Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(56)

Mr. Fernsby paled. “You saw it?”

She lifted her hands, then let them drop to her lap. “I ‘saw’ it happen in Mr. Hogwood’s tea leaves. I watched him take a local hysterian who had gone missing, and . . .” She shuddered, suddenly sick to her stomach.

To her shock, Mr. Fernsby reached over and clasped her forearm. His touch was remarkably warm, and the darkness building in the base of Hulda’s skull dissipated with it. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

She rolled her lips together. Without pulling up the memories, she explained, “It isn’t pleasant, what he can do. It kills the person . . . shrivels them into something unidentifiable. He kept each of the bodies, and I saw the remains with my own eyes.”

She cringed. Filled her lungs to bursting. “That said, I just want to make sure it wasn’t him—”

A startled “Oof” reached their ears.

Mr. Fernsby stood. “What was that?” He passed her an apologetic glance and crossed into the reception hall, Hulda hurrying after him.

The front door was open, Miss Taylor standing just outside of it. She had a small rug rolled up and slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide enough to show the whites all around her irises.

“Miss Taylor?” Mr. Fernsby asked.

She tentatively reached her hand toward them, only to have it repelled, as though striking glass.

“What on earth?” Hulda crossed to her, hand out, and met the same “glass.” She followed it upward and downward, but it covered the entire door, forbidding her to leave and Miss Taylor to enter.

“Owein, let her in,” Mr. Fernsby called.

Unease wound from Hulda’s hips to collar. “Owein isn’t doing this.”

“Pardon?”

She turned to face him. “His abilities lie in alteration and chaocracy. This is wardship.”

Brows drawn, Mr. Fernsby joined her at the door and rapped his knuckles upon the invisible shield. “Perhaps he merely hasn’t done it until now.”

Hulda severely doubted it. As Mr. Babineaux announced breakfast, Hulda stepped back into the living room. “Owein, would you please, I don’t know, change the color of the ceiling? To your favorite color?”

The ceiling shifted to a bright blue. Out in the reception hall, the shield remained up.

“He can enchant only one room at a time,” she explained.

Miss Taylor asked, “Meaning what?” Her voice sounded like it was underwater.

Hulda dashed up the stairs, hurrying to her room, where she grabbed her tool bag. She returned just as quickly, digging for her dowsing rods. “Meaning Whimbrel House has two sources of magic.”

Mr. Fernsby’s mouth dropped. “Two? But not the Mansel family—you would have exorcised them.”

“It is unlikely the second source is also a wizard in residence. It must be something more subtle. Like enchanted wood.” She walked toward the front door with her rods extended. They parted in her hands, then closed again as she moved away. When she entered the living room, they slowly opened again.

“Owein would have to be quite powerful to be doing both. I don’t think it’s him.” She glanced at the blue ceiling. “Owein, would you please drop the shield on the door? Miss Taylor needs to come in.”

They were quiet a moment. The ceiling shifted to a darker blue. The shield remained.

Mr. Fernsby’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Is it dangerous?”

Hulda moved toward the dining room with her rods. They didn’t react. “Highly unlikely.”

“Then . . . let’s not worry about it.” Mr. Fernsby knocked on the shield. “Miss Taylor! Perhaps you could try a window—”

The shield gave way, causing Mr. Fernsby to stumble into Miss Taylor, nearly knocking her over. Fortunately, he caught himself and steadied Miss Taylor with hands on her shoulders, though his elbow smacked into the doorframe, eliciting a hiss, followed by, “Terribly sorry! Mrs. Larkin, I fixed it! Oh goodness, that will leave a bruise—”

Hulda approached the door, her dowsing rods limp in her hands. She hummed to herself, wondering. Magic houses were rarely dangerous, and this second source of magic was mild enough that they hadn’t detected it before. Hulda didn’t worry about it . . . but she wanted to know. Enough questions had gone unanswered in her life that she ached to answer the ones she could. This was her specialty, after all.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind them, followed by Mr. Babineaux’s low inquiry, “Is anyone going to eat? It’s getting cold.” His dark eyes passed over them. “What did I miss?”





Chapter 20


September 20, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt couldn’t wrap his head around how well things were going. Not just with the house, which had been kinder to him ever since he’d learned its name, but . . . Hulda.

The very thing that had made his own father throw him out, she’d barely batted an eye at.

He’d come to terms with it all—his disinheritance, the abandonment—or so he liked to think. He could go days without thinking about it, though when he did think about it, it stung like a fresh wasp bite. Ebba, especially. The disintegration of his world had revolved around her. Around their mistake. And yet Merritt had been determined to pick up the pieces, to marry her and raise their child together. To move on as a family. He’d proposed, she’d accepted, and train cars were slowly aligning on the track. So when she’d abandoned him, too—apparently with an empty womb—he’d been . . . shocked wasn’t a strong enough word for it. Words were his business, his trade, and still he wasn’t sure an adequate descriptor existed. She hadn’t even said goodbye. He’d found out from her parents. There’d been no note, no farewell, no explanation.