Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(61)

The simple, unobtrusive invitation rang through her like a metal spoon running down her ribs. Stay and read with me. Stay and spend quiet, peaceful time with Merritt Fernsby. Absorb his work, watch him write, feel a part of it. It was as alluring as the scent of freshly baked rolls at the end of a toilsome day.

She twisted the crowbar in her hands. “I have a report to finish,” she said, swallowing her own disappointment.

He nodded. “Good luck.”

She set for the exit, feeling neither relief nor accomplishment, but paused before slipping into the hallway. “Mr. Fernsby.”

“Hm?”

“What . . .” She felt silly, but a little curiosity was perfectly natural. After all, she did work with the man. “What was the title of your first book? The one already published?”

He grinned. “A Pauper in the Making.”

Nodding, Hulda turned away and shut the door firmly behind her.





Chapter 21


September 23, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

The house was quite powerful. It made him reminisce about Gorse End, but this place had a different air. Silas had scouted out the island earlier, confirming there were no other persons occupying the land, no other spells to thwart his intentions, and he’d discovered a special treat along the way.

Silas had collected a good share of psychometry spells over the last three decades, including one that let him sense the magical ability of others. People, things, spells dormant and spells used. This place was strong in chaocracy. Silas had been born with a single chaocracy spell; it’s what let him break apart the magic in his donors’ blood. But he’d never been able to absorb more. And he wanted more.

He’d planned to begin his work after sundown. But hell and fire, they’d gotten a clairvoyant. Silas hated clairvoyants. Their abilities couldn’t be avoided by neatness, like with a diviner. He’d never kept any in his company, and for good reason. She’d sensed him, he was sure. Sensed him before he could counter the spell. Silas was powerful, but he possessed nothing magical or otherwise that could mask him from psychic intuition. He would have to plan carefully, so as not to damage other business matters.

His wolf’s body bounded farther down the island. He was sure he was out of range of the clairvoyant, but he couldn’t take chances. Chances made him vulnerable. Chances provided others with opportunities to usurp him, as they had in the past. This was only a minor hiccup, and Silas would overcome it with little effort.

Huffing, he reached the west end of the island and tapped into his alteration spell, mutating his body back from wolf to man. The change made the fingers of his left hand too short, as alteration spells tended to temporarily mutate one’s natural body, but they would return to normal within the hour. Then, under the cover of night, he slipped into his boat and sailed for the mainland, avoiding the glow of the lighthouses, mind working through the details as he cut through the currents.





Chapter 22


September 23, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt wasn’t sleeping well.

There were various reasons he wasn’t sleeping well. One being that he was too tired. Which sounded silly, but for whatever reason, if Merritt went to bed too sleepy, sleep tended to elude him. As though his brain had to stay awake to compensate for the weariness of his body.

Two, he was suffering a bout of creative constipation. He had made good progress on his novel, but now he was somewhat stuck. Merritt didn’t really plan his stories in advance, so the details had to come out little by little, step by step. He often didn’t know how they would end until he got there. And in truth, although he’d made a living with his pen since he was twenty-three, most of it had been newspaper articles and short fiction—his first published novel had been a struggle. So he deliberated over the adventures of Elise and Warren in his head, wondering if they should betray each other (but with what motivation?) or perhaps fall in love.

That train of thought ultimately led him to Hulda. She liked his book. Which meant she liked his brain, didn’t it? Which made him consider how nice it would be to have a person to bounce ideas off indefinitely, whether it was midday or midnight. Which also made him think of how nice it would be if there were another body taking up space in this too-wide bed. Someone warm and soft and there.

Merritt growled. Stop it. He was an independent bachelor who had made a good life for himself with very little help from others. He was content with that life. He’d made himself content with it. And every time he tried to expand said contentment to include another person, it always went sour. What was the point of trying?

Rolling over, he folded the pillow under his head and forced his eyes shut. Pretended to sleep for a full minute.

He thought, again, of what it would be like when Hulda left for BIKER. Well, so what? He could overcome infatuation. He had before. But Hulda was like picking up a book with no description, fanfare, or title and discovering it got better and better with each page turned. He wanted to know how her story would read. He wanted to reach the denouement, the end. And he wanted to see if she had a sequel.

It must have been near midnight when Merritt finally groaned, sat up, and ventured out of his blankets to put on trousers. Lying there endlessly obviously wasn’t helping. He’d try stretching his legs a bit, maybe get some fresh air. Granted, this far from the cities, it was awfully dark at night, and he was more likely to sprain an ankle strolling outside than he was to relax.