Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 3

December 2, 1820, London, England

“A letter for you, Lord Hogwood.”

Silas blinked from the snowy, gray scene outside his window. He didn’t remember standing from his chair and walking over here, but he’d brought his tea with him, and it had cooled to lukewarm. Turning, he saw his butler, once his father’s butler, awaiting his reply, a cream-colored envelope on a silver tray before him. He’d turned it so Silas could see the seal. The royal seal.

Silas took the letter and set his cup on the tray, nodding his thanks. The butler left without word. Alone in the study, Silas turned the letter over in his hands twice before breaking the seal and reading it, confirming his suspicions.

It was from the regent himself, who, being the active ruler of Britain, was also the leader of the King’s League of Magicians. The same league his mother had belonged to, before her illness forced her to retire. The same league that had expelled his father that fateful night.

“Personally invited,” he read aloud. He was eighteen now. In truth, he was surprised the invitation hadn’t been extended on his birthday. His family’s pedigree was almost as impressive as the regent’s. Spells of chaocracy, alteration, necromancy, augury, and kinesis ran through Silas’s veins. And for the briefest moment, he’d possessed even more. He knew he had, but his father’s death had taken those borrowed abilities away.

There was no research on such a phenomenon—Silas had sought it with diligence. Subtly, for he didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to himself. It was easy for family, friends, and authorities to believe that Henry Hogwood had overdrunk himself after the dismissal of his career, beaten his son, and then succumbed to alcohol poisoning. But Christian, Silas’s younger brother, suspected something was amiss. That, or Silas was unreasonably suspicious. But better suspicious than unprepared.

He considered it, for half a heartbeat. The King’s League might have literature the rest of them didn’t. It might lead him to the answers he sought.

And yet Silas strode to the blazing fire beneath the mantel and tossed the letter in, envelope and all. He loomed, watching the wax seal melt and sizzle, until it was indiscernible among the ash.

“You’ll never have me,” he whispered to the flames. He still bore the scars his father had given him, inside and out. Scars that reminded him of what had been—and what would never again be.

Because no one, even old King George himself, would have authority over Silas. No one would overpower him again.

And Silas was willing to do anything to keep that true.