Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(84)

Hulda lowered her handkerchief and sniffed. Several tense seconds sat in the room like bricks.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Taylor whispered. There was nothing else she could say.

Hulda nodded. “So am I, my dear. So am I.”



It was dark again when Merritt reached Manchester City Hall, where the concert was to be held. He pulled his frock coat closer around him, wishing he’d brought gloves, but there was nothing to be done about that now. His nerves felt exposed to the outdoors. Every clop of a horse hoof or peal of laughter aggravated him, as though someone were raking a cheese grater up and down his skin, hard enough to rattle his bones.

Hulda had not chimed in on their stones as she had promised. He’d beleaguered her past midnight over and over, until finally Beth had answered, saying yes, Mrs. Larkin was home and well, just asleep. She must have forgotten. Which only served to make Merritt feel even more jilted than he already did. He retraced his words, wondering if he’d offended her, but he’d never gotten the chance to say his piece, so how could he have managed such a thing?

She was safe, though, and Merritt had another thing drawing in his focus, sucking away his thoughts like a newly born tornado, leaving only anxiety in its wake.

The city hall was lined with carriages and boys tending to horses. The windows glowed from within. The concert was starting any minute; he could hear violins tuning their strings.

He filtered inside behind an older couple dressed far finer than he was attired; he hadn’t particularly considered such matters when purchasing a ticket for the event. But he stopped before entering the performance room. Stopped and shook his knee, peering through the open door, where a security man of some sort eyed him.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit through two hours of music and watch her, unable to say anything, sandwiched between strangers caging him in. It sounded like torture. He preferred the cheese grater.

And so Merritt slipped back outside, choosing instead to walk laps around the building to keep his legs warm. He thumbed the communion stone, careful not to activate its spell, wishing to speak with someone but having no idea what he could possibly say. His thoughts were too incoherent to form words. So he walked, and walked, and walked.

The concert began; he could hear the music as he traipsed the south side of city hall, but it shifted to silence as he came around the north, stopping once to help a lad get a blanket on an impatient mare. He recognized most of the songs. He was grateful the tall windows were too high for him to peer through.

He grew chilly, so he slipped inside the building halfway through the concert, showing someone his ticket so he wouldn’t get in trouble for loitering, though that’s exactly what he did. Loitered in the foyer, catching his breath, working out what he would say, changing his mind every few minutes. When his legs grew jittery again, he stowed outside once more and circled the building in the opposite direction, strides as long as he could make them.

It was then that he noticed the larger carriages in the back—they had more cargo space than the others, but less finery. After speaking with a driver smoking a pipe, he confirmed that these were the musicians’ coaches, and a plan emerged in his mind. Merritt didn’t have to go in and hear the music, filter through the crowd, and catch Ebba’s attention. He just needed to wait by these doors for her to exit. If nothing else, it offered a semblance of privacy.

The next few songs seemed eternal, but when they finally finished and applause filled the building, Merritt forgot all about the autumn chill.

When the doors opened, his nerves coalesced into a ball, rushing up his torso before dissipating like feral dogs throughout his chest and arms. His pulse was hard, his veins stiff, his mouth dry. But he would not yield. He would not have this chance again.

The first musician to exit was a portly fellow carrying a massive black case that had to hold a tuba or some such in it. He held the door for a much slighter man towing identical luggage. Dozens of string players poured out after them. Some were focused on their carriages, but most conversed in tones of excitement. A couple of yawns came from a clarinetist. Merritt stood on his toes, searching the building crowd, all dressed in black. Most of them were men, which made his job a little easier . . . unless their bulk hid the women who traveled among them. If she reached her carriage before he saw her—

His bones and blood froze painfully, sending a rush to his head, when a familiar face slipped from the building. Pale, slight, long dark hair pulled up with careful elegance. She looked the same and yet entirely different. More mature, with slimmer cheeks. She spoke to another flutist briefly before waving goodbye and setting out for her carriage.

Old aches bubbled in Merritt’s gut. He shoved them down and strode toward her, matching his pace to hers so that they reached the carriage door at the same time.

He chose formality. “Miss Mullan, if I might have a word.”

She turned, smiling, and said, “Yes? I’ve only a moment—”

The smile faded as recognition—and horror—bloomed on her face.

With that single expression, Merritt understood that she knew exactly what she had done. Exactly why he was here.

Her breath clouded when she murmured, “M-Merritt?”

“In the flesh.” He tried to make it sound light, but the words came out heavy.

She pulled away, obviously uncomfortable. “I-I’m surprised to see you here.”

“So am I. I need to speak with you. Now.” He didn’t have much time.