Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 15

September 15, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

The following morning, Merritt and Hulda took the enchanted skiff across the Narragansett Bay at speed. Although cramped for two, it got them safely to shore. From there, they hopped an unenchanted coach, as most were, to Portsmouth, where they would look into the matter of the unwanted ghost. All in all, the trip took about an hour.

Merritt helped Hulda off the coach and guided her to the edge of the busy street. “Nearly forgot the rest of the world exists, being out on that island.” Hands in his trouser pockets, he took in the tall buildings and the numerous faces, the smell of horses and something sweet baking nearby, the sight of cobbled roads.

“And much more of it outside Portsmouth.” Hulda tugged on the hem of her gloves, securing them to her fingers, looking even more like a faux Englishwoman. “Best for you to start at the city building and then move on to the local library. I’ll accompany you to the first.”

Merritt frowned and moved in step with her. “You make it sound like you’re not attending.”

She peeked at him over her glasses. “I told you I was visiting BIKER today.”

“I thought that was after.”

Hulda clicked her tongue. “Two birds with one stone, Mr. Fernsby. I hardly think you need me holding your hand while you inquire about your property.”

Merritt grinned. “Mrs. Larkin, are you flirting with me?” The morbid shock that covered her face made him laugh out loud. “Offering to hold my hand in a public place—”

She whapped him with her umbrella, which had been hanging off her forearm. “Do be appropriate, Mr. Fernsby!” She blew out a puff of air. “I shall have to warn any future replacement that you have a tendency to go rogue.”

He tripped over his own feet. “Replacement? Already?”

They paused on a corner. A wagon passed by. “Of course, Mr. Fernsby. I’m not intended as a permanent employee. My specialties lie with identifying and taming an enchanted home’s magic and training staff to maintain it. Then I move on to the next project—wherever it is BIKER needs me. Besides, once this business with the wizard is complete, it will be up to you whether or not you want to continue on with a routine housekeeper, maid of all work, or not. BIKER won’t be involved once the enchantments are moot.” Her voice dipped with disappointment. “There are relevant résumés in the documents I gave you.” She rose one eyebrow before crossing the street.

Merritt hurried to keep up with her, his stomach sinking. “B-But I don’t want a new housekeeper or maid of whatever. I’ve just gotten used to you. You want me to do this horrid dance all over again?”

“I don’t recall dancing.” But her lip ticked up, which was always a good sign.

“Oh please, Mrs. Larkin.” They reached the next corner, and he grasped both her hands and dropped to his knees. Her eyes went wide as dollars. “Please stay!”

She jerked from his grip. “Mr. Fernsby! People are looking!”

The utter horror that painted her features had him popping up off the sidewalk immediately. “I suppose I can’t embarrass you into staying on longer?”

She gave him a stern look. “I beg you to keep your gregarious disposition to yourself.” Her mouth worked. “I suppose I could speak to BIKER about temporarily extending my stay.”

He grinned. “Then you didn’t request the nastiest and most expensive of your acquaintances to assail my house?”

Her mouth was hesitant to smile, but he got a decent arc out of it. “Obviously that was an exaggeration.”

She started walking, so he fell into step behind her. “Means we’re good friends, that,” he teased, trying to irk a smile from her. “I’m thinking, given your inevitable abandonment of—”

Hulda stopped midstride, causing Merritt to bump into her shoulder. He expected her to whirl around and scold him, but her eyes remained fixed on something across the street, in the direction of a clock shop. Her stance was stiff, her face pale, like she was going to be sick.

Merritt gingerly touched her arm. “Hulda?”

She stepped back, nearly colliding with him, into a narrow alley between buildings, never taking her eyes off . . .

Merritt couldn’t tell. He squinted, examining the shop, the people next to it, passing by—

Hulda let out a long breath.

“Are you all right?” he pressed.

She shook herself. Smoothed her skirt. “I . . . am perfectly fine, thank you.”

“What were you looking at?”

“It’s nothing, Mr. Fernsby.”

“It’s obviously something.” He stepped in front of her, blocking both her view and her way out. The muscles in his arms and chest twitched, like he was ready for a physical confrontation.

But she shook her head. “You need not concern yourself.”

A spike of offense shot through him. “Why would I not concern myself with you?”

She paused. Glanced up at him. Away. Adjusted her glasses. Took a deep breath.

“Hulda—”

“I thought I saw someone is all,” she finally answered, staring at the alley wall. “An old employer of mine. It surprised me.”

Merritt contemplated this. “Was he . . . unkind?”

She chewed on the inside of her lip. “In truth, he’s supposed to be in prison.”

“Oh.” He turned, scanning the street again. “Perhaps just a doppelgänger—”

“Yes, perhaps.” But she didn’t sound like she believed it. She was shaken. Merritt had never seen anything disturb Hulda before, and he lived in a damnable enchanted house with her.

She took a steadying breath. “I think I should get to Boston, Mr. Fernsby. The city building is just three blocks that way.” She pointed.

“I’ll walk you to the tram.” He stepped onto the street.

“Unnecessary, but thank—”

“Please.” His voice was low and resolute. He held out his elbow. “Let me walk you to the tram.”

She hesitated a heartbeat before nodding. “If you insist. I might be a while, so don’t wait up for me.” She took his arm.

He thought he heard a faint thank you under her breath, but it might have been the passing of a carriage.

Silas Hogwood.

That was who Hulda had seen.

Her thoughts lingered on him as the kinetic tram followed its track north, fueled by magic nearly as old as the country. It was a wide sort of bus without seats, save for a few chairs along the south wall. Everyone else held on to poles and railings. Hulda stood near the doors, her bag under one arm, her other snaked securely around a pole as the tram gently jostled her back and forth, back and forth.

Silas had been the owner of Gorse End, an enchanted mansion Hulda had worked at shortly after joining BIKER, near Liverpool in England. He was a charismatic man and a fair employer.

He was also a murderer and a thief.

Hulda closed her eyes, pushing against surfacing memories that were a decade old. Memories of disappearing guests; of crazed eyes; of shrunken, mutated bodies, dry and crinkled as old raisins.

Her stomach clenched, and a shiver crossed the span of her shoulders. Silas Hogwood was the most powerful wizard she knew, because somehow he had learned to extract the magic out of others. She was sure that’s what he’d done, though how was another question entirely. He’d never seemed overly interested in her abilities, but then again, they were negligible.

Silas Hogwood was supposed to be in prison. Hulda knew, because she had been the one to put him there.

Mr. Fernsby is right. It’s probably just someone with similar features. She squeezed the pole tighter. Why would he be free, let alone across the Atlantic and in Portsmouth? Be reasonable, Hulda.

But it had looked so much like him. So much like him. And Hulda didn’t think of him too often, not anymore. Surely it wasn’t a mere projection of her mind.

She was grateful for Mr. Fernsby’s interference, even if he had only escorted her to the tram. There was still a slight tremor in her fingers.

It was a good thing she was visiting BIKER. Myra would know what to do.

Hulda could not seem to keep her stride at a reasonable pace. She hastened from the tram, she speed-walked down the Boston streets, and she speed-walked to the back of the Bright Bay Hotel and up the stairs to BIKER’s offices.

Miss Steverus looked up from her reception desk as Hulda blustered in. “Mrs. Larkin! What a surprise!” She glanced down at some notes. “I don’t have you written down for today. Everything all right?”

“Just fine, thank you.” She patted her hair, hoping it wasn’t too much of a mess. “Is Myra in?” She started for the office.

Miss Steverus flipped through some notes. “I don’t see any appointments—”

Hulda gripped the knob and opened the door.

Myra, sitting at her desk, startled, hand flying to her breast. “Hulda! My goodness, you startled me!” She paused. “Whatever is the matter?”

Hulda shut the door behind her and dropped her bag on the nearest chair. “A few things to discuss. To start, Whimbrel House is possessed by a wizard, and—”

“Possession! I’m not surprised.” Myra tapped a pencil to her lip. “And how is the owner liking it? Mr. . . .” She pulled out a ledger.

“Fernsby. He seems to be taking to the house and our administrations well, but he’s not fond of ghosts.” Her thoughts were spinning, and she desperately tried to organize them. Sucked in a deep breath through her nose to steady herself. One thing at a time, Hulda. “He wants the spirit exorcised.” Stop fidgeting.

Myra’s face fell. “Does he? He won’t be convinced otherwise?”

Hulda rolled her lips together, considering, bossing her thoughts into a single row so she could process one at a time. “He . . . may be convinced yet. I think he’s becoming fond of the place; he turned down an interested buyer, for the time being.”

Myra looked a little stiff. “I see.”

“But I’m doing the necessary research, regardless of the outcome.”

“As you should.”

Hulda nodded. “On that errand, I did want to see if BIKER had any information on Whimbrel House not included in the initial file.”

Her employer’s lips pulled into a frown. She stood and paced to the window. “I’m afraid not—that was everything I could easily pull when the news came in. But I could have Sadie check the library downstairs, just to be sure.”

“I don’t mind checking it myself. I would like to return to the island tonight.”

Myra waved her permission. “Is that all? You could have sent a note, Hulda.” A slight smile curled her lips. “Always so thorough. That’s what makes you invaluable.”

Hulda bit back a smile of her own. “A few other matters.” Another deep breath. “That is, we’ve only hired a single staff member, thus far—”

“How is Miss Taylor faring?”

“Quite well. She’s a good find.”

Myra rubbed her chin. “Indeed. She has quite the story, if you ever care to ask her.”

“I will have to do that.”

“I might as well tell you while I’m thinking of it—that request you sent in for a cook? She already hired out and is on her way to Connecticut.”

“Of course she is.” Hulda removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’ll ask Miss Steverus for some other leads.” She reached for her bag handle to occupy her hands, then recalled she’d discarded it. “While I’ll see through the exorcism, Mr. Fernsby has also requested that I stay on longer. He is unaccustomed to staff and believes my leaving would be jarring. If there is nothing in BIKER’s queue, an extension would be relatively harmless.”

Myra raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Not an uncommon request. What are your thoughts on Mr. Fernsby?”

“He is an interesting character,” she answered truthfully. “A little eccentric at times, but friendly. He manages stress well. He has a creative mind that often gets caught up in his stories. He’s also a clutterbug.”

Myra laughed. “I’m sure that has been a challenge for you.”

Hulda paused, thinking again of the tram and the alleyway. Why would I not concern myself with you?

“But he is kind,” she amended, voice softer. Her stiffness dissipated a little. “And considerate.”

Myra paced to the desk, gripping the back of the chair and leaning her weight on it. “That is good. You are, of course, welcome to stay until I’ve an assignment for you elsewhere.”

Hulda nodded. “That would benefit the client.”

Drumming her fingers on the chair back, Myra asked, “Anything else? You swept in here like a storm.”

“I . . .” Hulda fidgeted. Seized an empty chair and brought it over. Sat. Myra followed her lead and sat as well. “I have a problem. Or I might have a problem.”

Concerned, Myra leaned forward. “What?”

Hulda appreciated being given the time to put it into her own words, knowing very well that Myra could simply pluck memories of the incident from her mind. “I . . . that is, in Portsmouth just two hours ago . . . I believe I saw Silas Hogwood.”

Myra reeled, paling. “Silas Hogwood?” Her mouth worked. “From Gorse End?”

Clasping her hands together, Hulda said, “Yes.”

Myra leaned against her backrest and folded her arms. She deliberated for several seconds. “That’s just not possible. Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be with two eyes.” She explained where she had been, where he had been, what he had been wearing.

Myra pinched her lips together. Leaned forward. Took up her pencil and began rapping its blunt end against the desk. “May I?”

Nodding, Hulda pulled up the image as crisply as she could. Although she didn’t feel Myra’s intrusion into her thoughts, she knew she was there, seeing what Hulda had seen. Myra sighed, marking her retreat.

“Mr. Fernsby is not a bad-looking fellow,” she commented.

Hulda’s face warmed. “Myra, really!”

The woman responded with an uneasy smile, blinking rapidly—a common side effect for psychometry was the dulling of other senses. All magic had countereffects, though most people had so little magic in their blood, they were rarely severe. “They do look similar, I’ll give you that,” Myra agreed. “But I don’t think it was Mr. Hogwood.”

“Truly?” Hulda knit her fingers. “Even his manner of dress—”

“You haven’t seen him for eleven years,” she pressed, gentle. “Mr. Hogwood is locked away. And even if he got out, what would he be doing in Rhode Island, of all places?”

Hulda sank into her chair. “I have told myself that very thing.” She knew Mr. Hogwood reasonably well; after all, she’d been in his employ for two years, back when she was a full-time housekeeper. One learned a lot about a person by being their housekeeper. She knew he was terribly tidy. He was kind to those close to him but didn’t like meeting new people. He’d kept entire wings of the house to himself because he savored privacy . . . and not just to hide the malevolent crimes he was committing. He was certainly a man set in his ways, and his ways were set in England. Never in all her time knowing him had he even hinted at a desire to leave home.

She offered a sympathetic nod. “Sleep on it. Seeing a fellow who favors him in appearance must have been a shock to the system. Those were . . . unfortunate times, and you were caught in the middle of them. Such memories can’t ever truly be put to rest.”

Hulda forced herself to relax. “All true, of course. I half wish you could just pluck them from my skull and let me live in blissful nescience.”

Myra chuckled. “Unfortunately, not something I can do.”

Sighing, Hulda got to her feet. “I’d best go.”

“Be sure to ask Miss Steverus for your mail.”

Hulda paused. She didn’t often get mail to BIKER, but it wasn’t unheard of. “Thank you, Myra.”

“Keep me updated, Hulda. Please.” She offered a warm expression.

Hulda returned it, grabbed her bag, and saw herself out. Before she even had a chance to ask, Miss Steverus turned about in her desk and said, “Pulled this for you!” and handed her a crisp envelope. “Looks important.”

“Indeed it does.” She turned it over in her hand. There was a return address she didn’t recognize. “Would you put in a request for a pair of communion stones?”

“Right on it; need to pull some files, anyway.” Standing, the receptionist moved down an adjoining hallway to the records room. Hulda sat on one of the available chairs. Might as well read this missive before applying herself to a fruitless hunt in the small BIKER library. Breaking the seal and pulling out the letter, she read,

Dear Miss Hulda Larkin,

My name is Elijah Clarke, and I’m the chair for the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic.

Hulda rolled her eyes. Of course she was being solicited. Still, she read on.

We discovered you through your great-grandmother Charlotte “Lottie” Dankworth. As you know, she was a famous carnival diviner and astrologist along the East Coast. We were very excited to see she had descendants!

If you’re not familiar with GSAM, let me take a moment to introduce the organization.

Hulda was well aware of what the society did.

Our goal is to study the heritage of magically capable people in hopes of pairing them together to form magically beneficial unions. We believe you have a significant portion of your great-grandmother’s talents, given your pedigree, and would love to speak with you further on the matter of propagating magic for generations to come. It is a needful and blessed resource that continues to rapidly decline; we want those of the future to benefit from it as we have.

Please send your reply at the below address. I would love to speak to you about your abilities, options, and future. You will be compensated for your efforts, of course.

Sincerely and with great hope,

Elijah Clarke

Hulda rolled her eyes again—a bad habit she’d formed as a child and was hard pressed to overcome. While the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic had the most magnificent ancestry records in the Western Hemisphere, it was also a glorified organization for arranged marriages. Groups like it had existed for centuries, ever since mankind had realized magic wasn’t an unlimited resource. Ultimately, their mission was noble. Yes, the world would prosper from the continuation of magic. It provided energy, pushed public transport, grew crops . . . where it still existed, anyway. It was simply unfortunate that the only way to increase its presence in the world was through selective bedding.

Still, perhaps it was hasty of Hulda to dismiss the letter so readily. It felt somewhat invasive to be traced on her great-grandmother’s pedigree, but it wasn’t like Hulda would ever make a match on her own. She was thirty-four years old and had never even been kissed by a man, let alone courted by one. Peradventure she should hear this Mr. Clarke out, while her body was still capable of creating offspring.

“I don’t know,” she murmured aloud. “It’s just so . . . awkward.” And the process would likely be rife with disappointment. She couldn’t stand the thought of being paired with a man who would regard her with disgust or disdain. Her heart might shatter.

“My goodness, has someone died?”

Hulda stiffened, smoothing her face and folding up the letter at the sound of Myra’s inquiry. “Not at all. I was just thinking.”

“Glad I caught you. I have a free hour; would you like help in the library?”

Hulda smiled. “Yes, I would. Thank you.”

“Not a problem at all.” Myra turned, but Miss Steverus was coming their way, and Hulda didn’t have time to warn either of them. The women crashed into one another, sending papers flying.

“Ms. Haigh!” Miss Steverus exclaimed. “I’m so sorry!”

Hulda quickly stood from her chair. “It’s all right, let’s pick them up.”

Myra laughed. “You’d think I’d be able to ‘hear’ you coming, Sadie.” She bent down to pick up papers.

Hulda crouched to reach for one, but her mind registered an odd pattern in the parchments. Before any of them could pick up the first document, a vision flashed through Hulda’s mind.

A wolf. A wolf in a . . . library?

Miss Steverus grabbed several papers, destroying the premonition before it had fully manifested. Hulda blinked, trying to recall the shapes and colors. The animal had appeared large, black in color . . . not unlike the wolf she had seen on Blaugdone Island. Then again, wolves didn’t have a lot of variety among them, did they? But what on earth would a wolf be doing in a library? Her premonitions were finnicky, but they were unambiguous. She was no dream reader; what she saw was what would be seen, in some indeterminate amount of time. But this was just outlandish. Perhaps, had the papers gone undisturbed, it would have made sense.

Now . . . what had she been doing? Ah, yes, the paperwork. Such a meddlesome thing, to experience the side effects of far-seeing when she hadn’t intentionally used her ability. Forgetfulness loved to accompany divination. But what did the vision mean? Her augury was usually more . . . concise . . . than this. And this wasn’t the first time it had shown her a large dog.

Was the reading for Myra or Miss Steverus?

“Could you pass me that one, Mrs. Larkin?”

Flashing to the present, Hulda grabbed the paper closest to her and handed it over. “Yes, sorry.”

Myra glanced at her. “Did you . . . see something?”

Hulda shook her head. “Nothing important.” And it often wasn’t.

But after the events of the day, Hulda wasn’t comforted by that fact.