Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 2

September 6, 1846, Boston, Massachusetts

Hulda Larkin sat in the smaller foyer in the back of the Bright Bay Hotel, which was specifically sectioned off for the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms, or BIKER for short. The bench was backless, but pushed up against a wall to compensate for it, and had a false rosebush off to one side and a real potted fern off to the other. She was going through her latest purchase—a receipt book full of seafood recipes—inserting tabs on the most sensible meals. She had just returned to Boston yesterday after a six-week assignment in Canada, overseeing the preservation of a well-warded longhouse off the shore of Lake Ontario. She’d been called down to the office only an hour prior.

She didn’t have to wait long. Miss Steverus, the young receptionist, bounced in as Hulda placed the third tab, announcing, “Ms. Haigh will see you now.”

Closing her book and stowing it away, Hulda stood and shook out the ruching on her skirt before offering a polite nod and heading into the office. It was a fairly large room with expansive windows backlighting a heavy desk and the petite, elegant woman who sat behind it. One wall was covered in shelves like a library, while the other was completely bare.

“Myra,” Hulda said with a nod and smile.

“The timing is perfect.” Myra Haigh stood from her chair and walked over, swiping a folder off the corner of her desk with the grace of a ballerina. Her black hair was curled and pinned meticulously, crowning lightly tanned skin, one of the few things that gave away her Spanish heritage. Although she was nearing her fiftieth year, she looked younger, perhaps because she was always at the ready, always available, and always aware. She never went on holiday or rested when ill, save for a bout of fever in 1841 that had had the institute pleading for her quick recovery. Myra Haigh was BIKER, more than any library or office space ever could be.

“I have a new assignment for you,” Myra declared.

Hulda blinked. “Already? Overseas?” Her trunks had only arrived that morning. Though BIKER was based in Boston, they often took on international work, especially when their parent organization, LIKER—the London Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms—was shorthanded. Magicked homes were far more common in Europe than the States.

“No, actually. A new resident has inherited Whimbrel House.” She opened the folder and handed it to her. “My sources say he moved in yesterday.”

Blueprints and a single sheet of information stared up at her. “Whimbrel House? I’m not familiar with it.” She read. “Rhode Island?”

“Indeed. It’s long abandoned for obvious reasons. Used to be a safehouse for necromancers during the mess with Salem.” She clucked her tongue in distaste. “I got the telegram late last night. The new owner’s name is Merritt Fernsby.”

Hulda scanned the information sheet. The house had been inherited from an Anita Nichols.

“It looks to be a raw trade,” Myra added.

Hulda let out a long breath. “Oh dear. Those are always interesting.” A nonwizard moving into an enchanted house was a delicate situation. She turned back a page. “This is a very thin file.”

“I’ll credit that to my predecessor,” she said with a tone of apology. “It’s a lone house out of the way, sparsely inhabited over the years, and its denizens hardly carved their names into the walls.” She knit her fingers together. “I know you’ve only just returned, but could you leave today? It’s only two hours by tram and boat. I’d rather not let it sit.”

Sit and risk the resident damaging the house, or the house damaging the resident. Hulda nodded. “My things are still packed away, so it’s no bother.” Though for the initial review, she’d just bring her handy black bag. She never went anywhere without it.

Myra clapped her hands. “God bless you. I couldn’t send anyone else, Hulda. You really are our best.”

Hulda rolled her eyes, though the praise warmed her. “Only because Mrs. Thornton is still in Denmark.”

“Pah.” Myra set her hand on her shoulder. “It’s a bit out of the way. Take the kinetic line into Providence. BIKER will reimburse you.”

Nodding, Hulda turned toward the door, still poring over the small file.

“And, Hulda.”

She paused.

Myra knit her fingers together. “Do be careful.”

Pushing her spectacles higher on her nose, Hulda said, “I always am.”

Whimbrel House was rather charming. Enchanted buildings tended to be, but this one’s appeal was amplified because it was swathed in nature, wild grasses tipped with afternoon sunlight, an unseen egret crying in the distance. The smell of the ocean clung to everything, and it cooled the breeze, which would be very pleasant in the height of summer. Granted, it was already September, and Hulda would not be here long enough for the year to turn and come back to July, but it was a nice enough thought.

The place had a steeply gabled roof and a variety of windows, big and small, circular, circle topped, and rectangular. Oak shades stained darkly, blue shingles that glimmered teal beneath the direct sun. It wasn’t a particularly large house, which meant it would require a smaller staff. In truth, that would make matters easier, both for hiring and for the new owner’s pocketbook. It was hard enough for BIKER to find people adequately familiar with magic to hire, let alone ones who were employable.

Approaching the door, heavy tool bag hanging off her shoulder, she took up the brass knocker and rapped four times. Loudly. Hulda preferred not to repeat herself.

For a moment, all was silent. Then she heard the sound of something thick crashing onto the floor—several somethings—followed by a brief shriek. Pulling out her folder, she glanced at her information one last time, just to be sure. Merritt Fernsby.

“Hello?” His voice was pitched high on the other side of the door, and desperation leaked through the wooden fibers.

Hulda pushed up her glasses. “Mr. Fernsby?”

“Please help me!” he cried. “It won’t let me out!”

Oh dear. Hulda opened her bag. “How long have you been in residence?”

The doorknob jiggled. “Who are you? I tried breaking a window, but—oh God, it’s looking at me again.”

“Please refrain from damaging the premises.” She pulled out her crowbar. “What is looking at you?”

“The woman in the portrait!”

Hulda sighed. Houses like this really should be run through BIKER before they were handed out to average citizens. “Stand back, Mr. Fernsby.” She wedged the crowbar between door and jamb, then murmured, “Really, little house. He’ll never take care of you if you behave like a child.”

She tugged a few times before the latch gave and the door swung in, and then she returned the crowbar to her bag.

Four fingers wrapped around the door and wrenched it open.

He stood just shy of six feet. The document said he was thirty-one years old—three years Hulda’s junior—though with the bags under his eyes, he looked older. He had light-brown hair that hung unfashionably about his shoulders and was in need of combing. His nose was straight save for a slight widening in the center of the bridge. His clothes were of good make, but he wore a multicolor scarf instead of an ascot, and the scarf had certainly seen better days. The first two buttons of his pale-yellow shirt were undone—no, all the buttons were off by one, something that niggled at Hulda’s brain, demanding to be fixed, but she was a housekeeper, not a valet. The poor man had one foot bare and one socked, and his panicked blue eyes looked at her with an eagerness that suggested he hadn’t seen another human being in years.

Not entirely unexpected.

“Hello, Mr. Fernsby.” She extended her hand. “My name is Hulda Larkin. I’ve been sent here on behalf of BIKER, or the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms. As you have recently inherited an enchanted home—”

“Oh thank God.” Mr. Fernsby tried to shake her hand, but the moment his fingers reached the doorway, part of the doorjamb detached and bent, barring his path. Closing his eyes, he slumped against wood. “It won’t let me leave.”

“I see that,” Hulda remarked. She reached forward herself, her hand passing easily into the house.

“I wouldn’t, if you want to be able to go home,” he warned.

She offered him a firm smile. “I am a professional, I assure you. May I come in?”

He gaped at her. “You want to come in? By all means, it’s yours! Just get. Me. Out.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that until I’ve done an assessment of the abode.”

He blinked like she was the one going mad. “Assessment of the abode? Just”—he thrust his hand at her—“pull me out!”

She frowned. “I’m assuming you paid enough attention in school to know magic doesn’t work like that.”

He blinked at her. “What school did you attend?”

Hulda frowned. It was true that most education boards in the United States included instruction only on magic’s historical importance, not the craft itself, such as the seizing of British kinetic ships during the infamous Boston Tea Party. Hulda had spent several years studying abroad in England, where the categorization and use of magic was much more prevalent, both in the schoolhouse and in the country at large.

Mr. Fernsby scrubbed his eyes. “It’s haunted—”

“Possibly, likely not,” she interjected. “Haunting is only one possibility for an enchanted—”

“Blazes, woman.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine! Come in, and see how it treats you.” He stepped aside, allowing her entrance, but cast a wary glance at a portrait on the north wall.

The house groaned as she strode in, her shoes clacking against the hardwood floor. Whether or not the house would keep her confined had yet to be determined. She glanced around—it was light outside, but the sun struggled to permeate the windows. Shadows clung to the stairs and walls, casting the rooms—as far as she could see—in incomplete swathes of darkness. The eyes of the portrait to her right were following her, she noticed, so she nodded a greeting. “It seems to be in very good repair, considering its history. Granted, that is typical for strongly spelled structures.”

Mr. Fernsby wiped a hand down his face. “A-And how do you know about this place?”

“It is our business to know.” Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved a card and handed it to him. The information for BIKER—save its address, which was seldom given out—had been stamped upon it, along with her name.

“Has the house spoken to you?” she asked.

He gaped. “Spoken to me?”

She pulled off her gloves. “You need not be so aghast, Mr. Fernsby. Magic is uncommon in today’s age, but hardly unheard of. I took the kinetic tram to get here.” A tram powered by kinesis, one of eleven schools of magic.

“Yes, yes.” He rubbed his eyes. Likely hadn’t slept last night, assuming he’d stayed the night. “I am aware, but it is particularly”—he waved his hand, trying to find a suitable word—“dense here.”

“Indeed. As is the case with domiciles. Enchantments existing outside a flesh body do not receive the normal backlash from the constant casting of spells.”

He shifted. “Pardon?”

“I will need to take a tour if you would like it diagnosed,” she continued. “An enchanted house cannot be well kept without a thorough diagnosis.”

Mr. Fernsby ran a hand back through his hair. No wonder it looked so unkempt.

“You mean diagnosing the type of magic?”

“Among other things. There are several reasons for a house to be enchanted.” She pushed up her glasses. “It could simply be under a spell, or built on a site where an abnormal amount of magic was expelled. It could have specifically been built to be enchanted, which is common. Or there could be half a dozen other explanations. Perhaps the materials used were magicked, or a wizard possesses it, or it is very old and gained sentience on its own, which is unlikely given the colonial style. Sometimes homes are just unhappy with their floorplans and choose to enchant themselves, merely so they can amend—”

Something thudded upstairs. Mr. Fernsby jumped.

Tilting her head, Hulda listened, but heard nothing more. “Is anyone else in residence?”

He shook his head.

Clearing her throat, Hulda finished, “It would be best for me to see the house and determine the source of the magic, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Fernsby looked through the house, almost as though frightened by it. Hulda couldn’t blame him; the walls of the reception hall were beginning to melt. Chaocracy, most likely. The eleventh school of magic.

“Anything to get me out,” he muttered.

“It is my goal to see you well situated. Enchanted houses can be tamed.” When he gave her an incredulous, bloodshot expression, she gestured to the right. “Perhaps we’ll start in the dining room?”

Mr. Fernsby shifted. “T-The dining room table ate my wallet. That must sound utterly absurd to you—”

“Not at all.”

“It nearly ate me.”

Fishing through her bag, she pulled out a string necklace with a red embroidered sack hanging from it and handed it to him. “This is a ward.” She pulled out a second for herself. “Wear it, and it should offer some protection as we move through the house—”

“Some protection?”

“Nothing is foolproof.” She slipped her own ward over her head before meeting his eyes. “They’re dangerous to keep on the person for too long; portable spells like these can have strange effects on the body, but it’s safe to keep in-house, otherwise.”

Mr. Fernsby picked up the sack in his hand and turned it over. “How does it work?”

“This is first-rate magic. Very expensive.” She gave him a look that hopefully said, Please don’t break it. “This ward in particular is a chaocracy ward. Order and restoration, specifically. Very few people are at risk of having too much order in their lives, so I doubt the house will wield it against us.” They were packed with obsidian dust, but each sack also contained some blood and a fingernail from the wizard who had created them. Mr. Fernsby seemed an excitable sort, however, and she determined it would be better not to mention that.

“May I?” She gestured toward the dining room.

Mr. Fernsby nodded and followed her. The shadows darkened significantly as she entered, trying to choke out the light coming from the large window on the east wall. They did a decent job of it.

“It wasn’t like this when I first arrived,” Mr. Fernsby said as she approached the table.

“What was it like?”

“Like a normal house.”

“Hm.” She set her hands on the back of the chair—eight total. It was a small dining room, though a host could sit twelve if he was in dire straits. The table was already set, though dusty.

Rapping her knuckles on the surface, she said, “Come now, give it up. What is the point? You certainly can’t do anything with his wallet, now can you?”

The floor creaked like they stood on the deck of a ship sailing into troubled waters.

Reaching into her bag, Hulda pulled out a stethoscope, inserted the earpieces into her ears, and pressed the drum into the tabletop. She shifted it around a few places, tapping with her free hand, until she found a spot where the wood sounded compact. Pulling out a smaller ward, she dropped it on the table, and the furniture belched up a well-used leather wallet.

“You’re a saint.” Mr. Fernsby snatched up the wallet before the table could consume it once more.

Gesturing to the west door, Hulda asked, “And through there?”

Mr. Fernsby wrapped his free hand around the ward hanging from his neck. “Admittedly, I haven’t explored that way yet.”

That didn’t surprise her. The doorway was completely dark.

Retrieving the ward and slipping it into her pocket, Hulda pulled free a small lamp. She twisted a dial on it, and it illuminated.

“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—

Mr. Fernsby hissed through his teeth as one pressed into his backside. He desperately tried to open the door. The lock jammed. He threw his shoulder into it once, twice—

The door grew spikes fine as needles.

“Mr. Fernsby!” Hulda shouted.

He reeled back before puncturing himself—reeled back into her. Spikes whispered against her neck.

Think, think! She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, noting that Mr. Fernsby smelled of ink, cloves, and the light, floral addition of petitgrain.

She searched through her bag, her knees threatening to buckle as the floor pressed upward. A spike jabbed her elbow, and—

She’d forgotten she’d packed that.

Yanking her hand out, she shouted, “Hold on, Mr. Fernsby!”

And threw her bomb at one of the spiked walls.

The lavatory erupted. False smoke filled the space. The walls, floor, and ceiling all snapped into place, the force of which expelled both Hulda and Mr. Fernsby from the room. She landed hard on the reception floor, but with little injury other than a bruised knee. Coughing, she dropped her bag and checked her hair. Darkness or no, she would not look frumpy while performing her job.

Mr. Fernsby was slower to rise. He blinked rapidly and puffed hair from his face. “What the hell was that?”

Given their circumstances, Hulda did not rebuke him for his language. “A chaocracy mine. Very—”

“Expensive,” he finished for her, shaking out his shirt and finding his feet. He offered her a hand, which she took, then glanced back toward the lavatory. The lamp, still lit, lay on the floor just outside the door, illuminating a very normal-looking space and toilet.

He shook his head. “Chaocracy . . . It should be in shambles.”

“A common misconception.” She cleared her throat, forcing the slight tremble in it to smooth. “Chaos is disorder, but if something is already in chaos, then its disorder is order.”

He glanced at her. “Where did you say you were from again?”

“BIKER. It’s on my card.”

He fished the card from his pocket as Hulda retrieved her lamp. She took a moment to steady herself. Perhaps she should go back to Boston and get a second opinion . . . but no, she could finish this. Enchanted houses were rarely malicious, and this was hardly the worst she’d come by.

It was simply a challenge. And she’d never convince Mr. Fernsby to give the place a chance if she couldn’t do the same.

So she pulled out her stethoscope and listened to the outer wall of the lavatory.

“What does that do?” Mr. Fernsby asked. “Commune with the wall?”

“Communion only works with flora and fauna, Mr. Fernsby.” It was the eighth school of magic. “This tool is noetic—imbued with psychometry. Also generally reserved for the living, but enchanted houses do meet one or two of the qualifications.”

Indeed, she could almost make out a heartbeat. Stowing the stethoscope away, Hulda strode past him, moving into the reception hall and then the living room.

Whimbrel House insisted on keeping its shadows and creaks, but this time it added cobwebs.

“The furniture was melting yesterday.” Merritt prodded a settee quickly and jerked back, as though it might attack him as the kitchen stool had.

Hulda hoisted her light.

“I am more concerned about the color scheme.” She clucked her tongue, taking in the space. Everything was in deep hues of red and green, like a sad Christmas. If the client’s budget allowed it, she would see some of this updated. In her peripheral vision, she caught the slight tic of a grin from Mr. Fernsby and ignored it.

She started for the next door, then paused when something dropped from the ceiling.

A rope, made of cobwebs. Or more specifically—

“A noose,” Merritt croaked. Then, in false humor, he added, “At least there isn’t anyone in it.”

“Yet,” Hulda said, and couldn’t help but smile at Mr. Fernsby’s widening eyes. Internally, she chided herself. Dark jocularity would not help her, nor would it reflect well on BIKER.

The rope was made of cobwebs, so it disintegrated when she swiped her hand through it. “I have never heard of a house killing a man, if that settles you,” she offered.

“How about maiming him?” he countered.

She marched for the next door, listening for any new surprises. Mr. Fernsby said, “The sunroom is through there.”

The door was locked.

“I didn’t lock it,” he added.

Hulda sighed. “Do you have a key?”

He felt at his stomach, perhaps forgetting he wasn’t wearing a vest, then his slacks, pulling out a simple key ring from the right pocket. Approaching the door, he put in a small key.

The lock spit it out.

“Come now,” Hulda chided the house.

Mr. Fernsby tried again. This time, he couldn’t even fit in the tip of the key. The house was changing the lock.

Hulda rapped at the door. “Will we need to do this all day?”

The house didn’t respond.

Rolling her eyes, though she ought not to, Hulda fished around in her pack and pulled out a crowbar.

“And what spell does that have on it?” Mr. Fernsby nearly sounded entertained.

“It is a crowbar, Mr. Fernsby. Simple as that.” She wedged the claw between the door and its jamb and, with a solid thump from her hip, forced the door open. The space beyond was well lit—the house hadn’t darkened the windows—and narrow, filled with dead and overgrown plants. Hulda waited for something to happen, then breathed easily when nothing did.

“The plants aren’t attacking, which is a good sign,” she offered.

“Oh good. I wouldn’t want to fall asleep fearing I’ll be strangled by daffodils.” He mussed his hair again. “I don’t want to worry about it at all, Miss—Mrs.—Larkin. But the place won’t let me leave . . .”

Stepping back into the living room, Hulda waited until his eyes met hers. “There has never been a house I haven’t gotten into working order. I guarantee this place will be worth your investment.”

He sighed, looking genuinely hopeless, and Hulda wondered what his story was. “Can you, though?”

“I can.” She shifted her bag to her other arm. “Let’s see the upstairs—”

Her mind registered the splintering of wood and the thumping of something soft before she thought to use her light to inspect it. She did so, and a shiver coursed up her spine. Mr. Fernsby gagged.

The house had dropped dead rats on the floor.

The back of her mind connected patterns between the corpses, and Hulda shuddered as her own small magic took over. Augury did that from time to time, divining without her wishing it to. Behind her eyes, she saw the shadow of a great animal, as though lit by moonlight. A dog, maybe a wolf.

Perhaps thinking her faint, Mr. Fernsby grasped her elbow and pulled her from the dead rats. They seemed relatively fresh. Like the house had been collecting them for this very moment.

Her stomach tightened at the thought. Collections. Bodies.

Now was not the time to reflect on that horror. For goodness’s sake, she would stroll through dead rats every day if it meant forgetting that . . .

“Mrs. Larkin?”

Mr. Fernsby was studying her, brows tight together. Pulling away from him, she nodded to her health and walked briskly toward the stairs.

The nosing on the first step separated from the riser and snapped at her.

Pulling out another ward, she hung it on the newel cap, and the impromptu mouth clapped shut. She turned back to Mr. Fernsby, who stared at the wooden mouth with wide eyes. Stiffening her spine to lend them both courage, she said, “Move quickly.”

And they did, but upon reaching the second floor, Mr. Fernsby nearly toppled back down the stairs. His face paled in the magicked light of her lantern. “Not this again.”

Blood dripped from the hall’s ceiling.

Hulda sighed, grateful to see something familiar. “This is an old trick.”

Mr. Fernsby gaped. “How can you be so complacent about all of this?”

“I told you, Mr. Fernsby.” She crouched and held out her light, watching as the “blood” hit the carpet and fizzled out of existence. “I’m a professional.”

He mumbled something under his breath that she couldn’t discern. Standing, she held the lamp higher. “I believe it’s paint. The house would need to have conjury to produce actual blood, and despite the rats, I doubt it does. Else this is by far the most impressive house I’ve had the pleasure of trespassing.”

The house groaned and clicked, sounding much like the lavatory had before closing in on them. She ignored the gooseflesh parading up and down her arms.

Mr. Fernsby reached out and let some of the paint plop on his hand. “Is it?”

“Is there anything painted red in this house? It could be moved from that, then ‘melted,’ as the furniture was.”

He glanced at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “I . . . I’m not sure. It’s been . . . dark.”

She offered him what she called a “business smile,” and his shoulders relaxed. “I will know for sure when I finish my report. How many bedrooms?” Reaching into her bag, she withdrew her umbrella and unfurled it over their heads before heading left.

“F-Four, I think.”

The first of which, fortunately, had an open door. It was fortunate because it had no floor.

Hulda held up her light, but the seemingly bottomless pit sucked it up.

Mr. Fernsby stumbled back. She closed her umbrella. “I’m sure the floor will return. Houses dislike being incomplete.”

“Do they now?” Sarcasm punctuated the question, which Hulda disregarded.

They moved toward the next room, and again the house slammed the door, though Hulda had expected that. She moved on. The room at the end of the hall was presumably where the central bedchamber lay.

Ensuring the door would not take off her head, Hulda peeked inside. At first glance, it looked like a perfectly ordinary bedchamber. No shadows, no cobwebs, no rats . . . one of them would need to clean those up, because based on the smell, Hulda was certain they weren’t illusionary, which would fall under the second school of magic: psychometry. Indeed, the space looked quite pleasant. The sun shined through a rain-spotted window, the bed was made, the floor relatively clean—

Mr. Fernsby cursed, startling Hulda.

“Whatever is the matter?”

He strode into the room, a much more confident man than the one who had answered the door. “My notebooks were right here on this side table!” He ran his hand over the furniture. Opened a drawer, revealing some sort of pistol within. Searched the four-post bed and swept his hand beneath it, revealing a musket. Goodness, how many firearms did a man need? And he hadn’t even moved in yet! “I know they were. I was writing in one shortly before you arrived.”

Fishing into her bag, Hulda retrieved her dowsing rods and held them before her gently, keeping her fingers steady. She walked heel to toe, first toward Mr. Fernsby, then toward the other side of the room. The rods slowly pulled apart.

She prodded a lump in the carpet with her toe. “I believe they are here.”

Merritt stared at the lump like he was missing his spectacles, then marched over and inspected it. “But . . . how? The carpet is nailed in! How am I supposed to retrieve them?”

“I believe you have three choices. Pull up the carpet, cut them out, or wait for the house to return them.”

He gaped at her, but before he opened his mouth, she added, “I would recommend restraint when it comes to disparaging the house. We need it to be our ally.”

“Right. Ally.” He rubbed his palms into his eyes. Let out a long puff of air.

She gave him a moment to collect himself before asking, “And the rest of the house? Other than the fourth bedroom.”

He slowly stepped away from the books. “Um. Bedrooms, yes. Sitting area. Library. Be careful of the library.”

“What happened there?”

“It threw books at me.”

Hulda bit down on a smile. When Mr. Fernsby saw it, he did the same. At least there was still some humor left in the poor man.

“Threw them at you?” She headed back into the dark and dreary hallway. “Or did you simply get in the way of the throwing?”

Mr. Fernsby did not answer.

Utilizing the umbrella, they passed through the dripping hallway again, past the stairs, and headed straight into the library. Indeed, books flew from shelf to shelf, seeming to pick up speed under Hulda’s scrutiny. More portraits hung on the walls here; one with a sailboat in the bay appeared to be leaking water. The one of a poppy field had the flowers swaying in the breeze, but the only “wind” came from the flying books. Another sign the house likely didn’t possess any elemental spells.

Attempting reason one last time, Hulda said, “Come now.” She rubbed the interior wall of the library. “Settle down. This is no way to treat a guest.”

The books continued flying.

She toed into the room. “You may not like him, but I am reasonable, am I not?”

For just a moment, it seemed the books slowed. Only a moment, but that was a win in Hulda’s book.

Mr. Fernsby also noticed, for he said, “I take offense.”

The fourth bedroom’s door was open, revealing a bubbling carpet. “This would make an excellent office.”

“I wish I had your optimism.”

“Soon enough.” She turned to the final door. “Then I suppose this is the sitting room?”

“I only had a glance.”

“Only a glance?” She tested the knob.

“You may recall my story about nearly losing my nose—”

It took her last few wards, but Hulda got the door open. The sitting room was as dark as the rest of the house, though not from shadows.

“The windows are gone,” Mr. Fernsby said astutely.

“Indeed.” Handing him the light, she retrieved her stethoscope and a small hammer and then traced the wall, lighting tapping here and there. She never heard the tinkle of glass, which confirmed this wasn’t an illusion. Likely alteration, the seventh school of magic. Which would also explain much of the house’s other . . . quirks.

Pulling a ward from the door, Hulda gestured to two chairs in the sitting room. The door slammed shut in protest as they sat down. Hulda set the ward beside them, then took off the one she wore around her neck and set it at their feet. Mr. Fernsby hesitantly followed suit, placing his ward behind them.

“That should stultify the area for a moment.” She took the lamp from him and turned it all the way up, revealing a simply decorated room with oak panels that matched the shutters, an Indian rug, a full blush sofa, and a smattering of matching armchairs. A white-painted fireplace took up the opposite wall, along with the bust of a bored child. Hulda wondered if that was the artist’s original sculpture or if the house was trying to tell her something.

Setting down her tool bag, Hulda pulled out Mr. Fernsby’s file, a pad of paper, and a pencil.

“All right, Mr. Fernsby, let us discuss your house.”