Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 4

September 6, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt sunk into his armchair opposite Hulda—Miss Larkin—Mrs. Larkin, wondering at her as he did so. Two days ago, he would have thought it very peculiar to have a stranger suddenly appear at his door, show herself in, and give him a tour of the place. But that was before Merritt had been more or less swallowed by an evil enchanted house that rained fake blood and real rats, and whose lavatory had nearly skewered him in multiple places.

Things seemed calm now. At least, he could pretend they were calm, with these wards sitting about him and an obviously competent wizardly housekeeper making the floorless rooms and cobweb nooses appear commonplace. And she had a card. Who was he to question her? He was desperate for help. Besides, she’d gotten his wallet back.

He might have seen all of this as excellent story fodder if it weren’t for his commandeered notebooks.

And the lavatory. God help him, he was never going to defecate again.

Hulda Larkin was writing something by the light of her lantern, giving him time to study the room around him. And, when he finished that, to study her. She seemed to be in her midthirties, and she had a sort of schoolmarm air, what with the high collar of her sage-colored dress and the severity of her aquiline nose, which was, perhaps, her most prominent feature. A delicate pair of silver-rimmed glasses perched upon it—the most delicate Merritt had ever seen, as though chosen specifically to be as invisible as possible. Her dark-brown hair was pulled up simply while still hitting the beat of fashion, and a few curls brushed her cheekbones. They were high cheekbones, which lent to her upturned eyes, while also mirroring the square shape of her jaw.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were either brown or green; he wasn’t close enough to tell, and her irises had been the least of his concerns during their adventure in the lavatory.

“I’ve determined the house persists on spells of alteration and chaocracy, which explains the”—she gestured to open air—“severity of the enchantments.”

“Shape-shifting and destruction. What a delight.” Magic had not been a part of his life up until now, though he remembered enough from his school days. Alteration involved changing of some sort, whether objects, one’s physical self, or other spells. And chaocracy was simply a mess.

“More or less,” Hulda agreed. “Now, there is the matter of hiring staff.”

Merritt held up a hand, stalling her, and retrieved her card once more, examining its simple, crisp black lettering. “So your institute, BIKER”—strange acronym—“are magic tamers?”

A slight line formed between Hulda’s eyes. “BIKER trains adroit individuals in service who are specifically sanctioned for the caring and operating of enchanted buildings.”

His lip ticked. “You talk like a dictionary, Mrs. Larkin. A British dictionary, though the accent’s wrong.”

She turned her nose up at the sentiment. “I will not apologize for being well educated.”

“In London?”

“Perhaps.”

In truth, speaking to another person, about anything, was making him feel better about the situation. And perhaps he was mad to consider staying, but he did want the situation to improve. This place would make for a fantastic novel, for one thing, and he didn’t have much to go back to. His apartment in New York was being swept out from beneath him, and he’d have to devote all his time to finding housing elsewhere. He’d prefer to be writing. “And what makes you adroit? Which you are, don’t get me wrong.” He stowed the card away. “But are you a wizard or something?”

She let out a long breath through her nose. “If you must know, I am an augurist.”

He blinked. He’d half meant it as a joke—magic had been so diluted over the years it was rare to find anyone with special ability. Most historians agreed that magic had come about at the “turning of the world,” associated with the life of Christ, given that there were eleven schools—equal to eleven apostles, minus Judas. Magic passed down through blood, but it diluted every time, splitting spells and abilities until there was barely anything left to split. Only targeted breeding had kept it alive in medieval times, namely in aristocratic societies. Indeed, the English monarchs were some of the strongest wizards in the world.

Magic builds upon magic, so a wizardly mother and a wizardly father could increase their enchanted line with wizardly offspring. The dilution was such, however, that most magical users either came by their abilities as the result of an arranged marriage or pure luck. This day and age, both sets had limited abilities.

If he recalled correctly, augury was the first school of magic.

“So are you going to read my fortune?” he asked.

Hulda only looked at him like a tired governess. “About the house, Mr. Fernsby, I strongly recommend a staff. To successfully run such a house, you will need a maid and a cook, at the very least.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t you cook?”

Resting her hands atop her file, she retorted, “Mr. Fernsby, were we in England, I might have had a mind to gasp at such presumption.”

He grinned at that, though Hulda gave no such expression of mirth.

“Staff will be trained specifically for this house,” she went on. “The more staff you have managing the magic, the more enjoyable the abode will be.”

He frowned.

“This is unacceptable?” she asked.

He considered his response. “I am well aware that I don’t know how to maintain . . . this”—he gestured to the far wall, where a shadow passed, creaking the wood as it went—“but . . . I’ve taken care of myself for well over a decade. I know how to do laundry and cook a meal. It would be . . . odd, to have strangers about doing that for me. On the presumption that I could actually afford it.”

She eyed him over the silver rim of her spectacles. “And when, since your arrival, have you been able to do any of those things?”

He paused. “I . . . have not.” He hadn’t even really slept.

“The care of this house will be BIKER’s priority, including the majority of its pecuniary consolations,” she continued. “We want to see that it thrives for generations to come. Enchanted homes are a dying breed.”

The home and not the tenant, Merritt almost said, but decided to hold his tongue. He sighed. “Let’s say I humor you with this staff nonsense. I do well for myself, but I’m hardly a wealthy man.”

She opened the file again. “And what is your employment?”

“I’m a writer.”

She simply nodded and jotted it down. Funny. He was used to getting follow-up questions when he stated his profession. Questions like, What do you write? Are you published? You’re not a political columnist, are you?

“The keeping and protection of enchanted residences is very important to BIKER,” Hulda repeated. “The institution will accommodate you in regard to my services while you require them. My diagnosis will help with the rampant enchantments. Given the size of the house, a large staff may be unnecessary.”

The downstairs groaned, and Merritt quickly reassessed. Trying to ignore the shadows, he asked, “Do you work on many small houses?”

“This is the second-smallest permanent structure I’ve personally overseen.” She looked up then, not at him, but at a spot on the carpet, or beyond it. A wistful expression washed over her face before flitting away. He wondered what she was remembering.

“And the largest?”

She straightened, as though having momentarily forgotten he was there. “An estate near Liverpool” was all she said. Pulling a sheet of paper from the file, she closed the folder and tucked it away, then handed the paper to Merritt.

He leaned forward to grab it. “What is this?”

“My résumé. I am willing to personally oversee this house until you have your feet under you. A housekeeper should be included in your staff unless you find an adept maid of all work.”

The résumé was very long, with letters penned very small.

“While BIKER absorbs my fees, I do require room and board.”

He lowered the résumé. “You’re moving in?”

“Only if you wish it, Mr. Fernsby, but I come highly recommended.”

He glanced from her to the résumé and back. “I’m sorry, I’m still coming to terms with the idea of this place being livable.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Do you doubt my abilities?”

He shook his head. “Hardly. But I don’t know how you’ll bring your things here if the house won’t let you leave.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He nodded. “But yes, if you can keep this beast in line . . . of course I’ll take the help. I . . . am about to be in a housing predicament—goodness, I am in a housing predicament”—he eyed the walls and ignored the gooseflesh pebbling his arms—“and . . . well, I don’t want to see the house and land go to waste.”

Admittedly, if the spells hadn’t kept him indoors, he might have burned the place down and fled back to New York. But seeing Hulda’s ability to control the place, and her calm demeanor while doing it, had sparked hope for the future. Maybe this was a blessing. Maybe it could turn into something great.

To think, he’d be a homeowner. A landowner. He could increase his fortunes and make a good life for himself. Write his next book and then another after it.

The floor shuddered. He gripped his armrest.

“Excellent choice.” She recovered the wards and stood, putting hers over her neck and handing the other two to Merritt. “You may hold on to these. Be careful with them. They’re expensive.”

He nodded.

She walked with confidence to the door, though she had to utilize the crowbar once more to see it open, and then out came the umbrella as they passed through the . . . paint. The ward on the stairs held the banister in place. Merritt focused on the back of Hulda’s head so he wouldn’t see the portrait in the reception hall watching him.

To his surprise, the house allowed Hulda to open the door, revealing late-afternoon sun . . . beautiful sun. It filled the reception hall and banished the shadows, and Merritt breathed easily for the first time since he’d arrived.

Hulda poked through the doorway with her umbrella first, then, clasping her ward, stepped through.

And nothing happened.

He let out a deep sigh. “Thank goodness.” But the moment he tried to follow her, the doorway snapped and shrunk to the size of his torso, barring him from leaving.

A sob threatened to leave the base of his throat. “You blasted thing!” He pushed one of the wards against the wood. It didn’t budge.

“Do not antagonize the house, Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda warned, running a hand over the shrunken doorway. “There’s a great deal of magic in these walls, and for whatever reason, it does not want you to exit.” She patted the warped door. “I also would not suggest crawling through this.”

He had the grisly image of his body pinching in half, and shuddered.

“The thing is,” Hulda continued, “I came out only to give the place a gander. I don’t have my belongings with me, just a small suitcase.” She tapped her chin. “I have your current address in New York on file. I will see your things brought in. Between making those arrangements and packing up more of my own things, I will need two days.”

Two days. “I can’t survive that long.”

“Be kind to the house,” she said. “And keep your wards.” She considered. “Perhaps one day. Do you have enough to eat?”

His shoulders slackened as he recounted what he brought. “I’ve some cheese and gingersnaps.” He wouldn’t starve to death, at least. Merritt paused. “Wait, can you post something for me?” He’d started a letter to his friend Fletcher, currently living in Boston, in his notebook, but that was currently under the carpet . . .

“Of course.”

When he didn’t move, she retrieved her notebook from her bag and flipped to a clean page before handing it to him. He was tempted to read what she’d written in there, but . . . priorities.

Leaning on the doorway, he penned a hasty letter informing his friend of his predicament, though he made it sound lighthearted. Bad habit of his. He signed it, folded it, and handed everything back to Hulda.

“Please hurry,” he begged.

“I do not dawdle,” she said, lifting her nose. But her eyes softened. “And of course. I will aim to return by tomorrow evening.”

She turned to leave, paused, and turned back, rummaging through her sack until she pulled out a tin lunchbox. She passed it through the shrunken door without word, then started for the coast.

Inside was an apple and a ham sandwich.

Merritt sat down to eat, and the front door slammed shut.