Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(90)

Baptiste frowned. “I know.”

Merritt perked a little. “You do?” He couldn’t remember mentioning it.

The cook shifted an uneasy glance to Beth. “Er . . . the menu is Mrs. Larkin’s task. She chose it.”

Merritt wilted. “Oh.” So much for apathy. A bitter screw began twisting its way up his middle. He stared at the golden-brown crust before him. Picked up his fork and attacked it, but couldn’t bring himself to eat.

Perhaps tomorrow Baptiste would make soup so Merritt could drown himself in it. Though he really should eat something. He’d only feel worse if he didn’t. Lifting a tiny morsel to his lips, he chewed, barely registering the flavor.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Beth said, “I’ve some chamomile tea, if you’d like.”

Ah, chamomile. Calming, sleepy chamomile. “As strong as you can manage it, please. Thank you.”

Beth nodded and walked toward the kitchen, but came to a sudden halt after three steps. Turned back to Merritt—no, the window.

Merritt sat up. “What’s wrong?”

Beth pursed her lips. “I sense something. Something bad—”

The glass shattered, raining shards over Merritt’s head and back, blowing out half the candles.

Beth screamed.

“Get down!” Merritt shouted, dropping from his chair and slipping under the table. An earthquake? But the ground wasn’t moving—

The table jerked; a thick something slammed against the far wall, followed by a deep grunt. Heart in his throat, Merritt crawled under the table to see Baptiste slumped against the far wall, a streak of blood leading to his head.

“Baptiste!” Merritt dove for the man, but not before a giant, unseen hand wrapped around him, turning him about.

A shadowy figure stood in the dining room, a black cloak billowing around him, a high, white collar pressed against his face. He was a tall man, broad shouldered, with dark hair swept to one side. Long sideburns marked his cheeks.

And there was a dog, some sort of terrier, on a leash beside him, whimpering.

“Mr. Fernsby, we have not been properly introduced,” he said in an English accent.

Beth, standing from the ground, said, “You’re Silas Hogwood.”

Merritt’s stomach sank.

The Englishman growled. “And you are a pain in my side.”

The spell holding Merritt released, dropping him several feet to the ground. He landed sideways on his foot, which sent a sharp pain racing up his leg as he collapsed to the floorboards. The same spell took hold of Beth and pinned her to the ceiling.

The house shuddered, and the far wall came alive, jutting forward and slapping Silas in the back, nearly knocking him off his feet. He let go of the mongrel, who scurried into the reception hall with its tail between its legs.

“Oh don’t worry.” Silas scowled and planted his hand on the wall. “I’ve plans for you.”

Something sparked—Merritt tasted it on the back of his tongue—and the house went still.

“What do you want?” Merritt forced himself to stand, favoring his right leg. He glanced to Baptiste, whose head lolled to one side. His chest still moved, thank God. “She’s not here!”

“I’m aware.” A gust of wind collided with Merritt’s back, blowing him toward the taller man. But as Silas reached for him, his hand struck an invisible wall, and the wind cut out.

The wardship spell again. The tourmaline?

Merritt backpedaled, grabbing a chair to keep balance. His heart was the size of his entire torso and pulsed with the power of a hurricane. He searched frantically for a knife. Baptiste moaned again—a good sign.

Silas chuckled, tapping a gloved knuckle against the shield. “Very clever. I sensed your magic when you came for her. A two-for-one deal. Very generous.”

That gave Merritt pause. “Magic?” He didn’t have any magic. What he needed was help—his guns were all the way upstairs. Baptiste’s eyelids fluttered. He crouched by the man and tried to help him up.

“You know what another wardship spell is, Mr. Fernsby?” Silas asked. “Spell-turning.”

He waved his hand, and the shield disappeared. In four long strides, the Englishman reached Merritt and grabbed him around the throat. A feeling like lightning jolted from his neck down to his heel. His body spasmed. His lungs gasped for air.

“I always learn from my mistakes.” Silas’s dark eyes found Beth, still bound to the ceiling. “And I don’t like snitches.” He raised his other hand.

“No!” Merritt screamed.

Beth fish-mouthed like she’d been punched in the gut. The spell holding her vanished, and she fell hard to the floor, unmoving.

“No!” Merritt grabbed Silas’s arm, almost breaking his hold, but that blasted spell from before overtook him, freezing him in place. He could barely blink, let alone fight.

“Nor do I like loud cargo,” he sneered as the distant gleam of a lighthouse reflected off the window.

Noise built up in Merritt’s brain, a thousand different sounds calling over one another, filling his thoughts, blocking out everything else. He fell limp to the floor, just barely registering the whimpering of that dog.

And he finally got to sleep.





Chapter 30


October 15, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island