Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(50)

“You’ve made your point,” Hulda assured him. “I will . . . think on it.”

Mr. Clarke nodded. “Send me word, and I’ll give you information on those beaus I mentioned.”

The word beaus had her stomach tightening. “Thank you, Mr. Clarke.”

He shook her hand again, and she headed back to the refuge of the street. She would head for the post office. She needed to look up some names and addresses, and while she was there, she’d send inquiries to a few constabularies and the warden at Lancaster Castle, the prison where Silas Hogwood was held. With luck, she’d receive confirmation from the warden that Silas Hogwood was still safely behind bars. That all of this worry was, again, the workings of an overthinking mind.

That, and she needed to order at least one new dress.

Glancing up to ensure the road was safe to cross, she thought she saw Mr. Fletcher Portendorfer turning the corner, but he was gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure.





Chapter 18


September 18, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

When Hulda returned, Merritt sulkily approached her with a small wheel in his hands.

She paused in the reception hall, an extra bag slung over her shoulder. “What is this?”

Merritt sniffed. He’d had a few hours to come to terms with the transformation, which had led him from wild anger to sadness. Beth and Baptiste were both keeping their distance. “This is my manuscript. Look what the place has done to it!”

Setting her bags down, Hulda took the wheel from him and tilted it toward one of the candles Beth had lit. The sun hadn’t quite set, though it was nearly there. “Interesting.”

“Interesting!” Merritt grabbed fistfuls of his hair. “That is a month’s worth of work!”

She handed the wheel back. “I’m very sorry for it. Hopefully the house changes its mind about it.”

He thought his knees might give way. “Can’t you fix it? Bully the house like you did before?” He eyed her bags and straightened, a glimmer of excitement bursting in his middle. “Did you find it?”

Hulda didn’t look happy when she nodded. “I did. I believe the wizard to be Dorcas Catherine Mansel.” She reached for the new bag, briefly explaining the logic among the siblings, most of which Merritt followed. “I brought everything we’ll need for the exorcism. If you would assist me with the salt.”

“Salt?” Merritt peered into the bag as she fished out a hefty package from it. “What about holy water?”

“It isn’t that sort of exorcism, Mr. Fernsby, but I do need the foundation encircled by salt. Best do it now while there’s still light.”

“And my manuscript?”

She glanced at the wheel. “I’m sure a little goading will do the trick.”

Nodding slowly, Merritt slipped outside, glancing up at the purple-tinged sky and the faintest sliver of gold to the west. It really was beautiful, wasn’t it? Endless acres of land unspoiled by humans, cradled by clean ocean air, splayed under a flawless sky. He should put something of the sort in his book.

Thoughts of his book had his heart sinking again, so he tore open the package of salt and set to work, nearly stepping on a mouse as he did so. He’d just finished watering the plants in the sunroom—he couldn’t leave everything to Beth if he still wanted some semblance of independence—and come upstairs to finish a scene he’d been mulling about since that morning. There, on his desk, was this blasted wheel, too small to even be useful for anything. Only the empty reams of paper had been untouched by the spell. He’d choked on his own breath, searched frantically for the manuscript as though he or the others might have misplaced it. But their resident wizard, Dorcas, had alteration magic, and she had used it on his book. Exorcise her, and it would never turn back.

He would never be able to rewrite it the same way. It wasn’t possible. He only had the vaguest outline . . . and the thought of starting from the beginning made him sick. He’d already written that part of the story. It would be torture to re-create it!

He’d been pacing relentlessly for Hulda to return, for if anyone could cajole the house into listening, she could. Yet she didn’t seem particularly interested in trying.

It was the idea of disenchanting the house that bothered her. He knew it.

Am I doing the wrong thing?

But it was his house. He couldn’t get by with portraits following him around or his livelihood turning into random inanimate objects. He had no desire to return to a cramped apartment in the city, either. He liked it here. The weeping cherries and shorebirds were becoming comforts to him. Even the staff was starting to feel like, well, a strange sort of . . . family. And he hadn’t had family for a very long time.

But he was about to lose them, too, wasn’t he? Everyone but Baptiste . . .

Finished with the salt—it had taken the entire bag—he returned inside as the sun shrunk beyond the horizon. Beth and Baptiste lingered in the dining room, peeking out as Hulda worked. She’d set out eleven stones, which had to represent the eleven magics. Merritt’s eyes flitted from bloodstone to turquoise to a purple one near his foot.

“What is amethyst for?” he asked. He didn’t touch it; he knew Hulda wouldn’t like her efforts to be interrupted. “Conjury?”

Hulda paused, looking surprised that he even knew what the stones were for. Well, magical or not, he hadn’t grown up in a ditch. “Augury, actually.”