Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 7

June 13, 1833, London, England

“Is this a zero or a six?” Silas asked, tilting the ledger toward his steward.

Lidgett adjusted his spectacles. “A zero, sir. My apologies. I was writing quickly.”

Silas nodded and turned the page. “And how is the—”

The door to the study flung open and filled with the body of Silas’s disheveled brother. He wasn’t even wearing a cravat, which made Silas wonder what he’d been doing before barging in. He’d been expecting this confrontation for days now.

“Is it true?” Christian asked.

Closing the ledger, Silas waved to his steward, who immediately gathered his things under his arm, bowed, and left the room, though Christian didn’t give him much space to do so.

Playing along, Silas leaned back in his chair and asked, “Is what true?”

“That you’re selling the estate!” Christian strode in, crossing the distance between door and desk swiftly.

Silas pushed an ink vial away. “You seem to be sure of the answer, given your conduct.”

A vein pulsed in his brother’s forehead. “You’re selling it for less than it’s worth! Taking it from the family! What about your future sons, Silas? What about mine? And why not tell me?”

Silas retained his composure. “Given the nature of this conversation, is that really a surprise?”

Christian’s jaw slackened. “You’re impossible. I would have stepped up. Taken on your role. You never even gave me a chance.”

Redipping his quill, Silas opened the ledger he’d been reviewing to a clean page to write down the numbers still in his head. “I’m not leaving us homeless. I intend to purchase another estate better suited to our needs.”

“Better suited.” Christian flung up his hands. “How? Where?”

“It’s called Gorse End. In Liverpool.”

“Liverpool!” He paced toward the bookshelf. “That’s away from . . . from everything!”

Silas waited for the numbers to dry before turning to the shelf behind his desk, finding the plans for the newly purchased estate tucked safely between volumes of his encyclopedias. “I’ve reviewed everything myself—”

Christian stomped back and snatched the plans, unfolding them on his side of the desk. Blew hair from his eyes as he looked them over. The study was painfully silent for nearly a minute.

“It’s smaller.” He shook his head. “It’s older. How is this a fair trade?”

Reaching over, Silas calmly collected the papers, ensuring he folded them along the proper creases. “It’s an enchanted house.”

“So what?”

So what? Such a simple question. Gorse End was an enchanted home with spells he had previously never even dreamed of possessing. Spells he feared simply taking, for while the place wasn’t among the holdings of the King’s League of Magicians, it was documented by the London Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms, an institution with which the previous tenant had been friendly. If Silas wanted those spells, his best bet was to reside at the estate so he could feign its magical ability should the law ever come around to check. Besides, he had to live somewhere, did he not? There would be no snooping soldiers in Liverpool, and the estate was away from everything, a perfect hideaway for him as he sorted out his future and built his invisible walls. It was a place he could tuck into and rest. A place he would feel safe. A place that would let him move on and forget, for his father’s presence still haunted the shadows here. And, sometimes, his mother’s.

He eyed his brother. The King’s League had been working hard to recruit Christian as well. Now that his brother’s studies were finished, it was only a matter of time before he joined. Before he unwittingly became another chain Silas would have to break.

Frustrated by Silas’s lack of answer, Christian kicked the desk, jolting it.

“Really, Chris.” Silas sighed.

“A portion of the estate belongs to me.” His brother’s voice took on a dark edge. “It’s in father’s will. I’ll get a solicitor and block the sale.”

Silas’s stomach clenched. “You will do no such thing.”

“You don’t lord over me, Lord Hogwood.” His nose creased like he smelled something disgusting. “You are not the sole benefactor. You are not—”

Silas stood abruptly, causing his chair to skid over the hardwood. Collecting his ledger, he headed for the door. “Keep your portion, then,” he said. “You can hunker down in your precious little cottage on the south end and suck up to the King’s League for your maintenance.”

He had nearly reached the door when a kinetic pulse clipped his shoulder and slammed it shut.

His father shoved him into the wall, screaming obscenities so slurred together Silas couldn’t determine what they were. The next blow hit his stomach so hard, he vomited.

Silas whirled around.

Christian lowered his hand, the fingers stiff. “I am not finished.”

“Oh yes, you are,” Silas growled. “You dare to use our father’s magic against me? I haven’t felt that sting for fifteen years.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Christian slashed away the words with a swipe of his hand. Paused. “What really happened to him, Silas?” A shadow spawned on his face. “What really happened to Mother?”

“Why do you keep. Asking. Me.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Why do you think I know? I wasn’t there. Her body was never recovered. It doesn’t matter. She was—”

“Dying anyway. So you always say.”

“So you always question!” Silas countered. “You discovered her missing first. Why don’t you tell me what happened to her, hm? How a servant snuck her away under your nose?”

“You always turn it around on me.”

“You always point the finger first!”

“You were the last to see her!” Christian shouted.

“In a house that employs seventy-eight, you fool!” Silas didn’t often raise his voice, but it ricocheted off the oak walls. “And what does it matter? She’s at peace. Stop digging up the dead—”

“At peace?” Christian marched toward him. “At peace? How would you know?”

His jaw worked so tightly Silas thought he might break a tooth. Getting right into his brother’s face, he said, “I. Don’t.” And he turned for the door.

“You do.”

Silas ignored the accusations. Wrenched the door open.

“You do!” Christian shouted, and another kinetic blast ripped the door from Silas’s hand and slammed it shut.

“I don’t!” Silas screamed as he whirled around, sending out a kinetic blast of his own. It struck Christian in the chest and sent him hurtling backward, toward the fireplace.

Silas’s stomach lurched into his throat, but his body couldn’t move fast enough to stop it.

His brother crashed into the mantel, smashing his head onto the marble. He crumpled to the floor, leaving a bloody streak above the embers.

For a moment, Silas just stood there, watching.

Then he ran to his brother’s side. “Christian. Christian.”

His brother didn’t respond. He was breathing, but his eyes wouldn’t open. Silas patted, then slapped, Christian’s cheeks. Peeled back his lids to see rolling eyes and dilated pupils.

“Blazes.” He shook his brother, but he didn’t respond. How would he explain . . .

He looked toward the desk. Gorse End. It had taken so long to find that estate, and now his brother was going to . . .

Unless he . . .

Silas hesitated. His mouth went dry while his palms moistened. Chills ran up his arms and down his back.

Unless.

Silas didn’t remember committing to the decision. Nor did he remember using kinesis to lock the door. The idea surfaced in his mind, and then it was happening, just as it had with his mother. Necromancy, chaocracy, kinesis, alteration, element. Time became moot as his brother sucked down into a warped, peanut-shaped thing, and his powers rebirthed inside Silas, strengthening those abilities they shared and adding the one they didn’t—because while Silas has been born with his grandmother’s augury spell of luck, Christian had inherited their granduncle’s wardship magic of spell-turning.

Silas had never considered . . . but now it was too late . . .

The sun had sunk, darkening the room. He stared down at his brother. What had been his brother. The confusion left by the chaocracy wafted away like steam, clearing his head too slowly.

His strength returned by drops.

Stoking the fire, Silas burned the clothes. Moved his tongue around his dry mouth as he summoned the water in the glass on his desk to wash away the blood. Tucked his brother—his brother!—in his shirt and dashed from the study, avoiding the servants, speeding through the house, not truly seeing anything until he went down, down, down to the wine cellar, then to the little hidden door to the second cellar he’d carved out, where his mother rested in a locked iron box, safe from prying hands and worms and rats.

Silas fumbled for the key. He always kept it on him. No one else could find it, use it. He found the key and dropped it. Picked it up and opened the box and slid his brother inside.

His brother.

His brother.

Grabbing fistfuls of hair, Silas keeled over and screamed through closed lips, strangling himself. His pulse rocketed, skin sweated, limbs trembled. He was too hot and too cold, and his brother was in the box.

Pushing himself back, he vomited on the cold stone and mortar. Tears and snot streamed from his face. He bit his lip badly trying to keep the sounds in. The despair, the outrage, the disbelief. All the while, power curled and pumped through him, welcoming him, greeting him. Magic that had been just as alive as his brother had been, not simmering in a soon-to-be corpse.

Murderer.

He retched a second time, and a third, then curled in on himself, smearing vomit up his pant leg and into his hair.

It had to be done.

Yes, it had to be done, hadn’t it?

He’d been defending himself. Just as he’d defended himself against his father. He’d protected himself. The rest was happenstance. No, it was fate. Silas hadn’t pushed Christian into the mantel. Destiny had.

Christian Hogwood had the ability to overpower Silas. He’d forbidden him from leaving the room and, worse, from making his escape to Liverpool. Haunted his steps ever since their mother’s body had disappeared. Christian had lorded over Silas, just as their father had. He would have hurt him, eventually.

Silas had simply struck first.

Now Gorse End would be his, with no trouble. It would be theirs, because Christian was part of Silas now. Just as his mother was. They were together, combined, protecting each other. Safe. Silas was keeping them safe. Keeping himself safe.

And no one would stop him now. A little farther, a few more steps . . . no one would be able to hurt him again.

Never again. Never again.

He’d report his brother missing in the morning.