Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(8)

“What is that?” Mr. Fernsby asked.

“Enchanted lamp. Conjury and elemental. Fire.” She held it before them and led the way.

“Without even a match? Why don’t they have those lining the streets?”

“Because they’re expensive, Mr. Fernsby.”

“Isn’t everything.”

Hulda approached the door, holding her light high. According to the blueprints, the breakfasting room was through here—

The door swung for her. She jumped back, but not quite far enough—

Two hands seized her waist and hauled her into the dining room, the door just narrowly missing her lamp. It would have shattered the glass—and the spells—completely.

Mr. Fernsby released her, but that did not stop embarrassment from burning in her cheeks. She held the light away from her face to conceal it, then smoothed her skirt. “Thank you, Mr. Fernsby.”

He nodded, scowling at the door. “Nearly lost my nose to one upstairs.”

This house was proving more troublesome than Hulda had anticipated. She set the small ward on the floor by the door. She’d only brought eight with her, which had seemed like an overindulgence at the time.

The door did not resist her when she walked through this time, though she stepped quickly, and Mr. Fernsby followed suit. The breakfast room was about half the size of the dining room and had another set table that sat four. Walking its perimeter, Hulda said, “You could knock out that wall if you want to host a larger party.”

The house grumbled, like it was a stomach and they the food.

“I don’t intend to even host myself.” He turned suddenly, searching the shadows for something. “This place is unlivable.”

“It would be a great loss to you, to give up so quickly,” Hulda warned. “Whimbrel House hasn’t been inhabited for some time, which may be why the place acts so poorly. You couldn’t even sell it in this state. If nothing else, it would be a financial loss.”

He seemed to consider that.

She stopped at the next door. “I presume the kitchen is through here.” The door did not resist her. It was a little brighter in this room, since flame flickered from an iron chandelier overhead. The kitchen had both a hearth and a woodsmoke stove, as well as good counterspace and a pump-operated sink. “Very nice. Do you have a stool?”

“Nice?” Mr. Fernsby repeated. “Are we in the same house?” He peered around and found a three-legged stool on the other side of the hearth. He brought it over, but had crossed only half the distance when he started shrieking.

“Get it off, get it off !” He flung his hands out, but the stool’s seat sucked onto them, melting and climbing up his arm. It couldn’t seem to get past his elbow, though, which meant the ward he wore was working.

“And how does this benefit you?” Hulda asked the ceiling.

The lights on the chandelier flickered.

Sighing, Hulda went to Mr. Fernsby and grasped his shoulder. “Try to calm down.”

“It’s eating me!”

“It’s simply having a tantrum.” She grabbed one of the stool’s legs, though it was soft as warm wax, and pulled. Despite its liquid state, the stool was still one thing, and it gradually slid off Mr. Fernsby’s arm. When Hulda released it, it plopped onto the floor like a mud pie. She reached into her bag for a ward, but the stool reshaped itself on its own.

Before it could change its mind, she placed it beneath the chandelier. “If you could spot me, Mr. Fernsby.” She didn’t want the thing deliquescing while she stood atop it.

He stepped to her side, eyeing the stool. “You’re very cavalier about this, Miss Larkin.”

“Mrs. Larkin will do.” She stepped up.

He glanced at her bare left hand. “You’re married, then?”

She focused on the chandelier. “It is proper to call a housekeeper by Mrs. regardless of her matrimonial state.” She pulled out her magnifying glass and ran a finger around its rim. It, too, was enchanted, and refocused itself to suit her needs. Mr. Fernsby inched behind her to get a better look, letting out a weak whistle.

Ignoring him, Hulda focused on the flames. “See how they’re not actually extinguishing? Likely Whimbrel House does not possess elemental magic.” She made a mental note and stepped off the stool. There was an enclosed porch just behind the kitchen, but with the floor bubbling like tar, she determined it best not to explore it at this time.

The house creaked significantly as they returned to the reception hall. Wielding her lamp, Hulda opened the door by the stairs to find the toilet. She stepped inside, examining the mirror, but found it ordinary.

When she moved to the far corner, Mr. Fernsby following behind, the door slammed shut, startling her, and all six walls, including the floor and ceiling, began to crush inward, warping the toilet and sink as though they were made of clay. Piping shoved Hulda into Mr. Fernsby, who caught her by the shoulders as the wall behind them grew spikes.

For the first time since arriving, fear curdled in her stomach.

“Stop this at once!” she shouted, but the house had already proven itself unreasonable. The sink pushed the two of them together; she tried to wrench back, but the room gave her little space to do so, and it was still shrinking, forcing Mr. Fernsby to stoop as the ceiling buffed his hair.

Fresh spikes formed on the opposite wall, catching the edge of Hulda’s bag, inching closer, closer—