Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(51)

He nodded.

She gestured for him to join up with Beth and Baptiste, and he noticed the hateful wheel had been moved to the dining room floor. Baptiste murmured, “Is the ghost . . . coming out? Should I leave?”

“If it were dangerous, she would have told us,” Merritt assured him. Unless Hulda was more frustrated with him than he realized. But surely she wouldn’t risk any harm to Beth.

She pulled out a piece of paper. “This is an alteration and wardship spell. The first will change the house to something uninhabitable for the wizard, and the second will counter the spells the wizard used to attach herself. I will perform for Dorcas first; if that doesn’t work, Crisly.”

“But,” Merritt hesitated, “you aren’t also an alterist and a wardist, are you?”

“I am not. But these spells were preprepared by wizards who have those talents.”

A slight popping sound emanated from behind Merritt. He whirled around to see his manuscript on the floor where the wheel had been. Euphoria filled him from heel to head as he scooped the thing up, hurriedly flipping through pages to ensure it was all there. It was.

“Oh blessed Lord.” He hugged the book to himself. “Look, Mrs. Larkin! The house gave it back!”

She nodded sadly. “Probably because the spirit doesn’t want to leave.”

Merritt frowned. “Well, if that isn’t a nail in the reinvigorated fountain of my joy.”

Surprisingly, Hulda smiled. Just a small smile, no teeth, but it was there. “Quite metaphorical, Mr. Fernsby. You should be a writer.”

She turned to her spells, and Merritt’s gut tightened.

It happened very quickly—Merritt had envisioned something long and drawn out, full of shadows and guttural chants and the constant spraying of holy water. But Hulda’s reading of the spells was quiet and quick. The stones remained in place. The candles burned with consistency. The house didn’t even creak.

Hulda set the paper on the stairs. “Not Dorcas, then.” Frowning, she retrieved an identical paper from her bag. One set of spells per exorcism.

Beth shifted her weight, making the floor creak. “It’s been excellent working with you, Mr. Fernsby.”

His gut tightened further.

The dining room turned black.

“Mrs. Larkin,” he began, but he didn’t put enough effort into the name. She didn’t hear him.

She enacted the spell, using the full name, Crisly Stephanie Mansel.

And . . . nothing happened.

Merritt’s insides were strange. Anxiety bloomed from his navel. His chest was tight. And yet . . . relief oddly loosened his shoulders.

Hulda shook her head. “I . . . I don’t understand it. It couldn’t have been the parents. They didn’t have the right . . . mix.”

Beth said, “Maybe it is the youngin.”

Hulda sighed. “I did purchase enough for experimentation.” She pulled out a third sheet. Enacted the exorcism again, this time for Helen Eliza Mansel.

Nothing happened.

“I know these stones are good!” Hulda stamped her foot, abandoning her post to check the rocks.

Merritt dared to step into the reception hall. “Are you forgetting something?”

“I do not forget things, Mr. Fernsby.” She finished circling the room, then planted her hands on her hips. “I do not understand it. We’ll have to look for more graves. If it is not the children, it must be someone else entirely.”

Not one to be thwarted, Hulda attempted it one more time for Horace Thomas Mansel, and then Evelyn Peg Turly. Both were as anticlimactic as the first three.

Baptiste grumbled. Beth said, “Such a bother.”

Merritt shrugged. “I suppose things will have to be abnormally normal for another night. Beth, Baptiste, you’re welcome to turn in for the evening. Hopefully you wake up where you rested your head and your ceilings don’t drip, hm?”

Beth offered a small curtsy. Baptiste looked around curiously before shuffling into the shadows.

As he departed, Merritt turned to Hulda. “He is most excellent with venison. It’s a pity you missed it.” He took in the hard lines between her brows. “I’m sorry you had to make the trip.”

Hulda waved away the apology. “I would be happy for the failure if it didn’t seem so utterly illogical.” She started, perhaps surprised by her own honesty, and cleared her throat. “Well, since my stay is extending, I’ll give you this.” She went to her usual bag—the one with all the tricks in it—and pulled out two selenite stones, each about the size of Merritt’s fists. They bore the same dark seal of three curved lines, not unlike parentheses, growing in size, transcribed within a caret pointing to the right. Or left, depending on how he held it.

“Are these communion stones?” He’d heard of them—they were quite useful in the revolution—but had never used one himself.

“Indeed. And they’re expensive, so please treat them with care. When I leave, I’ll need to bring both back to BIKER. If we need to communicate while apart, these will allow it. Press your palm into the seal for about three seconds before speaking. Take your palm off first.” She looked at the reception hall like a disgruntled parent might glare at a child. “We wouldn’t have needed them if this had been successful.”

He passed his stone from hand to hand. “Hardly your fault.”