Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 12

September 13, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

That Sunday, Merritt could not determine why Hulda was so remarkably angry with him. She’d been stiff—stiffer than usual, that was—all day. Curt—more curt that usual, again—in her responses to him. Was it because he hadn’t gone to church? Did she not realize how far away church was, even with an enchanted boat? And he was just on the cusp of breaking into the next act in his novel.

The truth came out when he sat down in the dining room to eat a snack.

Hulda stormed in from the direction of the kitchen. “Socks in the kitchen, Mr. Fernsby? Must we live like we’re . . . we’re . . . mountain men?”

Merritt paused, an apple halfway to his mouth. “Do mountain men have kitchens?”

The question seemed to stoke the fire lighting the housekeeper from toe to head. She held up his dress socks like they were bloody rags—dress socks he’d left at the edge of the sink. “Why are these here?”

He’d honestly forgotten about them. It had been many years since he’d last shared living space with someone. “Because they were dirty. They’re drying.”

She looked sick. Merritt tried very hard not to laugh at the expression—they were mere socks, and they were clean.

“Genteel people do not wash their socks in the same bin as they wash their dishes! And I hung a drying line outside. Did you not see it?”

“I did see it.” He’d run into it once, actually. Nearly lost an eye. “But it was late.”

“And therefore you could not step outside to hang up your socks.”

She had him there. Taking a bite of apple, he chewed, shoved it into his cheek, and added, “It was dark?”

Hulda’s eyes nearly rolled, but she stopped them before the irises reached their peak. “Really, Mr. Fernsby!”

The ceiling shifted from white to blue overhead. Merritt rather liked the color, though he wondered what the house was getting at. He pushed his attention to Hulda. “The maid is coming today, yes? Will she be gathering the laundry?”

“Thank the Lord for that.” She stormed to the window and peered out. “And yes, she will do the laundry, though you will have to leave it in the basket in your bedroom if you want her to be able to find it.”

“They’re just socks, Mrs. Larkin.”

“And your coat is in the living room. Your shoes in the reception hall.”

His guilt warred with defensiveness. He wasn’t a child, for heaven’s sake, and this was his home. “Why not leave shoes in the reception hall? Otherwise I’ll drag dirt all over the place.”

“I agree with you.” She turned from the window. “But in that case, shoes can be left neatly along the wall, not thrown across the floor like they were attacked by a dog.”

Merritt nodded. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”

A funny little choking sound emitted from Hulda’s lips. She started for the door, but as she reached for it, it shifted to the right.

Merritt bit down on a chuckle. “What did you say the maid’s name was again?” He was still unsure about a maid—not only living with yet another strange woman. Merritt hoped that the more nonchalant he acted about the arrangement, the more normal it would feel.

“For the third time, it is Beth Taylor.”

“You know, since I’m your employer”—the corners of his eyes wrinkled at the tease—“you could be a little sweeter to me.”

She gave him a withering look. “I am sweet on kittens and lemon drops only, Mr. Fernsby. And as I’ve said before, you are BIKER’s client, not my employer. However, once a permanent housekeeper is brought on board, you may disparage her and her temperament as thoroughly as you see fit.”

Setting down his apple, Merritt spun in his chair. “What do you mean, a permanent housekeeper? You’re not staying?”

“I am staying long enough to sort out the issues with this house; then I will move on to wherever BIKER has need of me.”

Merritt felt two things at the forward statement: disappointment and surprise. Disappointment that Hulda would be leaving, and surprise that the fact disappointed him. Everything was going so . . . well. The house had settled down into occasional pranks and calls for attentions, instead of death threats and dead vermin.

“But what if I don’t like my new housekeeper?” he protested.

Her lip twitched toward a smile. “Well, if you had reviewed the résumés as you were supposed to, you would have gotten to handpick one. But since you’ve left it up to me, I’ve sent inquiries to the nastiest and most expensive women of my acquaintance.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You didn’t.”

Hulda didn’t reply, beyond a smug look. Snatching the door handle, she jammed her foot into the frame so it wouldn’t move again, then promptly left.

Merritt turned back to his apple, noting almost subconsciously that the bite he’d taken out of it looked a lot like France.

Beth arrived at 4:00 p.m. sharp. Merritt knew this because she knocked at the same time he checked his watch. Had he not been expecting her, he might not have heard the sound—it was a timid rapping, not purposeful and demanding like Hulda’s.

“Please be kind to her,” he whispered to the walls of the living room. “We’re in this together, are we not?”

The house responded by allowing the sofa to sink halfway into the floor. Merritt departed before the sudden sinkhole could devour him as well.

Hulda, unsurprisingly, beat him to the door. “Miss Taylor! Wonderful to see you. Was it much trouble arriving?”

“Your directions were good, Mrs. Larkin. My thanks.”

Hulda stepped aside to let in a dark, petite woman, her black hair pulled into a tight knot at the crown of her head. She had large, attractive eyes and a round face. Like Hulda, she wore a dress that covered her chin to toe, although hers was a comfortable pale-blue day dress to Hulda’s gray. Her umber eyes found Merritt immediately, and before Merritt could offer his own welcome, she said, “Are you a writer, Mr. Fernsby?”

He paused. “I . . . Yes.” Perhaps that was in his file, but if it was, she shouldn’t need to ask.

Beth nodded. “That’s interesting. Never worked for a writer before. I like it when people earn their own way and their own things.”

“Well, thank you.” He wouldn’t mention that the house had been given to him.

Something thumped upstairs. Turning about, Merritt muttered, “Please don’t be my model ship.”

“That’s just the house,” Hulda explained. “In much better constitution than it was in the beginning. I’ll see you situated, then give you the tour.”

Stepping forward, Merritt reached out. “May I?”

Beth paused, eyeing her suitcase before hesitantly handing it over. After Merritt grasped it—the thing was rather light—she said, “I think I’ll like it here just fine.”

“And you’re also from BIKER?” Merritt asked as he led the way up the stairs, leaving Hulda to take up the caboose.

Beth nodded. “I’m a contractor with them.”

“Does one have to have magic to work with BIKER?”

“Of course.” Beth didn’t even blink when the stairway flashed bright red. “But my talents are small. I’m only eight percent.”

“Eight . . . what?” he asked.

“Miss Taylor, it’s distasteful to share your ancestral composition with your employer,” Hulda chided.

Merritt paused at the top of the stairs, wary of the ceiling, which remained dry at present. “Ancestral composition?”

“Really, Mr. Fernsby.” Hulda pushed past both of them. “As you will now be dealing with magic on a regular basis, you should educate yourself on the matter.”

“I’ll educate myself when and if I decide to write a book on it,” he countered. “But since the distaste has passed”—he offered Miss Taylor a smile—“what do you mean eight percent?”

Miss Taylor glanced to Hulda.

Hulda sighed. “It is an estimation, based on genealogy, of what percentage of your ancestry was magical. The higher the percentage, the more magic—or stronger magic—one is likely to have.”

Merritt leaned on one foot. “What’s the difference?”

“It’s in the spells, Mr. Fernsby,” Beth chimed in. “Sometimes a person might possess only one spell, but they have a lot of it, so they can do that one thing very well. Sometimes a person has many spells but only a little of each, so they do a lot of things poorly. Most times, families with a history of magic get their children tested for it.”

Merritt nodded. “Isn’t it just a case of math, then?”

Hulda shook her head. “Genetics are a tricky thing, Mr. Fernsby, and magic is recessive. My sister, for example, hasn’t an iota of magic in her, but our parentage is the same.”

Merritt processed this. “Interesting. So what percentage are you, Mrs. Larkin?”

She frowned. “As I said, it is distasteful to discuss. This way. You’re in the second room here, next to mine. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to knock. But given that Mr. Fernsby is the sole occupant of Whimbrel House, your duties will be simple.”

“Is it on your résumé?” Merritt pressed as he followed. “Can I see it?”

Hulda ignored him. “I’ve already turned down the bed for you. Mr. Fernsby tends to sleep in late, so you may visit his room last in the mornings.”

“I’ll tell you mine,” Merritt continued. “Zero. Now you go.”

Beth chuckled. Perhaps it was beneficial to have others about the house.

Hulda cast both of them a withering look. “If it is so important to you, Mr. Fernsby, BIKER calculated me to be a twelve. High percentages are very rare among common folk.”

He nodded. “What do you think the queen is, then? Fifty?”

Rolling her eyes, Hulda took the suitcase and laid it on the bed. “Miss Taylor, let’s start in the library.”

Merritt followed them down the hallway. “Sixty? Goodness, it’s not seventy, is it?”

Hulda ignored him again, opening the door to the library, where books were flying. He highly doubted she would do anything to stop him from being whapped in the side of the head by a soaring volume, so he begrudgingly left the women to their business.

It wasn’t until he returned to his notebooks—thankfully all in one piece—that he realized he’d forgotten to ask what kind of magic Beth had.

Pulling out a new piece of paper, he wrote himself a note to visit the closest public library the next time he left the island. He was going to check out a few books on magic.

Miss Taylor toured the house, asking appropriate questions, and set to work the moment she was done, stating, “I can unpack when everything is clean.”

Truly, Hulda had not heard more beautiful words in some time.

Thankfully, Miss Taylor had basic kitchen skills, which was one of the reasons Hulda had hired her, Myra’s recommendation being the other. Later that evening, she prepared dinner with minimal assistance from Hulda and announced that she would venture to Portsmouth in the morning to gather a new batch of supplies. Everything was beginning to run smoothly.

With the dishes tucked away and both Miss Taylor and Mr. Fernsby retiring to their rooms, Hulda took the opportunity to tour the house once more, trying to pass through its spaces in different patterns than was customary. Her dowsing rods were in her bag, but her stethoscope remained around her neck. She studied each charm to see if it had changed—none of them had—and even purposefully knocked over a few things in hopes her divination spell might give her a hint, but of course the fickle magic rarely worked that way. If anything, she’d only get a glimpse of her own future.

She was nearly at the point where she might need a candle when she started back down the hallway from the direction of the bedrooms. Paint began dripping—though this time it was gray—so she opened her umbrella and walked slowly, searching the corners of the space, trying to peer through its walls, so to speak. As she stepped into the library, as expected, books started flying. Today, the house was flinging black-spined volumes, of which there were many.

Hulda nudged a single foot into the room, not wanting to risk being struck, though the house had thus far spared her physical harm. But as she was about to brave her other foot, she happened to glance over her shoulder to the hall.

The paint rain had ceased.

She paused. Glanced into the library. Pulled her first foot out but left the door open.

Within seconds, the paint began again, pattering as it had before, vanishing into the carpeting like it had never been.

“Hmm,” she said aloud, stepping fully into the library. Books began flying. She peeked into the hallway. No drips.

She stepped back into the hallway. Drips.

Facing the hallway, Hulda walked backward until she passed into the sitting room. One step, two steps, three—

The furniture began rumbling as though coming to life. And the paint drips stopped.

A smile lifted her mouth. Well, there you have it.

“Mrs. Larkin.” Mr. Fernsby exited his bedroom at the other end of the house, holding a piece of paper in his hand. “This is going to make me sound like an imbecile, but how do you spell privilege? Is there not a d in it? I swear . . .” He glanced up, likely noting her expression. “What have you done now?”

“It’s spelled p-r-i-v-i-l-e-g-e, Mr. Fernsby.” She put a hand on her hip. “And I have discovered Whimbrel House’s source of magic.”

The furniture stopped rumbling.

Mr. Fernsby smirked. “I don’t suppose my lawyer was right and it’s haunted.”

“Why yes, Mr. Fernsby,” she replied in all seriousness. It fit. A single ghost could only do so much at once, and the magic hopped from room to room, as though trying to impress her. “I am quite positive that the spirit of a wizard is in possession of the facilities.”