Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(45)

“Where am I?” Her accusing eyes landed on him as she snatched the blanket and shielded herself.

Trying to tamp down his flustered nerves, Merritt managed, “It would seem the house decided two bedrooms should be one during the night.” Then, in self-defense, “I only just discovered it myself.”

Admittedly, it was fascinating to watch Hulda’s face darken to the redness of a high-summer rose.

He backed away. “I’ll . . . get Miss Taylor.” He nearly knocked over the portrait in his haste to escape, unsure if the ensuing sound of mortification was from the door hinges or Hulda’s mouth.

Might be better for the both of them if he didn’t find out.



Suddenly Mr. Culdwell back in New York did not seem as bad a landlord as Merritt had always thought him. He had never rearranged his things—his furniture, his windows, his walls—while he slept. Lord knew he’d had enough of magic to last him the rest of his life.

All the more reason to get on with the exorcism. He buttered a piece of toast. Baptiste had already eaten—he made it a habit to eat before anyone else did, but that might be due to the fact that he woke up before anyone else, including Hulda, who kept a schedule so rigid even the military would be impressed.

Her schedule was, understandably, not so rigid today. She came to breakfast late, her shoulders stiff and her nose high, a folder of papers in her hands.

Merritt perked up. “Do tell me you’ve discovered who our wizard is.”

Pulling out a chair, Hulda sat. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Fernsby. I’ve only just started sorting through them. Though you’ll be pleased to know the house is fixing its second floor.”

A snap of wood upstairs punctuated the statement.

The slightest flush could be discerned under Hulda’s eyes. Merritt determined he would say nothing more on the matter other than “Thank you,” as he assumed it was Hulda’s expertise that had convinced this wretched house to put itself back into order.

Setting down his half-eaten toast, he said, “Remind me why a wizard inhabits a house.”

“Usually two reasons,” she answered without glancing up, pulling out papers from the file. “They’ve been tethered to it somehow, or their life purpose was unfulfilled in some important way. But a person must have significant magical ability to move their spirit into an inanimate body. Not just anyone can do it, which is why it’s becoming a less common phenomenon.”

“Could you do it?”

She glanced his way. There were flecks of green in her eyes. “No. And I wouldn’t want to, besides.”

“But what if you knew you were doomed for hell?”

She sighed like a tired nanny. “Really, Mr. Fernsby.”

He shrugged. “Just saying.” Leaning forward, he looked over his census notes and reached for a paper with dates in the seventeen hundreds. “So if we need a magic fellow, it’s likely to be someone further back, before magic diluted.”

She peered at his page. “Possibly, but not necessarily. Magic usually subtracts, but with the right parentage—”

“It adds,” he finished.

She nodded. “May I?”

He handed the paper to her. She scanned it. “I wish they included more information. But I suppose we weren’t a real country yet.”

Something like the shattering of glass, but in reverse, echoed from upstairs, making him wonder whether Beth had gotten downstairs before the house’s realignment. Just how slowly had the house shifted in the night, so as not to wake anyone? Sneaky.

“Does the body . . . have to be close?” He rubbed gooseflesh from his arms. “The wizard’s, I mean. Does his body have to be in the thing he inhabits?”

“Not in it, but one can hardly travel far as a spirit. The wizard would have had to be quite close. On the island itself, I’d say.”

Merritt lifted his feet. “You don’t think its corpse is under the floorboards, do you?” A shiver ran down his spine like a hungry spider.

Hulda slammed down the paper. “Of course! Are there any marked graves near the house?”

“No. Well . . .” He glanced out the window. “I’ve been focused on other things and admittedly haven’t toured the entire island. The grass is so long, it could hide just about anything.”

“If we can find graves”—excitement leaked into her voice—“that will narrow it down. These documents state who lived here, not who died here. Very smart, Mr. Fernsby.” She stood.

Merritt followed her lead. “Of course. I just . . . wanted you to figure it out on your own.”

She was already out the door.

Frowning, Merritt called, “Are we not going to finish breakfast?”



After enlisting Beth’s and Baptiste’s aid, the four of them ventured outside, Hulda leading the way. Merritt paused near the empty clothesline, adjusting his scarf as he slowly scanned the island. His island. That was still such a bizarre thing. For a while, he’d wondered if his grandmother had bequeathed it to him as a curse. But in truth, the place had proven to be a pleasant adventure.

Except for the merging of his and Hulda’s bedrooms. And the shrinking lavatory.

Just think how pleasant it will be when the house is just a house again. His stomach tightened a hair at the thought. He saw Beth and Baptiste holding back and called, “Well, let’s split up. We’re looking for grave markers.”