Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(38)

But she shook her head. “You need not concern yourself.”

A spike of offense shot through him. “Why would I not concern myself with you?”

She paused. Glanced up at him. Away. Adjusted her glasses. Took a deep breath.

“Hulda—”

“I thought I saw someone is all,” she finally answered, staring at the alley wall. “An old employer of mine. It surprised me.”

Merritt contemplated this. “Was he . . . unkind?”

She chewed on the inside of her lip. “In truth, he’s supposed to be in prison.”

“Oh.” He turned, scanning the street again. “Perhaps just a doppelg?nger—”

“Yes, perhaps.” But she didn’t sound like she believed it. She was shaken. Merritt had never seen anything disturb Hulda before, and he lived in a damnable enchanted house with her.

She took a steadying breath. “I think I should get to Boston, Mr. Fernsby. The city building is just three blocks that way.” She pointed.

“I’ll walk you to the tram.” He stepped onto the street.

“Unnecessary, but thank—”

“Please.” His voice was low and resolute. He held out his elbow. “Let me walk you to the tram.”

She hesitated a heartbeat before nodding. “If you insist. I might be a while, so don’t wait up for me.” She took his arm.

He thought he heard a faint thank you under her breath, but it might have been the passing of a carriage.



Silas Hogwood.

That was who Hulda had seen.

Her thoughts lingered on him as the kinetic tram followed its track north, fueled by magic nearly as old as the country. It was a wide sort of bus without seats, save for a few chairs along the south wall. Everyone else held on to poles and railings. Hulda stood near the doors, her bag under one arm, her other snaked securely around a pole as the tram gently jostled her back and forth, back and forth.

Silas had been the owner of Gorse End, an enchanted mansion Hulda had worked at shortly after joining BIKER, near Liverpool in England. He was a charismatic man and a fair employer.

He was also a murderer and a thief.

Hulda closed her eyes, pushing against surfacing memories that were a decade old. Memories of disappearing guests; of crazed eyes; of shrunken, mutated bodies, dry and crinkled as old raisins.

Her stomach clenched, and a shiver crossed the span of her shoulders. Silas Hogwood was the most powerful wizard she knew, because somehow he had learned to extract the magic out of others. She was sure that’s what he’d done, though how was another question entirely. He’d never seemed overly interested in her abilities, but then again, they were negligible.

Silas Hogwood was supposed to be in prison. Hulda knew, because she had been the one to put him there.

Mr. Fernsby is right. It’s probably just someone with similar features. She squeezed the pole tighter. Why would he be free, let alone across the Atlantic and in Portsmouth? Be reasonable, Hulda.

But it had looked so much like him. So much like him. And Hulda didn’t think of him too often, not anymore. Surely it wasn’t a mere projection of her mind.

She was grateful for Mr. Fernsby’s interference, even if he had only escorted her to the tram. There was still a slight tremor in her fingers.

It was a good thing she was visiting BIKER. Myra would know what to do.



Hulda could not seem to keep her stride at a reasonable pace. She hastened from the tram, she speed-walked down the Boston streets, and she speed-walked to the back of the Bright Bay Hotel and up the stairs to BIKER’s offices.

Miss Steverus looked up from her reception desk as Hulda blustered in. “Mrs. Larkin! What a surprise!” She glanced down at some notes. “I don’t have you written down for today. Everything all right?”

“Just fine, thank you.” She patted her hair, hoping it wasn’t too much of a mess. “Is Myra in?” She started for the office.

Miss Steverus flipped through some notes. “I don’t see any appointments—”

Hulda gripped the knob and opened the door.

Myra, sitting at her desk, startled, hand flying to her breast. “Hulda! My goodness, you startled me!” She paused. “Whatever is the matter?”

Hulda shut the door behind her and dropped her bag on the nearest chair. “A few things to discuss. To start, Whimbrel House is possessed by a wizard, and—”

“Possession! I’m not surprised.” Myra tapped a pencil to her lip. “And how is the owner liking it? Mr. . . .” She pulled out a ledger.

“Fernsby. He seems to be taking to the house and our administrations well, but he’s not fond of ghosts.” Her thoughts were spinning, and she desperately tried to organize them. Sucked in a deep breath through her nose to steady herself. One thing at a time, Hulda. “He wants the spirit exorcised.” Stop fidgeting.

Myra’s face fell. “Does he? He won’t be convinced otherwise?”

Hulda rolled her lips together, considering, bossing her thoughts into a single row so she could process one at a time. “He . . . may be convinced yet. I think he’s becoming fond of the place; he turned down an interested buyer, for the time being.”

Myra looked a little stiff. “I see.”

“But I’m doing the necessary research, regardless of the outcome.”