Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(73)

Beyond that . . . it wasn’t reasonable to think of the possibilities beyond that. Hulda would get carried away with herself, and that would be no beneficence, especially for her.

Crossing the brook, Hulda allowed herself to stroll and enjoy the open sky, which slowly colored with sun. Sunsets were always prettiest when there were clouds to reflect the light, and the perfect amount of them swam overhead. She went over what she would say to Myra—it would be better to discuss the matter in person and offer a logical argument, something that would conceal her emotional attachments. She could offer to train Miss Taylor in housekeeping. That seemed a viable reason to stay, did it not? And the training wouldn’t add a single penny to BIKER’s allotted budget for the house. Perhaps she could even offer to survey the other isles in Narragansett Bay. Perhaps there was magic yet to be found—

“Hello, Hulda.”

Her body reacted to the low voice before her mind did. It seized, stung by a sudden chill. Her organs drooped as she turned around to meet a dark, penetrating gaze framed by wild, dark hair.

She mouthed, Mr. Hogwood. He was there, in the flesh, standing over her, dressed simply and in muted colors, his eyes narrow and mouth pinched. Older than she remembered him. Rougher.

How . . . How was he here? He was supposed to be dead!

He grabbed her.

Panic burned through her limbs like fire. She twisted free and bolted away, tall grasses pushing her back, mud sucking at her shoes. Her skirt yanked backward; she fell forward. Her magnifying glass fell from her bag.

Her bag.

Kicking at Mr. Hogwood, she fumbled through the satchel, pushing aside dowsing rods and her umbrella, her fingers brushing the selenite communion stone.

Mr. Hogwood’s fingers dug into her hair, yanking her back.

She screamed, and the bag fell to the earth, lost amidst the marsh.



A scream echoed against the walls of Merritt’s bedroom.

He froze, shirt halfway unbuttoned, changing for the night. The hairs on his arms rose. He spun around, confused. That scream . . . It had sounded far away, yet so close.

It had sounded like Hulda.

Blood rushing through his veins, he searched the room, wondering if it was a trick of Owein’s, but he’d never done sounds before. “Hulda?” he called, crossing to his dresser.

His eyes landed on his communion stone just as the magic seal on it faded.

His bones shifted to butter. Grabbing the stone, he pressed his thumb into the seal and shouted, “Hulda! Are you there? Hulda!”

He waited for an answer. He didn’t receive one.

Rushing through the door, Merritt barreled down the hallway, stone in hand. “Hulda!” He peeked into the library. Turned back and flew down the stairs. “Hulda!”

Baptiste stepped out from the lavatory. “What is happened?”

Merritt held up the stone, as though it could explain everything. “Where is Hulda?”

Baptiste shook his head.

“Mr. Fernsby?” Beth came in from the dining room.

“Where. Is. Hulda?”

Beth bit her lip. “I haven’t seen her since she went out. I thought to study the tourmaline . . .”

Owein might as well have opened a sinkhole in the floor beneath him.

“Find Hulda.” He spun to Baptiste. “Find her now. Something is wrong.”

He barreled for the door, then paused, letting Baptiste go in front of him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he bounded back to his bedroom and grabbed his rifled musket from the wall, then the Colt Paterson from his drawer. As he tried to leave, however, an invisible barricade slammed into him, striking his head and knocking him off his feet.

“Not now!” He leapt up and rammed the butt of the rifled musket against the wardship spell once, twi—

The shield gave way, and he dashed through the house without second thought. Outside, wind stirred his hair over his face, temporarily blinding him. The sun was a golden tracing on the horizon, nothing more. He cursed. Baptiste’s low voice bellowed Hulda’s name. Beth bounded toward the gravestones.

“Hulda!” Merritt called. He tried the stone once more, but no one responded. Picking a direction, he started running. “Hulda! Hulda!”

A rabbit hole nearly snapped his ankle in half.

The rifled musket was slick in his hands. “Hulda!”

A cold breeze blew through the vegetation. Sssssshhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeee, it whispered.

A shiver coursed up Merritt’s neck. “Hello?”

Sssssshhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeee . . .

“Owein! Where is she?” He trudged through thistles, voice hoarse. “She! Where is she?”

Ssssssshhhhhhheeeeee, the air wheezed, and in his head, Merritt saw a coastline far from where he was standing.

He ran.



Hulda’s face pressed into reeds. Her wrists stuck together with nothing but a spell, stronger than any manacles. The sun abandoned her, leaving her to the darkness and Silas Hogwood’s hands, one of which stayed at the back of her head, shoving her mouth into mud.

She felt the exact moment a necromancy spell oozed beneath her skin, beckoning her life force away.

She jerked, trying yet again to free herself. Her panic was overwhelming. Suffocating. She couldn’t breathe! She writhed, bending her glasses. Managed to buck up one hip.

Mr. Hogwood’s grip tightened, pulling hair from her scalp.