Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 14

September 13, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

“I am quite positive that the spirit of a wizard is in possession of the facilities,” she said.

Merritt paused. Everything paused. His blinking, his breathing, his mental faculties.

Forcing a smile, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Mrs. Larkin. Might I speak to you outside for a moment?”

He pushed past her without waiting for an answer. The hall ceiling started dripping, red again, and he found it very difficult to believe it was paint. He darted past the problem area, down the stairs, and across the reception hall, practically leaping outside. Part of him feared the front door would not open—that the house could read his mind—but he made it outside in one piece, recalling as he stepped outside that psychometry had not been included in Hulda’s report.

He did not stop until he was some distance from the house, ensuring it would not hear him. Hulda followed behind, closing up her umbrella as she walked.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Fernsby?” she asked once she caught up.

“Problem?” He kept his voice low. “There is a ghost living in my house!”

She didn’t respond right away. Like she expected further explanation. “And?”

“And?” He stalked away, then back. “And why are you so calm about this?”

“Because, Mr. Fernsby”—she planted hands on hips—“this is not the first possessed house I’ve been acquainted with, nor will it be the last. You of all people should know that fiction is just that. Do not lean on the ghost stories of your childhood.”

“Ghost stories have origins,” he hissed.

“From superstitious witch hunters, perhaps,” she countered, two lines forming a Y between her eyebrows. “I assure you, the house is just the same as it was before. The only thing that has changed is that we have now identified where the magic comes from!”

“From a poltergeist.”

She frowned. “Do you think all of the dead are malevolent ghouls waiting to feast on the flesh of the living?”

Merritt paused. Considered. “That was a good line, Mrs. Larkin. You should write a book.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Listen.” He put up his hands, as though illustrating with them might help him make his point. “It was kind of cute, when I thought I was dealing with a half-sentient kitchen or armoire. It is utterly horrid that there is an actual walking spirit from the grave floating around, watching me dress, breathing down my neck, and dropping me into pits!”

Hulda breathed deeply but nodded, which made him relax a hair. “It is simply that, on occasion, a person of magic does not wish to pass on to the world beyond, and instead finds a new body. Houses are large, made from natural materials, and often social, without a preexisting soul. It’s a rational choice.”

Merritt breathed out, long and slow, through his mouth. Grabbed some of his hair at the roots. Released it. Glanced back at the house. It seemed so normal from out here. Then again, he’d thought the same when he first arrived, before it trapped him inside and tried to murder him in the lavatory.

They’d reached a truce, hadn’t they?

But how trustworthy was an ancient soul?

“Whatever is haunting this place,” he spoke nearly at a whisper because all the goodwill they’d built with Whimbrel House might very well be lost if the ghost overheard them, “it’s been haunting it a long while. And it obviously has issues.”

“I believe,” she said carefully, “it’s merely forgotten standard decorum.”

“Standard decorum.” He grabbed his hair again. “Forgive me if a slip of standard decorum is not enough to balm . . . this.” He made a general gesture toward the place. “I mean . . . can’t we make him . . . go away?”

Hulda’s face fell. Only a fraction, before she covered it up, but Merritt saw it nonetheless, and it transported him back to the hole in the kitchen, where she confessed her reasons for preserving the house as is.

“Shouldn’t it, I don’t know,” he tried, “be laid to rest? Houses can’t really die, right? What if he doesn’t even want to be here anymore?”

“Or her,” Hulda remarked.

“For the sake of my sanity, let’s choose one pronoun to work with. How do we make him go away?”

She sighed and folded her arms, though it looked more like she was hugging herself. “I cannot legally stop you from pursuing that route. But if you do so, the magic will be stripped away. Lost.”

Merritt frowned, hating the worm of guilt in his chest. “And you’ll be unemployed.”

“If I may remind you yet again, Mr. Fernsby, I am BIKER’s employee. Should you choose to proceed with the exorcism, they would see to my vocational direction, as well as Miss Taylor’s.” Hulda’s usual rigidness returned in full force. “In the meantime, removing the wizard will take some work.”

Absently picking at lint in his pocket, he asked, “Like what?”

“Like learning the identity of the soul within these walls.” Turning, Hulda took in the house like she was seeing it for the first time. “We cannot call him out if we don’t know his name.”

“I see. And how do we do that?”

“Research, Mr. Fernsby.” Hulda loosened her arms and gripped the umbrella’s handle. “A great deal of research.”

Beth walked into Merritt’s office with a feather duster in one hand and the mail in the other. She’d taken his little kinetic boat across the bay to Portsmouth this morning to post mail—all of which was Hulda’s—and pick up supplies.

“Some missives from the post office, Mr. Fernsby,” she said, handing him three letters.

Merritt hesitantly plucked them from her fingers. Now that he knew the truth about the house’s magic, he was very aware of everything he did, like the wizard in residence was watching him. Supposedly he could only haunt one room at a time, but he could be lurking, and the awareness of that made Merritt fidget. He thought to utilize the wards again, but he didn’t want to make the haunter angry. “I don’t have a box at the Portsmouth post office.”

Beth shrugged. “You do. Comes with the house, I guess. Any forwarding was handled by BIKER.”

Turning the letters over, he saw the first addressed to him in elegant handwriting, without a return address. Shifting it to the back, he lit up as he recognized the stamp of the Albany Sunrise Journal, which he’d published three articles in earlier that year, and tore open the envelope to find an acceptance of a satirical article he’d written about how one could tell a Democrat from a Whig based on how he buttoned his coat, along with a paycheck that certainly didn’t hurt his financial situation. To further bolster him, the second letter was from Mr. McFarland, his editor, and it contained a substantial check for a portion of his contracted advance.

“Praise the Lord and all that be,” he murmured, setting the two letters aside.

Beth had already set to dusting. “Good news?”

“Good news! The world is right, and we shall continue forward in comfort.” He chuckled before turning back to the last letter. Curious, he ripped open the envelope with his thumb and pulled out a single piece of parchment, which was signed at the bottom by a Maurice Watson.

“Never heard of the fellow,” he muttered. He read over the message, back straightening when he got to the meat of it.

What was in the air today? Not that Merritt was complaining, but this last letter could very well be a solution to his ghostly problem, not to mention the financial boost it promised . . . and yet his stomach felt oddly ill at the thought of accepting the offer. Had he grown so attached already? In truth, he wasn’t sure what to do with the sentiment. In his experience, it was always better to adopt an attitude of nonchalance, to keep feelings shallow so that they couldn’t grow teeth. He’d have to be careful moving forward.

“Mrs. Larkin!” he bellowed. When she did not reply, he raised his voice further. “Mrs. Larkin!”

Shuffling sounded down the hallway. Hulda appeared in the same green dress she’d worn upon first arriving, and it swished around her as she turned into the room. “I am not a dog, Mr. Fernsby.” She eyed the letter. “What is it?”

“A Watson fellow is inquiring about purchasing the house.”

Her eyes widened. “What?” Crossing the room, she snatched up the letter and read it herself, adjusting her glasses as she did so.

It was a simple letter, merely asking if Merritt would be willing to sell his property and, if so, to name his price.

How high of a price could he name?

“How strange,” she murmured. “The house is so obscure even I hadn’t heard of it, and it’s not listed. How would he know?”

Merritt folded his arms. He had intended to stay, but . . . “Perhaps he would be willing to keep it . . . as is.”

Hulda pressed her lips together. “Perhaps,” she repeated. “But Whimbrel House is . . .” She eyed the walls, perhaps trying to sense for the resident wizard. “Well, undesirable by the general populace, given the location and the enchantments. It hasn’t had a buyer in ages. Why now?”

“Mr. Fernsby?”

Merritt nearly jumped out of his chair at Beth’s quiet voice behind him. He smacked his hand to his chest to keep his heart in place. “Good heavens, Beth. Do step more loudly in the future.”

She smiled. “May I see it?”

Hulda passed over the letter. Beth closed her eyes, holding the page gingerly in her hand.

Hulda whispered, “Are you reading it?”

Merritt frowned. “She obviously isn’t.”

Hulda shushed him, and he folded his arms, feeling every bit an indignant child.

Beth’s eyes opened. “Odd feeling about this one. Can’t explain what, but . . . doesn’t sit right with me.”

Hulda frowned. “Odder and odder.”

Hesitant, Merritt pulled the missive from Beth’s fingers. “What were you doing just now?”

Beth swept back a few strands of hair. “My talents lie in psychometry, Mr. Fernsby. I’m clairvoyant. A little, at least. Get ideas and feelings that aren’t my own, at times. Felt strange about that letter from the beginning but didn’t want to overstep.”

“Oh. Like Hul—Mrs. Larkin, then.”

Clicking her tongue, Hulda said, “Clairvoyancy is in the school of psychometry, Mr. Fernsby. Seership is augury. They are quite different.”

He hesitated. “Are they?”

The housekeeper stifled a sigh.

“What Mrs. Larkin means,” Beth said with care, “is that augury involves future-telling and fortune. Psychometry occupies the mind. Mind reading, hallucination, empathy. I specifically possess the power of discernment.” She gave him a patient smile. “I might sense you sneaking up on me, no matter how clandestine you’re trying to be. Or suppose you were pretending to be a Turk, I would know you were not.”

“Oh. Well. There goes that scheme.” He glanced at the refined handwriting. Obviously this Maurice Watson was educated. He might have a pretty penny to his name. But if Beth had a bad feeling about him, particularly one prompted by magic, he might not be the easy answer to their predicament after all.

Merritt thought about the weeping cherries and whimbrels and Beth and Hulda . . . then opened a drawer and slipped the letter inside. “I suppose I’ve only just gotten here. I should see through the mystery with the”—he swallowed—“ghost.” He shrugged without even thinking to, the movement was so practiced.

A soft smile touched Hulda’s lips. Some of her features were severe, accentuated by the way she carried herself, but she was pretty when she smiled. “Excellent choice, Mr. Fernsby.”

He certainly hoped so.

The file BIKER had on Whimbrel House was indeed sparse—it listed Mr. Fernsby’s maternal grandmother, who’d won it from a Mr. Sutcliffe, who’d inherited it from his father, who’d taken the deed from his brother. That was it, and none of those listed on the deed had ever actually lived at Whimbrel House, or in Rhode Island, for that matter, and therefore none of them could be the house’s haunter. It seemed evident that the house had been built—and abandoned—in the early settling of the colonies, given the style and lack of documentation, then picked up again before the finalizing of US law. It was really quite a mess.

And so, in order to update the file and get the information Hulda needed on the wizard’s identity, the most obvious place to start the search was the library.

The library wasn’t large in the way of noble houses, but the side walls were stacked with shelves reaching floor to ceiling, most of them full, which made for a good deal of books. They were also vastly unorganized, thanks to the house’s habit of book throwing.

Hulda started on the far end of the south shelf, and Mr. Fernsby started on the close end of the north, and they proceeded with their search while Miss Taylor occupied herself in the kitchen. Hulda would contact BIKER as well, though if the history of the house wasn’t in the file Myra had initially given her, Hulda doubted the institution knew anything else.

“Search for journals, biographies, wedged newspapers,” Hulda murmured as she put one hardcover back and selected another, “anything of the like. Even a name printed on the inside cover.”

“The Anatomy of Galapagos Sea Turtles,” Mr. Fernsby read. “You don’t suppose our ghost is a turtle, do you?”

Hulda snorted. “He is a very intelligent turtle if so.” The book in her hands proved to be a receipt book with no helpful markings.

The next book was an old sketchbook used by an artist of little talent, only an eighth full at best. No names or dates, just birds, trees, and monsters. That was followed by Utopia by Thomas More and volume 3 of Shakespeare. Hulda wondered who the bookworm was who’d stocked these shelves, or if the collection had been built over time since the invention of the printing press. She highly doubted the spirit wizard was a reader, the way he treated these spines.

A book near her shoulder started to wiggle free on its own. Hulda shoved it back into place and said, “Not now. Do you want us to help you or not?”

Whether the wizard wanted to be parted from the house was another question entirely, but Hulda had yet to clarify her purpose where the being could hear. Regardless, the book stayed put.

Mr. Fernsby chuckled softly.

She glanced over the rim of her glasses, which made his edges fuzzy. “What?”

He flipped a page in the small book in his hand, closed it, and held it up. “Something called Hills of Heather. Looks to be an Irish romance.” He turned the book over in his hands. “My sister loved to read things like this.”

Mention of his sister sparked something uncomfortable in Hulda’s chest, like she’d swallowed the burr atop a long blade of grass. “Mr. Fernsby, if I may ask you a personal question.”

He met her eyes, but she didn’t utter a word until his head dipped in consent.

“Why did you live with Mr. Portendorfer? Are you . . . estranged from your family?”

“Oh. Ha.” He returned the book, moving his gaze squarely to the shelf in front of him. “We are that, yes. Family politics, really. You know. General nonsense.” He shifted for the door. “Say, where is Miss Taylor? I wanted her opinion on something. Be right back to do”—he waved his hand broadly—“this.”

And with that, he slipped into the hallway, evading the conversation entirely.

Hulda wondered if it would have been better not to have asked.