Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(60)

Hulda lowered herself into the vacant chair. He was rather good, wasn’t he? She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—if the man made a living off his words, of course he had to be good. She found herself wondering about his first published novel and whether she’d be able to locate and read it. But curiosity gripped her about what was causing the creaking in the darkened corridor, and why these people—Elise and Warren—were there to begin with.

Setting down the candle, Hulda tilted the page toward the light and read to its end, which was midsentence, so she put that page aside and picked up the next. Apparently these two were in a crime lord’s lair. Was this the same woman who’d witnessed the robbery Mr. Fernsby had mentioned earlier? Who was the man?

She flipped to the third page. Exhaled sharply. They weren’t alone. Someone else was down there. Someone who smelled of figurado cigar smoke, which was written like it meant something. Hulda guessed if she’d read earlier pages, she’d know exactly who was following the protagonists, and she had a feeling he wasn’t a man of exemplary character.

She turned the page, holding her breath along with Elise as she and Warren ducked into a closet. The man was coming closer. Elise reached for the closet door, but Warren held her back. She squeezed his arm, reassuring him. What did she intend to do?

Good heavens, now she was running out into the hallway in a different direction to distract the cigar man! Hulda turned the page. It was working. He was giving chase. But where would Elise go to escape him?

The same stench from before assaulted her—rot and feces, underlined with old urine. This time she turned toward it, her shoe catching on a divot in the flooring, which nearly sent her toppling. Was that running water? If the canal ran through here, she might be able to escape. Lord knew what diseases she’d picked up along the way, but better a disease than a bullet to the—

“Mrs. Larkin.”

Hulda screamed and jumped in the chair, coming very close to ramming her crown into Mr. Fernsby’s chin. Her hand rushed to cover her galloping heart. “Merritt, do not creep up on me in such a manner!”

Merritt—Mr. Fernsby . . . goodness, she hadn’t called him by his first name, had she?—grinned like a lethargic crocodile and folded his arms. “I did not creep in the slightest. You were merely preoccupied.”

She glanced to the book and felt her entire body heat. She’d just been caught snooping through his manuscript. “I-I apologize.” She simultaneously rose to her feet and slapped the papers back onto their proper stack, but the movement was so emphatic she knocked her spectacles off her nose. They clattered to the floor. “I was coming in for the pencil sharpener and got distracted. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Mr. Fernsby bent over to pick up the spectacles from the blur of the carpet. “Most people start books from the beginning.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Mrs. Larkin.” He reached forward and set her spectacles upon her nose himself, causing her to flush even more. God help me, please let the dimness hide it. But surely his knuckles felt the heat as they brushed her temples. “I am not and will never be upset when someone loses themselves in something I’ve drafted. Especially considering it’s only a draft. Stories are always terrible as drafts.”

Stepping away, she smoothed back her hair. “I did not think it terrible. And in my defense, the beginning of the book was not here.”

“I dare say that is a compliment, coming from you.”

Compliment? She reviewed her words and felt her insides shrink. “I-I didn’t mean to say it’s not terrible. It’s rather good. Very, uh, exciting.”

He studied her, and she felt utterly foolish under his blue gaze. “It must be, for my lady’s dictionary to be so confounded, considering her usually vibrant vocabulary.”

She flushed even more. She must have looked a ripe tomato.

His expression softened. “I don’t mean to embarrass you. In truth, I wouldn’t mind a reader. Someone to point out the flaws and such. As long as you give any misspellings some mercy. It is a first draft.”

Hulda cleared her throat. “Perhaps when the novel is finished. I need to conclude my report to Ms. Haigh at BIKER.” She held up the pencil sharpener as if to confirm her alibi. I can’t believe I didn’t hear him coming! I can’t believe I got so distracted . . . oh, Hulda, you buffoon.

Adjusting the chair, Mr. Fernsby sat down, allowing Hulda to carefully retreat. “If you insist.” He reached for the top-left drawer of his desk and pulled on the handle, but the drawer remained fixed in place. He tugged with more enthusiasm. “Owein, let me open this, would you?”

Glimpsing into the hallway, she saw Owein was still busy swirling the carpet. So rebuilding herself with a stiff spine, pressed-back shoulders, and a lifted nose, she ducked into her room to retrieve a crowbar from her bag. Mr. Fernsby was still working on the drawer when she said, “If I may.”

He released the handle. “Are you going to magic it?”

Hulda shoved the tooth of the crowbar just above it. With a little leverage, the drawer popped open.

“It was warm today,” she explained. “I believe the wood had merely warped.”

“Ah.” He glanced from the drawer to her. “You’re quite handy. Are you sure you won’t stay and read with me?”