Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 10

September 9, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

The next morning, Merritt stepped outside.

He’d had his doubts, though the scarf was once again securely around his neck despite the balmy weather. But he opened the door, and he stepped outside, and nothing stopped him from doing so.

He laughed. It was a strange laugh, like something deep in his soul had bubbled and burst halfway up his throat. Hoarse yet relieving, and as he took a second and third step, it repeated itself.

“Very well done, Mr. Fernsby,” Hulda remarked from the doorway, a pencil in one hand and a notebook in the other. “Admittedly, I had my doubts, but—”

He whirled around. “This is the first time I’ve walked this direction across the porch.”

She blinked at him, and Merritt laughed again, this time twirling on the ball of his foot. “It’s utterly pleasant out here!”

Leaping off the porch, he landed in a weedy patch of wild grass. “I will pull these!” he exclaimed, half to Hulda and half to the house. “I will weed the entire foundation. And over there, that’s the perfect spot for a garden!” He nearly skipped out to survey the area. A breeze carrying the scent of chrysanthemum rolled by, one of the last whispers of summer, and Merritt sighed in ecstasy. “I never realized how entirely beautiful the outdoors is.” He turned slowly, taking in the island, its weeping cherries and golden aster. A couple of shorebirds groomed themselves in the distance, half covered by reeds. He peered past them to the ocean.

He felt like he’d missed an entire lifetime, locked in that house. And now he desperately wanted to reclaim it.

Grinning hard enough to hurt, he whirled back to Hulda. “Go on a walk with me, won’t you, Mrs. Larkin?”

His housekeeper both smirked and rolled her eyes. “Thank you for the invitation, but despite this new solidarity between you and this abode, there are many things that still need to be organized. Such as the staff, Mr. Fernsby.”

“Do call me Merritt.”

“Thank you, but no.”

He shrugged. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to take charge of that? I don’t know heads or tails of maids and cooks. Perhaps you could choose those you’d get along with. I trust you would do it justice. In a sense, they would be your staff, no?”

He knew by the way she tilted her head to the side that she was considering it.

“The résumés are on my dresser.” He’d moved it back last night.

She nodded. “Very well. I’ll see it done.”

He bowed his thanks. “And I, Mrs. Larkin, am going to run like a fool.”

Turning, he took off across the island, barely hearing Hulda call out “As long as you come back!” over the wind whistling past his ears.

When was the last time he’d run?

Well, he’d done so when he was late to an appointment with his editor, but city running wasn’t the same. This . . . He felt like he was ten years old again.

He ran, leaping reeds and trampling goosefoot, ducking under slippery elm branches and startling rabbits and mice alike. He tripped once on a narrow stream hidden by grass, then again on an uplifted tree root, but he didn’t care. He laughed, then shouted, then did what he considered a very good imitation of a seagull—a party trick he’d discovered in his adolescence.

He ran until his lungs burned, until the house was a lump in the distance. He faced west, toward the mainland, and considered. He was out. Free. He could go back to the city if he wanted to. His things were here, yes, but he could get them shipped out before the house knew what was happening.

And yet, though he’d promised nothing, he felt as if he would be breaking a trust, not only with Whimbrel House, but with Hulda and BIKER as well. That, and . . . what precisely did he have to go back to?

Homeowner, he reminded himself. Progress.

He could do this. See it through. And the place really was lovely. What better environment to give him inspiration for his book?

I should really work on that. He chewed his lip as he strolled, watching his foot placement a little better now, though if he were to break an ankle, best he do it while Fletcher was still here. The thought reminded him that he couldn’t take too long if he wanted to see his friend off.

He walked until he reached the north coast, which was rocky and uneven, high in some places, low in others. More stones than seashells, but he picked a few up as he went, turning their smooth sides over in his hands, skipping flatter ones into the bay. He grinned, listening to the salty breeze rustle leafy shrubs. It almost sounded like a song.

As he came around a boulder, he paused, seeing a dark shape on the other side. Upon closer inspection, he discovered it was an old two-person boat lashed to a rusted spike, its rope worn and filthy and hanging on its last thread. The boat was badly weathered, but when he freed it from its binds and inspected it, he found no holes. In fact, its hull bore a barely there seal of two loose spirals intersecting. The same seal that stamped every single kinetic tram he’d ever ridden.

Curious, and without an oar, he pushed the boat into the water and pressed the kinetic seal. The boat moved of its own volition, inciting a startled laugh from Merritt. He quickly shut off the magic and, with some effort, got the boat back to shore. “This will be fantastic,” he said to no one in particular, “for getting to and from Portsmouth.”

There was no public transportation between Blaugdone Island and the mainland for resupplying. He, Hulda, and Fletcher had all hired private boats to get here. Return voyages had to be scheduled ahead of time, as Fletcher had done, unless one had a communion stone, windsource pigeon, flare, or another sort of signal to summon transportation. Or, perhaps, to alert the nearest lightkeeper you were in need of aid. There were two lighthouses between Blaugdone Island and the mainland. Merritt would have to introduce himself and get on their keepers’ good sides.

As Merritt dragged the boat farther ashore to keep the tide from lapping at it, he wondered if resupplying was something this staff would do. And how much it would cost to pay them. Easier to just do it himself, really. But Whimbrel House was wild, and a magically inclined staff would admittedly prove handy. Especially since Merritt had a book deadline coming up and hadn’t written a word of it since arriving.

Patting the boat goodbye, he traipsed back to the house, outlining the next two chapters in his head as he went, and, after waiting with Fletcher for his ride back, came up with a couple of splendid ideas for a third.

Two days after Mr. Portendorfer departed, Hulda learned something terribly grievous about her new client.

He was . . . messy.

Mr. Fernsby had moved from a small apartment to Whimbrel House, so he did not yet possess enough belongings to fill its rooms.

And yet.

Hulda was making rounds with her dowsing rods, stethoscope, and other tools, trying to get to the heart of the home’s magical source. She’d brought a feather duster along as well; efficiency was a godly gift.

In his office, Mr. Fernsby had multiple pens and pencils strewn about, as though every time he set one writing implement down, he retrieved another instead of picking up the first. The floor was littered with half-filled papers, some crumpled, some flat, others in between. Worse, his dinner plate was sitting next to the notebooks, and there was still food on it.

Frowning, Hulda picked up the plate and carried it downstairs. Where she found his breakfast dishes had not quite made it to the sink, his fork was on the floor, and the eggs were not put away.

And the most atrocious of them all, she later discovered, was that Mr. Fernsby did not make his bed.

She stared at the disheveled monstrosity in his room, blankets askew, pillows flat, one forgotten on the floor. For goodness’s sake, she understood the library being a mess, the house was what the house was. But this was ghastly. Expected from aristocracy, yes, but this was the United States, and Mr. Fernsby was not accustomed to staff. He had no excuses.

She blanched. What if he doesn’t wash his sheets?

Tucking her tools away, she marched downstairs, excusing herself outside for some fresh air and a rejuvenation of her sanity. She walked the perimeter of the house with her dowsing rods, finding little of interest, then listened to the foundation and corner posts. “I don’t think you’re built of magicked materials,” she said to the house, which did not respond. She made a note in her ledger and determined she might as well conduct a full inspection of the exterior while outside. Walking around the house, Hulda noted panels and buttresses, then examined the structure again from farther out, taking notes on the shingles and shutters. She hadn’t previously noticed the house had a weather vane. Perhaps that was something to investigate . . . though climbing up there would be a challenge in and of itself. Her dresses were not made for such adventure, and she did not own a pair of trousers.

Next she studied the windows, listening to them with her stethoscope and testing them with dowsing rods. She took her time because she didn’t want to perform the task twice. Indeed, by the time she had finished her inspection, the sun was beginning to sink.

Mr. Fernsby was writing by candlelight in his office when she returned indoors. She desperately wanted a long and thorough bath, but for decency’s sake, she would wait until after he had turned in for the night.

His door was open, and he must have heard her, for his fingers stilled and he turned in his chair. “Ah! Hulda, I have a question for you.”

Masking a frown, Hulda stepped into the room and said, “Mrs. Larkin, if you please.”

“Right! My apologies.” A flash of embarrassment swept his face, which was quickly replaced with nonchalance. “I want your opinion on something I’m writing.”

Hands on hips, she retorted, “I am not an expert on—”

“Everyone reads, do they not?” he interrupted. “You see, I’m writing an adventure story, taking place in New York. My protagonist is a young woman named Elise Downs, and she’s a Scottish immigrant—though I might change that. Either way, she’s just arrived in the city for the reading of a will, only to find the address for her lodgings is wrong. Then she witnesses a murder in a nearby alley.”

Hulda stiffened. “Good heavens.”

“Excellent response.” He grinned, and something about the motion—or perhaps it was the candlelight—made his eyes look green. “But I have a quandary. I would think any sensible woman would run, and Elise needs to be sensible to be likable. But I also need her to see the timepiece one of the murderers has on his person, so I think she should go in and try to save the bloke . . . What do you think?”

She frowned. “I think I would not be venturing into alleyways on my own in the dark. I assume it’s dark.”

“I don’t think murderers function as well in the day.”

Pushing her glasses up her nose, she said, “I must confess that I don’t read much in the way of fiction. I won’t be a great help to you.”

Mr. Fernsby reeled back. “What? Who doesn’t read fiction? What else is there to read?”

“Receipt books, histories, the newspaper—”

“All of the hogwash, the last one most of all.”

Hulda folded her arms. “Did you not work for the press, Mr. Fernsby?”

He smiled. “How else would I know? Now, about Elise—”

Hulda rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Does it have to be a murder?”

“Why shouldn’t it be a murder?”

“Because murders are frightening.”

“They’re exciting. In fiction, that is. I had two in my first book, and it did rather well.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps if it were a mugging, it would still be exciting, but not so dire that a brave young woman wouldn’t run in and try to startle the thieves. Or perhaps there is another witness with her, someone who emboldens her.”

He considered a moment, tapping his index finger against his lower lip. “I suppose they could meet earlier . . .”

“They?”

He snapped his fingers. “That might just work. Thank you, Mrs. Larkin. You’ve been a great help.”

He turned back to his notebook and tore the paper he was working on from its spine, then began anew, scrawling at a speed Hulda couldn’t help but be impressed by.

Leaving him to his work, she ventured downstairs to find something to eat and search for a tub for a bath. “Now, where did I put the cured duck?”

The farthest kitchen cupboard opened.

She smiled. “Thank you.” She pulled the wrapped meat free, then turned around, scanning the kitchen, the floor of which had been polished and fully resewn by the house. “I don’t suppose you know where the tub is?”

A great belch emitted from the hearth, sending a cloud of soot into the air. Hulda shielded her eyes as the tub, covered in grime, fell from the chimney.

She coughed and waved her hand to dissipate the cloud. “Really, Whimbrel House!”

The window opened.

“Thank you.” She stifled another cough and crossed to the tub. Goodness, it would take her the better part of an hour to scour the thing!

Ultimately, however, the scouring wasn’t at all an issue, for Mr. Fernsby did not go to bed for a very long time.