Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 18

September 18, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

When Hulda returned, Merritt sulkily approached her with a small wheel in his hands.

She paused in the reception hall, an extra bag slung over her shoulder. “What is this?”

Merritt sniffed. He’d had a few hours to come to terms with the transformation, which had led him from wild anger to sadness. Beth and Baptiste were both keeping their distance. “This is my manuscript. Look what the place has done to it!”

Setting her bags down, Hulda took the wheel from him and tilted it toward one of the candles Beth had lit. The sun hadn’t quite set, though it was nearly there. “Interesting.”

“Interesting!” Merritt grabbed fistfuls of his hair. “That is a month’s worth of work!”

She handed the wheel back. “I’m very sorry for it. Hopefully the house changes its mind about it.”

He thought his knees might give way. “Can’t you fix it? Bully the house like you did before?” He eyed her bags and straightened, a glimmer of excitement bursting in his middle. “Did you find it?”

Hulda didn’t look happy when she nodded. “I did. I believe the wizard to be Dorcas Catherine Mansel.” She reached for the new bag, briefly explaining the logic among the siblings, most of which Merritt followed. “I brought everything we’ll need for the exorcism. If you would assist me with the salt.”

“Salt?” Merritt peered into the bag as she fished out a hefty package from it. “What about holy water?”

“It isn’t that sort of exorcism, Mr. Fernsby, but I do need the foundation encircled by salt. Best do it now while there’s still light.”

“And my manuscript?”

She glanced at the wheel. “I’m sure a little goading will do the trick.”

Nodding slowly, Merritt slipped outside, glancing up at the purple-tinged sky and the faintest sliver of gold to the west. It really was beautiful, wasn’t it? Endless acres of land unspoiled by humans, cradled by clean ocean air, splayed under a flawless sky. He should put something of the sort in his book.

Thoughts of his book had his heart sinking again, so he tore open the package of salt and set to work, nearly stepping on a mouse as he did so. He’d just finished watering the plants in the sunroom—he couldn’t leave everything to Beth if he still wanted some semblance of independence—and come upstairs to finish a scene he’d been mulling about since that morning. There, on his desk, was this blasted wheel, too small to even be useful for anything. Only the empty reams of paper had been untouched by the spell. He’d choked on his own breath, searched frantically for the manuscript as though he or the others might have misplaced it. But their resident wizard, Dorcas, had alteration magic, and she had used it on his book. Exorcise her, and it would never turn back.

He would never be able to rewrite it the same way. It wasn’t possible. He only had the vaguest outline . . . and the thought of starting from the beginning made him sick. He’d already written that part of the story. It would be torture to re-create it!

He’d been pacing relentlessly for Hulda to return, for if anyone could cajole the house into listening, she could. Yet she didn’t seem particularly interested in trying.

It was the idea of disenchanting the house that bothered her. He knew it.

Am I doing the wrong thing?

But it was his house. He couldn’t get by with portraits following him around or his livelihood turning into random inanimate objects. He had no desire to return to a cramped apartment in the city, either. He liked it here. The weeping cherries and shorebirds were becoming comforts to him. Even the staff was starting to feel like, well, a strange sort of . . . family. And he hadn’t had family for a very long time.

But he was about to lose them, too, wasn’t he? Everyone but Baptiste . . .

Finished with the salt—it had taken the entire bag—he returned inside as the sun shrunk beyond the horizon. Beth and Baptiste lingered in the dining room, peeking out as Hulda worked. She’d set out eleven stones, which had to represent the eleven magics. Merritt’s eyes flitted from bloodstone to turquoise to a purple one near his foot.

“What is amethyst for?” he asked. He didn’t touch it; he knew Hulda wouldn’t like her efforts to be interrupted. “Conjury?”

Hulda paused, looking surprised that he even knew what the stones were for. Well, magical or not, he hadn’t grown up in a ditch. “Augury, actually.”

He nodded.

She gestured for him to join up with Beth and Baptiste, and he noticed the hateful wheel had been moved to the dining room floor. Baptiste murmured, “Is the ghost . . . coming out? Should I leave?”

“If it were dangerous, she would have told us,” Merritt assured him. Unless Hulda was more frustrated with him than he realized. But surely she wouldn’t risk any harm to Beth.

She pulled out a piece of paper. “This is an alteration and wardship spell. The first will change the house to something uninhabitable for the wizard, and the second will counter the spells the wizard used to attach herself. I will perform for Dorcas first; if that doesn’t work, Crisly.”

“But,” Merritt hesitated, “you aren’t also an alterist and a wardist, are you?”

“I am not. But these spells were preprepared by wizards who have those talents.”

A slight popping sound emanated from behind Merritt. He whirled around to see his manuscript on the floor where the wheel had been. Euphoria filled him from heel to head as he scooped the thing up, hurriedly flipping through pages to ensure it was all there. It was.

“Oh blessed Lord.” He hugged the book to himself. “Look, Mrs. Larkin! The house gave it back!”

She nodded sadly. “Probably because the spirit doesn’t want to leave.”

Merritt frowned. “Well, if that isn’t a nail in the reinvigorated fountain of my joy.”

Surprisingly, Hulda smiled. Just a small smile, no teeth, but it was there. “Quite metaphorical, Mr. Fernsby. You should be a writer.”

She turned to her spells, and Merritt’s gut tightened.

It happened very quickly—Merritt had envisioned something long and drawn out, full of shadows and guttural chants and the constant spraying of holy water. But Hulda’s reading of the spells was quiet and quick. The stones remained in place. The candles burned with consistency. The house didn’t even creak.

Hulda set the paper on the stairs. “Not Dorcas, then.” Frowning, she retrieved an identical paper from her bag. One set of spells per exorcism.

Beth shifted her weight, making the floor creak. “It’s been excellent working with you, Mr. Fernsby.”

His gut tightened further.

The dining room turned black.

“Mrs. Larkin,” he began, but he didn’t put enough effort into the name. She didn’t hear him.

She enacted the spell, using the full name, Crisly Stephanie Mansel.

And . . . nothing happened.

Merritt’s insides were strange. Anxiety bloomed from his navel. His chest was tight. And yet . . . relief oddly loosened his shoulders.

Hulda shook her head. “I . . . I don’t understand it. It couldn’t have been the parents. They didn’t have the right . . . mix.”

Beth said, “Maybe it is the youngin.”

Hulda sighed. “I did purchase enough for experimentation.” She pulled out a third sheet. Enacted the exorcism again, this time for Helen Eliza Mansel.

Nothing happened.

“I know these stones are good!” Hulda stamped her foot, abandoning her post to check the rocks.

Merritt dared to step into the reception hall. “Are you forgetting something?”

“I do not forget things, Mr. Fernsby.” She finished circling the room, then planted her hands on her hips. “I do not understand it. We’ll have to look for more graves. If it is not the children, it must be someone else entirely.”

Not one to be thwarted, Hulda attempted it one more time for Horace Thomas Mansel, and then Evelyn Peg Turly. Both were as anticlimactic as the first three.

Baptiste grumbled. Beth said, “Such a bother.”

Merritt shrugged. “I suppose things will have to be abnormally normal for another night. Beth, Baptiste, you’re welcome to turn in for the evening. Hopefully you wake up where you rested your head and your ceilings don’t drip, hm?”

Beth offered a small curtsy. Baptiste looked around curiously before shuffling into the shadows.

As he departed, Merritt turned to Hulda. “He is most excellent with venison. It’s a pity you missed it.” He took in the hard lines between her brows. “I’m sorry you had to make the trip.”

Hulda waved away the apology. “I would be happy for the failure if it didn’t seem so utterly illogical.” She started, perhaps surprised by her own honesty, and cleared her throat. “Well, since my stay is extending, I’ll give you this.” She went to her usual bag—the one with all the tricks in it—and pulled out two selenite stones, each about the size of Merritt’s fists. They bore the same dark seal of three curved lines, not unlike parentheses, growing in size, transcribed within a caret pointing to the right. Or left, depending on how he held it.

“Are these communion stones?” He’d heard of them—they were quite useful in the revolution—but had never used one himself.

“Indeed. And they’re expensive, so please treat them with care. When I leave, I’ll need to bring both back to BIKER. If we need to communicate while apart, these will allow it. Press your palm into the seal for about three seconds before speaking. Take your palm off first.” She looked at the reception hall like a disgruntled parent might glare at a child. “We wouldn’t have needed them if this had been successful.”

He passed his stone from hand to hand. “Hardly your fault.”

She sniffed. “It literally is my fault.” She paused. “I rarely guess wrong.”

“But”—he gently prodded her with an elbow—“now you’ll get to stay long enough to try Baptiste’s venison.”

She pulled back from him, and the change of shadows made her cheeks look ruddy. Not wishing to cause her discomfort, Merritt pocketed the stone and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have a scene to finish.”

Snatching his manuscript, he tucked it under his arm and ventured upstairs.

He wasn’t sure how much the wizard in residence really wanted to stay, because the ceiling dripped on him the entire way to his office.

After breakfast the next morning, Beth and Baptiste set out to find more gravestones, leaving Merritt to draft a letter to his editor and Hulda to organize . . . whatever it was that housekeepers organized. He’d begun to fear she’d gotten very bored with Whimbrel House since it was one of the smaller abodes she’d been assigned to. Which led Merritt to imagine what it would be like to have a new housekeeper. His mind instantly pictured Mrs. Culdwell from his old apartment, and he shuddered. Truthfully, though, when the house was only just a house, he might not need staff at all. There was only himself to pick up after, himself to cook for . . .

There was something invigorating about living alone. A . . . lack of rules, so to speak. Merritt could wash his socks wherever he wanted. He could work at night and sleep during the day. He could pace the hallway and talk to himself out loud, which not only helped him sort out stories, but also helped him understand his own flights of fancy. Being able to talk aloud to someone who always agreed with you could do wonders for the soul.

But there was a sort of hollowness to quiet rooms. One that had been much easier to ignore in a small apartment. Whimbrel House would feel very empty for a lone bachelor. And he feared that if he parted ways with Hulda, Beth, and Baptiste, he might never see them again. That sentiment panged sour in his chest, reminiscent of the barely healed scars that lingered there.

Once his letter was penned and addressed, Merritt listened for sounds of company and found none. He peered out his window, seeing Baptiste’s shadow in the distance. Moving into the hallway to another window, he spied Hulda clad in boots and a hat, venturing out to do her specialty. She’d likely run herself ragged looking for more graves. Perhaps the bloke in question really was under the floorboards, although he’d seen no sign of a body while he was under the house.

He eyed the floor warily before venturing down the stairs. Halfway through the steps, the stairs suddenly flattened themselves, sending him careening into the reception area on a giant slide. He swayed, stumbled, and fell hard onto his rump.

Wincing, he mumbled, “I suppose I should thank you for not doing that in front of the others.”

The stairs righted themselves.

Rubbing his tailbone, Merritt slipped outside and quickly forgot his worries about the house. The weather was utterly perfect. A flush autumn day. The elms were turning golden, and the maples gleamed red. The sun was high, the clouds were few, the sky was a miraculous shade of cerulean that no painter could ever hope to replicate. The temperature was just right for not having a jacket, though once he got moving, he’d surely be overwarm.

Merritt did not have a goal when he started walking, taking first the easy path toward the boat, then wandering in the direction of the weeping cherries, spiraling around clusters of golden aster. He heard the annoyed thump of a hare near some woodland goosefoot, as Beth called them, but didn’t see the creature. He stepped carefully where the wild grass thinned, for the ground had loosened with last night’s rain. A tantalizing breeze swept through his hair, as though to comment on the unkemptness of it. It carried whispers of salt, and Merritt breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the scent.

The breeze swept on, rustling the grass and grape fern, filling his head with visions of the Mansels’ graves. In his mind’s eye, he saw their weathered faces and chipped edges. In his palms, he felt the weight of each stone. Tasted the age on the back of his tongue. His feet changed direction of their own volition, until he found himself standing where he, Hulda, and Beth had cleared out grass.

The Mansels seemed to look at him with distaste. Like he wasn’t good enough for them, either.

He crouched before them, hands on knees. “Well? Who is it, then? I’d like to see you sleuth it out.”

The graves didn’t answer.

Frowning, Merritt inched back a bit. “Probably stepping on your heads or something. Sorry.”

His gaze shifted from Horace to Evelyn, Dorcas, and finally Helen.

Look.

He felt tugged southward. Holding his breath at the strange, faint sensation, he stood and shifted that way, peering into the untouched weeds, stepping on a tail of morning glory.

Reaching out, he parted grass one way and then another. Took a step, parted. Stepped, parted. Saw a glimmer of gray against the earth.

Crouching again so his knees would hold back some of the flora, he ran his hand over the unmarked stone. It was small, about the length of his head. Unassuming, dull, flat.

He curled his hands around it and lifted it. A centipede wriggled out from below, along with some beetles.

Merritt swept damp earth from the underside of the rock and saw beneath it the faintest carving of an O.

His pulse sped. Kneeling for better balance, he scrubbed his palm over the stone, uncovering a birth date that had broken apart midcentury, leaving just the bottom of a six. Grasping a clump of grass, he gingerly worked away grime, then pressed into the grooves with his fingers to help him read what time had worn away.

O. W. E. L? No, I. And it ended with an N. It was a Welsh name. Owein.

Merritt ran his thumb over the death date. Owein Mansel. Perished at age twelve. Before two of his sisters and both parents.

I don’t understand it. It couldn’t have been the parents. They didn’t have the right . . . mix.

No, Merritt thought. Not the parents. Lifting his fingers, he counted. One, Crisly. Two, Dorcas. And three, the youngest, Helen.

He looked at the faded birth date. Not the youngest.

Owein was. Born after Helen, though he’d lived eight years longer.

Merritt knew in his gut that this was the wizard. His stone had been dislodged, but his body would be lying beside his family, the location unmarked.

Glancing back to the other graves, a sinking feeling weighed him down. His hands clutched the stone. Separated from your family, are you?

Just like he was.

No wonder the boy’s spirit clung to the house. He’d died young, so young, and hadn’t wanted to lose his family. He had so much more to give . . . and he must have gotten the full brunt of his ancestors’ magical abilities, given all the spells he could cast. Come to think of it, the mischief of Whimbrel House very much seemed like the workings of a twelve-year-old boy.

No wonder he’d been so miserable when Merritt arrived! He’d been alone for so long . . . he was likely depressed, hurt, and angry. God knew Merritt would have been. Even the surveyors had separated him from his family—if they’d known about him, he’d have been on that family tree Hulda had found.

Standing, Merritt crossed back to the line of sisters and gingerly set Owein’s marker beside Helen’s.

He didn’t leave. He sat there, crouched in the dirt, staring at that worn gravestone, smaller than all the rest. How long ago had it been misplaced? How long had it been facedown in the muck?

Owein was just an angry little boy trying his best. Trying to remember what it meant to be a part of something.

After some time, grass-crunching footsteps approached. “Mr. Fernsby?” Hulda asked. “Are you ill?”

“Found him.” His voice was barely louder than the sparrows’ distant calls. He gestured to the stone. “It was turned about, over there.”

Hulda gasped and crossed to him, crouching to read the stone for herself. “O . . . Owen?”

“Owein. Owein Mansel.”

“Brilliant!” she cried. “I knew it had to be one of the children. Fortunately, I have two more spell sheets. I can prepare—”

“Leave him.” Merritt rubbed his hands together, flaking off dried mud. Then he stood, blood rushing back into his legs, and started for the house.

After a moment, Hulda hurried after him. “Mr. Fernsby? Leave him?”

Merritt gestured toward . . . nothing in particular. “He’s just a boy.”

Hulda hesitated. “His spirit is centuries old.”

“True.” He stepped over a rotting log. “But I understand the lad.”

Several seconds passed before Hulda repeated, softer, “Understand?”

He nodded. “Why he’d want to stay . . . He went too soon. Maybe he got sick. Who knows?” He put his hands in his pockets. “But he was separated from his family before he was ready. If one can ever be ready for that. Just like me.”

Hulda stopped in her tracks. “Merritt . . . ,” she began.

He paused and turned around, leaving about three paces between them. Did she realize she’d used his first name? Any other time, he might have been pleased.

She’d asked after the story before, hadn’t she? Merritt was feeling oddly sentimental. He wasn’t himself, which was the only reason he said anything at all. “I was eighteen when my father wrote me off. Got a girl pregnant. Or I thought I did.”

Hulda’s eyes widened.

He rubbed the back of his head. A single, dry chuckle worked its way up his throat. “Goodness, I never tell this story. It sounds so strange out loud.”

She swallowed. “You don’t have to.”

“But you want to know, don’t you?” He peered past her to Owein’s grave, already hidden by the grass. “I loved her. Got carried away. My father was so wroth with me. He always was, more than my sisters. Never really understood why. He wrote me off there and then. Forbade me from coming home. From speaking to my mother . . .” He felt a lump forming in his throat and coughed to clear it.

“But I was going to make it right, with or without him.” He glanced to the eastern horizon. “I got myself a job, even a ring. Not a nice one, mind you, but she seemed happy enough to wear it. And then one morning she was gone. Left for music school, was all her parents told me. That, and she never was pregnant. Just a scare. Refused to tell me where she went. They never did like me.”

Hulda didn’t respond. He hadn’t expected her to. How does one react to that? To learning someone is so wretched that their adolescent sweetheart left him without word?

Without daring to look at her, Merritt added, “Owein stays,” and he ventured to the house alone, the wind teasing his hair, the whimbrels crying his arrival.