Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(65)

She licked her lips. The letter drooped in her limp grip.

This means he couldn’t have been in Portsmouth, she reminded herself. But the information didn’t relieve her, only worried her.

Had the warden seen Mr. Hogwood’s body with his own eyes? Did they realize what a powerful magic user he was? Perhaps he’d lost many of his spells after those corpses were destroyed . . .

She attempted to quash her unreasonable concerns and take solace that the horrible wizard was gone. And yet, despite the assurance in her hands, those concerns burned bright as a bonfire feasting on her bones.





Chapter 23


October 1, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Hulda had followed up with the warden the following day, desperate for more information. Nearly a week later, she received his response. This time it was a simple telegram reading, I’m afraid I cannot disclose more information.

The missive irked her. Was it truly an issue of privacy, for a man who had been publicly decried, or were his records missing information? All this fuss over a dead man, she told herself, yet every time she reasoned herself to stability, a loose thought would send her spiraling into doubt again.

She had seen him. She swore she had seen him! But why would the prison cover up the release of a repeat murderer? Or the escape of one?

The only thing that gave her some comfort was Mr. Fernsby’s admonition that she was safe here. And she was. It seemed incredulous that Mr. Hogwood would somehow fake his death, slip out of a high-security prison, and immigrate to America, only to break into BIKER, find her records, and sail all the way out to Blaugdone Island for revenge.

Mr. Fernsby had also been occupied, to the point where Hulda was only seeing him at meals, save for yesterday, when he took a long walk across the island, mumbling to himself as he left the house. He spent almost all his time lucubrating in his office. Had taken dinner there twice. Hulda wondered at it, but it wasn’t her place to pry, nor to interrupt. Still, she’d lingered by the door a time or two, listening, and heard nothing within. She’d thought to ask him about A Pauper in the Making, which she had taken the initiative to purchase, but with her mind so taken up with the possibilities of Mr. Hogwood, she’d yet to start it.

When Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux were occupied with their own tasks and Mr. Fernsby was not around to banter, Hulda quickly got bored. She still had not found the second source of magic and was ready to tear apart the foundation with teeth and nails, if only to occupy her mind with something other than Silas Hogwood.

After Mr. Fernsby took dinner in his office for the third time, Hulda volunteered to see to retrieving his tray, telling Miss Taylor she could retire early. Shadows waved to her as she passed through the hallway; Hulda waved back, and the house rumbled in pleasure. She rapped at the closed office door with her first and second knuckle.

“Come,” Mr. Fernsby’s voice issued from within.

Pressing open the door, Hulda suppressed a sigh at the sight before her. Papers and pencil shavings scattered across the floor, ink smears on the desk, open books by the chair. His dinner tray rested precariously on the corner of the desk. Miss Taylor had cleared out other dishes, but Mr. Fernsby must have shooed away her efforts to do more.

“I’m here for your tray,” she offered.

He straightened like she’d trickled cold water down his spine and turned in his chair. “Hulda! I thought you were Beth.”

She didn’t correct him for not calling her Mrs. Larkin, though her wiser half warned that she should. Professionalism is protection, she reminded herself, but now it was too late to make the correction without being awkward about it, so she let it slide. She moved for the tray but paused before picking it up. “Might I ask why you’ve become a hermit?”

Mr. Fernsby set down his pen and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The other letter I got last week was from my editor. I’ve a meeting with him in a week and a half, and I want to have as much of this damnable thing finished as possible before I see him. I’m worried it won’t be as good as the first book.”

She glanced over the stacks of paper at his elbow. “I don’t know about the first book, but would presenting a synopsis of sorts suffice?”

“I can’t write a synopsis.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I would have to know the ending, and why would I finish a book when I already know how it ends?” There was mirth in the question, but she sensed his reasoning was entirely serious. “Actually.” He turned his chair toward her, and Hulda became very aware of how close his knees were to hers. She could feel heat emanating from them . . . but that was preposterous. Who had hot knees?

She flushed, realizing she’d completely missed what he’d said. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”

“Would you help me?” He clasped both hands over his knees, as though hiding them from her scrutiny. Her chest tightened. She hadn’t been staring at his knees of all things, had she? “Your idea for the beginning unfolded so well. I’d like to pick your brain again, if you have a moment.” Suddenly sheepish, he glanced around the room. “I, uh, will clean this up afterward.”

She waved the barter away. “I hardly care for the mess considering you’re under deadline, Mr. Fernsby.” She was grateful for the excuse to talk with him. She felt . . . better . . . around Merritt Fernsby. There was a simple wood chair in the corner, so she pulled it over, ensuring adequate space separated their knees. Fixing her professional self into place, she asked, “For what, precisely, do you need my assistance?”