Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 8

September 7, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

God did grant, for the man from Hulda’s vision—whom she knew only as “Fletcher”—arrived just as the last tendril of sunlight slipped over the western horizon.

As there was no butler at hand and Mr. Fernsby was preoccupied, Hulda greeted him at the door, holding a new ward to the hinges. It would look very poor on them if slamming took off some of their guest’s fingers.

Fletcher held up a lantern. “Hello . . . are you Mrs. Larkin?”

“I am indeed. And you are Fletcher, though I am remiss of your surname, Mr. . . . ?”

“Portendorfer.” The lantern light illuminated a smile. “It’s a mouthful, I know. Forgive my late arrival, but the letter I received . . . Merritt didn’t sound like he was in good spirit. It was . . . well, full of puns far more terrible than usual.”

Indeed, Mr. Portendorfer carried a suitcase in his other hand. He intended to stay the night. Hulda sighed inwardly that there would be no way to properly prepare a bedroom for him, let alone for herself, but in cases such as these, etiquette had to be stretched, if not packed away entirely.

“We could use your assistance. Come in, please.” She eyed the doorframe. “Quickly.”

Stepping aside, she allowed the man in. He was roughly the same height as Mr. Fernsby, though a little broader in the shoulders.

Mr. Portendorfer froze just two steps inside the reception hall and held his lantern higher.

“Is it really . . . enchanted?” he asked. He was studying the portrait. It must have, oh, winked at him or something.

“It is, indeed.” Hulda pulled out another ward on a string and offered it to him. “Might I suggest you wear this? Not for too long, mind you. There are side effects to wearing such wards on one’s person for an extended period of time. But it will help.” She turned to the dining room. “And I beg you to take care, Mr. Portendorfer. Those wards are expensive.”

He mouthed, Wards, and slipped it over his neck.

“Now, if I could please have your assistance hefting Mr. Fernsby out of the pit in the kitchen, I’m sure we would both be much obliged.”

The hour was late, but there were things to be done. It would be a long night for the three of them.

Hulda left Mr. Fernsby and Mr. Portendorfer chatting in the kitchen as she went through the house and set up all the wards she’d managed to borrow from BIKER, which weren’t as many as she would have liked. She was, essentially, drugging the house into submission until she could understand it better. She didn’t have enough wards for every room, so she placed them in the dining room, the unfortunately split kitchen, the lavatory, the reception hall and upper hall, and two of the bedrooms upstairs, reserving the first for herself. Mr. Fernsby had requested that Mr. Portendorfer stay with him, which suited Hulda just fine. For now.

Once that was finished, Hulda brought her two bags upstairs and began unpacking her necessities. “Terribly sorry about the kitchen,” she said to the house as she shook out dresses and hung them in the closet. “I will ensure such atrocities do not repeat themselves, but I would greatly appreciate your cooperation.”

The house didn’t reply, which meant the wards were working.

Mr. Fernsby knocked at the door after she’d finished with the first of her two suitcases. “I wanted to . . . thank you, for your haste.”

Hulda nodded. “I said I would return in short order. I am a woman of my word.” She glanced over. “How is it that you know Mr. Portendorfer?”

“Fletcher’s my oldest friend.” He leaned wearily on the doorframe. “We grew up together in New York.”

She took in his appearance. He was a right mess. Mud streaking his hands, face, hair, and clothes. He looked utterly exhausted, which somehow made his blue eyes brighter in the candlelight. “Might I suggest a bath and a change of clothes, Mr. Fernsby? Did you bring that much? Your things won’t arrive until tomorrow.”

Posture stooping, he nodded solemnly. After covering a yawn with his fist, he said, “I think I saw a tub in the kitchen.”

“Pray that you don’t tumble in again.” Opening her other suitcase, Hulda pulled out a thick folder stuffed with papers and handed it to him. “These are the résumés of several BIKER-endorsed persons for employment. You’ll see applications there for maids, chefs, and stewards.”

“Stewards?” Mr. Fernsby thumbed through the papers, his forehead wrinkling a little more with each one.

“Yes, someone to look over the financial aspects of the house and land—”

“I don’t need a steward.” He stifled another yawn.

“Then you may start with the maids. I will see myself settled in. I brought several things of use for taming the manor, and intend to begin work on diagnosing the house first thing in the morning.”

He closed the folder. “Finding the source of magic, you mean.”

“Precisely.” It usually wasn’t too hard of a task—most homes were not secretive about the sources of their power. Gorse End had been tricky, as the old magic had changed in her interim as housekeeper, but that had been Mr. Hogwood’s interference—

Closing her eyes, Hulda reoriented her thoughts. The less she thought of Gorse End, the better off she was, even all these years later.

Mr. Fernsby left, muttering to himself—or perhaps over the folder—as he went. Hulda unpacked her second suitcase quickly; she was well practiced at it. As the room smelled of dust, she went to open the window and found it stuck, though she imagined that was the house’s doing, not the window’s. A ward couldn’t muffle the place entirely.

“Do you want to smell musty?” she asked, rapping on the window. “Don’t be silly. Let me open it.”

When she tried again, the pane slid upward. She smiled. Whimbrel House wasn’t a terrible house, just an immature one. “Surprising, given your age,” she murmured, and she rested her elbows on the sill, looking out over the island, trusting the place not to bring the pane down on her. Tomorrow her trunks would arrive, and she would stock the pantry, and the challenge of bringing the house to working order would begin in earnest.

A swarm of gnats flew past the window, forming odd patterns with their tiny bodies. A chill crept down her spine, though she couldn’t quite tell if it was the breeze or her augury. Beyond the passing swarm, she thought she spied two golden orbs in the distance. Eyes. She squinted, making out the silhouette of a wolf against the fading twilight, its form almost indistinguishable from the shadows and trees around it.

She furrowed her brow. Wolves didn’t live in this bay, did they? She hadn’t heard a single howl. Removing her glasses, she wiped them on her sleeve and replaced them.

The wolf was gone, leaving her wondering if it had been a premonition or a shifting shadow, and with no means to be certain of either.

The next morning, Hulda carefully worked about the splintered kitchen and made breakfast. She had it set on the table before the two men roused. When Mr. Fernsby toed into the dining room, as though fearful it might eat him up, he paused. “I thought you didn’t cook.”

Hulda folded her arms. “I am able to cook, Mr. Fernsby, but it is not in my job description. Considering the night you had, I thought it would be appropriate to provide sustenance in the form of legumes and pease porridge.”

Mr. Fernsby’s lips quirked.

That made her eye twitch. “Pray tell what is so humorous.”

“Sustenance,” he repeated, pulling out a chair as Mr. Portendorfer came up behind him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Larkin,” Mr. Portendorfer said. “I was in such a rush last night I didn’t eat dinner, and this smells delicious.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Mr. Portendorfer offered grace, and the two gentlemen ate. Hulda couldn’t help but feel a little vindicated when Mr. Fernsby’s eyebrows rose. “This is good. Are you sure you don’t want to be my chef?”

“Quite,” she quipped.

Mr. Fernsby paused. “Are you not eating?”

“I already had my fill, thank you. It’s not appropriate for staff to dine with the family.”

Merritt shrugged. “Hardly any family here.”

“The rule still stands, Mr. Fernsby.”

He swallowed another bite before saying, “Please call me Merritt.”

“I prefer formal designations.”

Smirking, Mr. Portendorfer said, “You best do as she says. This one is serious. Don’t let her walk out on you. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Gift horse? I’m paying for her.”

“BIKER pays for me, Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda corrected. “You will be supplying salary for the chef and maid you hire.”

“BIKER?” Mr. Portendorfer repeated.

“That Bostonian place I mentioned,” said Mr. Fernsby.

Hulda departed to let the men eat, using her dowsing rods in the reception hall and the lavatory in the meantime. She hadn’t put any wards in the living room or adjoining sunroom, and dark shadows roiled within, as though the house were having a tirrivee at having been forced into order. When Hulda approached the doorway, her dowsing rods parted, but that was to be expected, as magic was condensed in this part of the house. If she couldn’t find the magical source in the warded rooms, she’d start moving the wards around to better search.

When she returned to the dining room, she caught the men midconversation.

“—is doing real well. Real well,” Mr. Portendorfer was saying as Hulda slipped in and gathered dinner dishes. “Think she’ll be getting married soon.”

“Married?” Mr. Fernsby leaned forward. “Isn’t she, what, fifteen?”

Mr. Portendorfer laughed. “Serious, Merritt? She’s twenty-three!”

Mr. Fernsby whistled, as he was wont to do. “Twenty-three. In my head, she’s forever twelve.”

“For a man who’s based his life on collecting facts, you sure lose the easy ones.” Mr. Portendorfer glanced Hulda’s way. “Did you know this man once got himself hired by the Reese Brothers’ Steel Company just so he could write an accurate story on their illegal business practices?”

Hulda rested her hand on the doorframe. “I was not aware.”

Mr. Portendorfer clapped his hands. “Four months you worked there, wasn’t it?”

“Only three. It was miserable.”

“Your arms sure got big, though.”

Hulda interrupted, “I intend to make another list for groceries this afternoon, Mr. Fernsby. We’re in need of meat, if you have a preference.”

Mr. Fernsby breathed out slowly—it seemed to be a motion of relief. “Any kind is fine, as long as it’s reasonably priced. Thank you.”

She nodded. “And do you have a preference of spirits?”

He smiled then, but it didn’t fit the rest of his expression. “I, uh, don’t. That is, no need to stock them on my account.”

“Still dry?” asked Mr. Portendorfer.

Mr. Fernsby shrugged. “I avoid things that might get me into trouble.”

The soberness of the statement caught Hulda’s attention; it could also be seen in Mr. Portendorfer’s expression. As though the friends shared a secret they did not dare utter between these enchanted walls.

And however etiquette was being stretched, it was not yet broken enough for Hulda to ask.

Four days after inheriting Whimbrel House, after Merritt’s New York apartment was emptied courtesy of a Boston institute he’d never heard of, his things brought to a remote island in the Narragansett Bay, Merritt got out the tools he’d collected over the last thirteen years and hesitantly entered the kitchen that had more or less tried to kill him.

Hulda had placed little red sacks around the place—wards from BIKER. Ever since placing them, the house had seemed . . . like a house. Shadows and creaking had kept to a minimum, so long as he stayed within the boundaries of the wards. He’d slept more soundly than he had in days. It almost felt normal.

The kitchen, however, was a mess. Beside him, Fletcher whistled, as though he had heard the thought and meant to punctuate it.

The house might have been able to repair itself if the wards were taken down. Merritt wasn’t sure. Or perhaps it would open the floor again, suck him and Fletcher in, and trap them for good, turning the root cellar into a grave. That made him swallow. He really didn’t want to go into the pit again. For multiple reasons. And Fletcher had to return to that agricultural wholesaler he worked for. Not sure how his employer would take “eaten by a house” as an excuse for not showing up to work.

As it were, the floor was still split, opening for about two paces at its widest part and the length of his foot at the smallest. The edges of the floorboards were splintered, and the second cupboard from where he stood was singed, the door hanging uneasily on its hinges, possibly warped from exposure to water.

But the oven was fine, so there was that.

“Floor first?” Fletcher asked.

Merritt nodded and approached with caution, stepping over the narrowest part of the gap, waiting for the floor to buck and knock him in again. The house rumbled slightly. It knew he was here.

“All right.” Unsurety danced in his voice. “I’m making an attempt, all right?”

“Done floors before,” Fletcher said.

“I’m talking to the house.”

Merritt set the tools down on the counter, his attention lifting to the cabinets. He examined the hinges. Couldn’t replace them without a trip into town, but he could tighten and oil them, shave off the bottom of the door so it closed better.

And it just so happened the movers who’d delivered his things had loaded them into two large wooden crates. Possibly just enough raw material to patch the floor.

“Mind fetching those crates?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the kitchen’s maw. He imagined Fletcher nodded, for his footsteps toed out, and a moment later, the front door opened and shut. Like Hulda, Fletcher had been granted freedom to come and go as he pleased. Only Merritt was prohibited from leaving.

Frowning, Merritt knelt gradually, as though the hearth were a bull ready to charge. Holding his breath, he touched the first splintered board.

The house rumbled like the belly of a dragon. But it didn’t buck or twist or drop rats on him.

And so, very carefully, Merritt pulled out a handsaw and got to work.

Hulda’s augury was essentially useless.

She had some control over it, and she used that word delicately. Her only augury spell was divination, or the ability to see one’s future specifically through patterns he or she created. In the case of the house, she wished it would show her the precise moment she discovered its secrets, thus revealing them to her early. But then that would change the future, and her augury seldom gave her the opportunity to do something so substantial. Otherwise, she certainly would have taken advantage of it by now. Thus far, all her augury had done was inform her of Mr. Portendorfer’s coming arrival, which she would have learned about, anyway, and the possible presence of a wolf, which, while peculiar, hardly seemed relevant.

Her dowsing rods, likewise, hadn’t told her much about the house, so she’d carefully collected the wards from her bedroom and set them up in the library so she could search it instead. She made modest use of the wards, hoping that if the books began flying again, they might form a pattern, which would in turn show her something relating to the house’s magical source. She needed to prove herself capable here, for both the health of the house and Mr. Fernsby.

After three-quarters of an hour, however, all she’d found were a few interesting titles on old spines. She noted their location for the future, though she predicted without the aid of magic that the house would likely move them before she got around to cracking open a cover.

She’d just packed up her things when Mr. Portendorfer appeared in the doorway. “Can I be of assistance to you, Mrs. Larkin? Merritt’s up to his elbows in sawdust downstairs, and given the shortage of tools, I only seem to be getting in the way.”

She paused. “He’s making the repairs?” She’d thought those grinding and hammering sounds were the house complaining to her.

He nodded as he stepped into the space, holding his hands up to shield himself from possible projectiles.

Hulda hefted her bag onto her shoulder. “I assure you it’s safe enough for the time being.” She eyed the wards. “At least, it won’t throw anything with dynamism.”

Mr. Portendorfer relaxed and spun, taking in the rows of books. “It would take a lifetime to read all of these.”

“I suppose that depends on how fast of a reader you are compared to how long you intend to live.”

Mr. Portendorfer pointed a finger at her. “You’re a funny one.”

Was she? “It’s unintentional, I assure you.”

He pulled a book off the shelf and tilted it toward Hulda’s lantern. Then did the same with another title, and another one. “I’ve never heard of these.”

“I haven’t looked at even a fraction yet, but many are missing title pages and dates. They’re quite old.”

“Perhaps a librarian in Portsmouth could look them up.”

“Perhaps.” It wasn’t a bad idea, to research some of these titles. She would, if she failed to find clues elsewhere.

His smile grew. “You know, in Cattlecorn, back when Merritt lived with us, we would get so bored in the winters we’d stow away to a small, locally run library when the weather wasn’t too bad. It was four and a half miles away, but it was worth the walk to get out of the house. We’d pretend those shelves were just about anything. Monsters, mountains, the British army . . . you name it.” He laughed. “Not so much reading.”

It was a quaint image, but that wasn’t what caught Hulda’s attention. “When Mr. Fernsby lived with you?”

The mirth faded a fraction. “Oh, well . . .”

What reason would Mr. Fernsby have to live with another family? Did he have no relatives? “Were you at a . . . boarding school?”

Mr. Portendorfer returned the book to the shelf. “Something like that.”

Now, augury did not pertain to the mind, not like psychometry did, but Hulda rarely needed magic to detect a lie. “Something like that,” she repeated, perhaps a little too deadpan.

Mr. Portendorfer sighed. “I mean, we did meet in school. Merritt . . . he and his father . . .” He paused, lifting hands in surrender. “You know, Ms. Larkin, it’s not my story to tell. Merritt is my best friend; I would be doing him a disservice sharing his history when he’s here to tell it. But”—he lowered his hands—“I will say there are few men out there better than he is. He’s got a good heart. I think you two, and whoever else comes along, will get on real nice.”

She nodded, and Mr. Portendorfer departed, venturing down the hallway toward Merritt’s room. Hulda lingered in the doorway, wondering. It wasn’t so odd that a man—a boy—might stay with another family for a time. She could fathom a dozen reasons for it. But the manner in which Mr. Portendorfer defended the history made her curious.

What issues did Mr. Fernsby have with his father? Why didn’t he keep spirits? And why had he inherited this forgotten house, left on an island in the middle of Narragansett Bay?

In truth, it wasn’t Hulda’s business to know. But staying out of clients’ business had hurt her in the past. Not that she thought this would be another Gorse End catastrophe, but she wanted to know.

Seemed discovering the source of this place’s magic wasn’t the only secret Hulda had to unwind.

Merritt needed wood glue and more nails, but considering his limitations, the work was coming along nicely.

He’d been in the kitchen half the day, hardly remembering to eat, measuring and cutting and sanding floorboards. When he got sore, he worked on the cabinet door, then buffed away as much of the scorch as he could, which was most of it—the house hadn’t let him get far with the matches. He stopped once, and only once, to glance at the windowsill that had eaten Scarlet’s scarf, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. Wasn’t anything he could do about it at this point.

Hulda checked on him a couple of times, but she never said anything, just peeked in. Fletcher came by, too, chatting with him while he worked, forcing him to eat. Merritt was grateful his friend had up and left home to help him. It was a sort of cycle of theirs, though neither of them had ever pointed it out.

As the day eased on, Merritt pushed the darkness back little by little, like an overgrown cuticle, until he felt more himself again. Fletcher was due back to Boston and his accounting work tomorrow morning, but Merritt . . . Merritt could do this. This life. This house. This change. He was nothing if not adaptable.

The sun was half-set when Merritt stood and stretched his back. The repairs weren’t perfect. The wood didn’t match. Part of the gap still showed. But the cupboards looked unscathed, and no one was going to break their legs walking across the floor, so that was success.

Progress.

Hulda’s and Fletcher’s voices sounded softly from the dining room. In the kitchen, there were three wards total, including the one on his person, which Hulda had reminded him hours ago he should take off.

What are the side effects if I don’t? he’d asked.

Indigestion and stubbornness, one of which you’re not accustomed to, she’d retorted.

Merritt smirked and stepped back, ensuring he hadn’t missed anything. Picked up a bent nail and pocketed it. Glanced to the forearm-long crack he hadn’t been able to patch, down into the dark cellar below.

He wished he understood this house, but even the expert hadn’t wrapped her head around it. And he wished the house understood him. Was it even capable of such a thing? Hulda seemed to think so; otherwise she wouldn’t talk to it.

He crossed the floor. Closed the toolbox.

The house was old. His lawyer had said there’d been no known residents for a hundred years. What a long time for a house to stay empty.

He glanced back to that crack, mulling it all over. Remembered one of the suggestions Hulda had made when he was stuck in the root cellar. Pausing, he listened to the walls, the ceiling, the glass.

It creaked slightly, though there was no sign of wind outside and no people upstairs.

No people.

Merritt’s idea solidified, sticking to him like a briar on his shirt, just uncomfortable enough to notice. He chewed his lip and tried to peel it off, only to find another briar beside it.

He’d always considered himself good with metaphors.

He slipped from the kitchen, not too concerned that the doors would slam on him, and passed through the darkening breakfast room to the dining room, where Hulda’s enchanted lamp beamed from the center of the table. Fletcher leaned back in a chair, facing the window and not Merritt, watching the elms in the illumination of the purple-hued sunset. Hulda had her nose in a cupboard and a receipt book in the crook of her arm.

Merritt slipped by both of them, into the reception hall. Passed the ward on the stairs and up. The way to the left was safe and warded. The way to the right—

A few smoky shadows curled in the hallway. The library was silent. Perhaps Hulda had tamed it, or maybe it was merely waiting for a target before it started hurling books again.

Steeling himself, Merritt walked right, past the bedroom and the library, to the sitting room door. He opened it.

The windows had returned, letting in violet, orange, and red sun rays. They fell over chairs and sofas, a dark fireplace, a scenic portrait on the wall, and an empty corner that might have once borne a pianoforte or a harp. Seemed the right size. As Merritt watched, those smoky curls reformed themselves in the corner, muting the sunset. The ceiling warped like it was being stretched by a torrent of rain water. The carpet ruffled like the fur of a threatened cat.

Gooseflesh rose on Merritt’s arms. One by one, he removed his fingers from the doorknob.

And stepped inside.

The door didn’t slam shut behind him, but as he moved to the center of the room, it creaked on its hinges, easing shut with the practice of an experienced lover. The floorboards creaked and the baseboards popped. It was angry, and Merritt felt it. He could almost . . . hear it.

Then, with cold fingers, Merritt took the ward off his neck and tossed it behind him.

The far wall broke from the others and rushed forward, knocking furniture from its path, upturning the carpet, charging for a body-shattering blow—

Merritt closed his eyes and formed fists with his hands—

The wall stopped short, sending a gust of air over him, blowing his hair back. When Merritt opened his eyes, it was an inch from his nose.

He waited for the house to do more. To grow spikes, to buck, to crush him.

It waited. It breathed.

When his heart settled back into his chest, Merritt whispered, “Aren’t you lonely?”

The wall rippled before him. He didn’t step back. Neither did the house.

“That’s the point of being a house, isn’t it?” he asked, nails digging into his palms. “To be lived in. Last resident was in the 1730s, wasn’t it? So aren’t you lonely?”

Patterns of light and dark danced over the wall as shadows slipped across the window.

“I am.” His voice was barely audible, but he knew the place heard it. “I’ve been lonely for a long time. Sure, I’ve had friends, colleagues, so I’m not isolated. But I still feel it. It’s the deep, lasting kind of loneliness. The hollow kind that settles in your bones.”

His muscles were so stiff his arm jerked when he moved it. Carefully he pressed fingertips, then fingers, then palm to the wall, his knuckles sore from clenching.

“I’ll be good to you if you’re good to me,” he promised. “Maybe . . . Maybe we could both use a fresh start.”

The room stilled.

He waited. Swallowed. Waited some more.

“I’ll admit”—a coarse chuckle worked up his throat—“that the rats were a nice touch.”

The room creaked. Merritt’s pulse picked up, but the wall shifted backward, away from his touch. Back, back, back, until it clicked back into place. The furniture jellied and reoriented itself, though the carpet remained overturned. Cautiously, Merritt picked up its end and smoothed it down. When he looked up, he saw a multicolored knitted scarf lying on the floor.

And the shadows disappeared.