sounded down the hallway. Hulda appeared in the same green dress she’d worn upon first arriving, and it swished around her as she turned into the room. “I am not a dog, Mr. Fernsby.” She eyed the letter. “What is it?”

“A Watson fellow is inquiring about purchasing the house.”

Her eyes widened. “What?” Crossing the room, she snatched up the letter and read it herself, adjusting her glasses as she did so.

It was a simple letter, merely asking if Merritt would be willing to sell his property and, if so, to name his price.

How high of a price could he name?

“How strange,” she murmured. “The house is so obscure even I hadn’t heard of it, and it’s not listed. How would he know?”

Merritt folded his arms. He had intended to stay, but . . . “Perhaps he would be willing to keep it . . . as is.”

Hulda pressed her lips together. “Perhaps,” she repeated. “But Whimbrel House is . . .” She eyed the walls, perhaps trying to sense for the resident wizard. “Well, undesirable by the general populace, given the location and the enchantments. It hasn’t had a buyer in ages. Why now?”

“Mr. Fernsby?”

Merritt nearly jumped out of his chair at Beth’s quiet voice behind him. He smacked his hand to his chest to keep his heart in place. “Good heavens, Beth. Do step more loudly in the future.”

She smiled. “May I see it?”

Hulda passed over the letter. Beth closed her eyes, holding the page gingerly in her hand.

Hulda whispered, “Are you reading it?”

Merritt frowned. “She obviously isn’t.”