Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 19

September 20, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Hulda should have been up and about by now. She always strove to be the first one to rise in any house she occupied. No sense in wasting daylight or being unavailable when needed. But her mattress felt very deep this morning, her blankets especially warm, her thoughts particularly insistent.

She was happy the house and its wizard—little Owein!—were intact. And she sensed Whimbrel House was equally content with the arrangement. But that victory was intermixed with thoughts on Merritt’s—Mr. Fernsby’s—confession. His words had swum around her head the rest of yesterday and even pierced her dreams last night.

Mr. Fernsby had made himself scarce, enmeshing himself in his work and avoiding the staff.

He was separated from his family . . . Just like me.

Hulda rolled onto her side and blew a lock of hair off her face. She only saw her own parents and siblings once a year, usually at Christmas. Her schedule was too busy for more frequent sojourns. But she always had a place there. She couldn’t imagine being severed from them for good.

Mr. Fernsby’s father’s reaction did seem . . . extreme. Many would regard premarital relations very poorly. But to cut him off entirely? From his mother, his siblings? Eighteen was old enough, she supposed . . . but it was an uncomfortable thought. Perhaps they were strict Catholics or Shakers, though Mr. Fernsby didn’t seem particularly religious.

Her mind flitted back to the marshland outside the house. The look on his face . . . he’d been smiling, but with such a depth of sadness in his eyes. Like peering down into the deepest part of the ocean, or looking through a ghost.

Thirteen years. This all happened thirteen years ago. Nearly half of Mr. Fernsby’s lifetime. A long time to atone for a mistake, and he was hardly a profligate man. She recalled inquiring about spirits when Mr. Portendorfer was visiting. I avoid things that might get me into trouble.

The words of a penitent man, or so she thought. It was obvious that he was very careful.

Rolling back, Hulda stared at fine lines in the ceiling. She did have a tendency to be judgmental, as her sister often pointed out. Self-admittedly, she didn’t like rule breakers, ruffians, pranksters, and the like. Yet she couldn’t find it in her heart or mind to judge Merritt Fernsby. He had a roguish air, yes, but he was kind. A gentleman, really. A gentleman wound through with regret.

Hulda sighed. How badly did she break your heart? Surely the loss of a real love, someone you had actually shared something with and not merely fantasized about, must be devastating. He’d intended to marry her. This woman could have been the woman of Whimbrel House. Hulda would have been reporting to her instead of him. For a moment, Hulda wondered what her name was, what she was like . . . then chided herself for getting carried away and threw off her covers. Time to get dressed and be useful.

She was certain of one thing: she would not cause Mr. Fernsby any further misery. He’d been punished enough. It wasn’t her place, besides.

After donning a dress, pinning up her hair, and cleaning her spectacles, Hulda popped a lemon drop into her mouth and strode from her room with purpose.

Miss Taylor was outside beating a rug. The smells wafting from the kitchen hinted that Mr. Babineaux was near the end of breakfast preparations. Mr. Fernsby was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was shut up in his office or bedroom. Retrieving her ledgers, Hulda took herself to the pantry to update her records of the food stores. Halfway through, she heard Mr. Babineaux in the breakfast room and found him placing a fresh loaf of brioche on the table.

“Smells wonderful,” she said, to which he merely nodded. “Are there any supplies we’re short on? Anything you need?”

He straightened, tall and foreboding, expressionless. For a moment, Hulda feared he wouldn’t answer her. But just as she was turning for the pantry, he said, “Butter. We will always need butter. If we get cow, I will milk her myself.”

Hulda blinked. “Noted. Anything else?”

“Is expensive import, but vanilla. And sugar, if you want dessert.” He paused. “I am very good at desserts. Especially pastries. For this we need cream and butter. If Mr. Fernsby”—he waved his hand, trying to think of a word—“purchases a cow, I will take care of her. I will take good care of her.”

“I will let him know you are passionate about bovines, Mr. Babineaux. If you think of anything else, please find me.” With a nod of her head, she returned to the pantry and finished logging her entries, then moved into the kitchen to finish the task. The pantry was small, so many of their foodstuffs occupied the cupboards.

“Low on flour,” she said to herself, and marked it down. She mishandled her pencil, and it toppled to the floor. As Hulda bent to retrieve it, however, she paused, an idea striking her. Straightening, she said, “Owein, dear, would you get that for me?”

A few seconds passed. Then a hole opened up in the floor beneath the pencil—nearly taking Hulda’s heel with it—and another opened in the ceiling, dropping the pencil onto the countertop.

Hulda smiled. “Thank you.” The nub had broken in the fall, but she certainly wouldn’t fault the lad for that. Indeed, he might very well earn himself a place on the staff.

A quick shuffling of the stairs had Hulda’s ears perking. Seconds later, Mr. Fernsby’s voice said, “Miss Taylor, my pen exploded. I’ve got ink all over this cravat—” He stepped into the kitchen and spied Hulda. He stopped, a crinkled cravat in his hands with a sizable black stain. “Oh. Sorry. I . . . thought you were Beth.”

Had Hulda not been familiar with Mr. Fernsby, she might not have picked up on the awkwardness of his tone—he did a good job at covering it with nonchalance. But she heard it, and it softened her heart. No man should have to feel out of place in his own home, and she didn’t wish for this one to feel out of place with her.

She offered him a reassuring smile. “It is hardly beneath me to soak a cravat, Mr. Fernsby. I’ve had my fair share of ink stains. They are inevitable.” She held out her hand.

He hesitated half a second. “I believe you made it very clear that you are not the maid, Mrs. Larkin.”

“Then we’d best not tell anyone I secretly wash cravats in my spare time.”

He laughed, the sound relaxing parts of her she hadn’t realized were tense. Bolstering her spirits. It was a beautiful sound, really.

He handed her the cravat, and Hulda tried and failed not to notice that Mr. Fernsby’s shirt was wide open, revealing a good triangle of his collar and chest. The peek of hair there was darker than that on his head—

Averting her eyes, Hulda set the cravat near the sink and forced her thoughts to other things before she could flush. If she did, Mr. Fernsby might misinterpret it as embarrassment related to his recent confession. “Would you like to review a menu with Mr. Babineaux? I wanted to put in a food order for the house.”

He kneaded his hands together. “Oh. Well . . . I don’t really have a preference. You’re welcome to decide.”

Hulda nodded and picked up a separate ledger, switching to the page marked with the week’s dates. “Then I will see about him planning the venison, since it comes so highly recommended.” She wrote down venison and potatoes, before glancing up to ask Mr. Fernsby if he had—

She suddenly couldn’t remember what she was going to say. He was looking at her with . . . curiosity? Incredulity? Interest? She couldn’t quite tell. But it caught her off guard. She didn’t like the way it made her heart kick. She dropped her eyes to her ledger. What was I about to say?

“I was thinking,” he said, saving her from a blunder, “about what you said the other day. That you had other things to do in town. Did you visit BIKER again?”

She scrawled something else in the ledger, giving her hands something to do. “It is unnecessary for me to report so often.”

He eyed her. Voice lower, he asked, “I know it’s none of my concern, but you weren’t looking for him again, were you?”

Hulda opened her mouth. Closed it. Shut the ledger. “I think breakfast is ready—”

“You know you’re safe here—”

“It isn’t a matter of my safety,” she whispered, glancing toward the breakfast room. She sighed and gestured for Mr. Fernsby to follow her. If he was going to pry, he might as well do it where they were both comfortable.

In truth, the only confidant she really had was Myra, and Myra would likely dismiss her anxieties again. Because that’s what they were. Anxieties. Unreasonable thoughts. But . . . she liked assurances. She relied on proof. As soon as she had some, she could logically work her way out of the knot her fears had tied her into, and everything would be fine again.

The first thing she noticed upon entering the living room was that several chairs were sinking into the floor.

“Owein!” Mr. Fernsby called cheerily. “How are you this morning?”

The furniture paused midsink and flashed yellow.

“I think he’s feeling rather chipper,” he interpreted.

The chairs rose back to the surface, and the floor solidified. Hulda sat on the chair closest to her, smoothing her skirts. “Perhaps because he’s no longer being tossed out.”

“I have no intention of tossing out any of you,” he said, taking up the chair closest to her, with only a small table between them. “I’m already working on my next argument to convince you to stay.”

Hulda tried to ignore the fluttering the words started in her gut, and this time she did a fairly good job of it. She had a history of misinterpreting words, and given that she was somewhat emotionally compromised with her client, she knew the likelihood of misinterpretation was high. Besides, she understood precisely how Mr. Fernsby felt about her—he’d said so himself: he was used to her. Humans liked comfort and disliked change as a matter of course.

“I sent inquiries to England,” she confessed, listening for Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux. While she could use a confidant, she didn’t want the entire household nudging into her affairs. “To establish whether he is still imprisoned and ensure that, either way, he hasn’t immigrated here. Once I know that, I can put it behind me.”

“But if he were here,” Mr. Fernsby spoke carefully, “he wouldn’t find you.”

She shook her head. “I doubt it. BIKER wouldn’t release such information to a private citizen. Assuming he did get out of prison, I’m sure he would prefer to get on with his life than seek me out. He won’t have been released, though.” She swallowed. “He’ll be behind bars for the rest of his days.”

“For misuse of magic?”

She sagged into her chair. “You do have a remarkable memory, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “When things are interesting.”

“I am not a storybook, Mr. Fernsby.”

“I never said you were.” His tone was completely serious.

She ran her thumb along the groove in her armrest. “Mr. Hogwood had developed some sort of method for extracting the magic out of another person.”

Mr. Fernsby stiffened. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. He has an impressive pedigree. His parents were both members of the Queen’s League of Magicians—King’s League then. He used some sort of combination of magic to take spells from others. I know he did. He was crazed with it. Secretive. I saw it happen.”

Mr. Fernsby paled. “You saw it?”

She lifted her hands, then let them drop to her lap. “I ‘saw’ it happen in Mr. Hogwood’s tea leaves. I watched him take a local hysterian who had gone missing, and . . .” She shuddered, suddenly sick to her stomach.

To her shock, Mr. Fernsby reached over and clasped her forearm. His touch was remarkably warm, and the darkness building in the base of Hulda’s skull dissipated with it. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

She rolled her lips together. Without pulling up the memories, she explained, “It isn’t pleasant, what he can do. It kills the person . . . shrivels them into something unidentifiable. He kept each of the bodies, and I saw the remains with my own eyes.”

She cringed. Filled her lungs to bursting. “That said, I just want to make sure it wasn’t him—”

A startled “Oof” reached their ears.

Mr. Fernsby stood. “What was that?” He passed her an apologetic glance and crossed into the reception hall, Hulda hurrying after him.

The front door was open, Miss Taylor standing just outside of it. She had a small rug rolled up and slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide enough to show the whites all around her irises.

“Miss Taylor?” Mr. Fernsby asked.

She tentatively reached her hand toward them, only to have it repelled, as though striking glass.

“What on earth?” Hulda crossed to her, hand out, and met the same “glass.” She followed it upward and downward, but it covered the entire door, forbidding her to leave and Miss Taylor to enter.

“Owein, let her in,” Mr. Fernsby called.

Unease wound from Hulda’s hips to collar. “Owein isn’t doing this.”

“Pardon?”

She turned to face him. “His abilities lie in alteration and chaocracy. This is wardship.”

Brows drawn, Mr. Fernsby joined her at the door and rapped his knuckles upon the invisible shield. “Perhaps he merely hasn’t done it until now.”

Hulda severely doubted it. As Mr. Babineaux announced breakfast, Hulda stepped back into the living room. “Owein, would you please, I don’t know, change the color of the ceiling? To your favorite color?”

The ceiling shifted to a bright blue. Out in the reception hall, the shield remained up.

“He can enchant only one room at a time,” she explained.

Miss Taylor asked, “Meaning what?” Her voice sounded like it was underwater.

Hulda dashed up the stairs, hurrying to her room, where she grabbed her tool bag. She returned just as quickly, digging for her dowsing rods. “Meaning Whimbrel House has two sources of magic.”

Mr. Fernsby’s mouth dropped. “Two? But not the Mansel family—you would have exorcised them.”

“It is unlikely the second source is also a wizard in residence. It must be something more subtle. Like enchanted wood.” She walked toward the front door with her rods extended. They parted in her hands, then closed again as she moved away. When she entered the living room, they slowly opened again.

“Owein would have to be quite powerful to be doing both. I don’t think it’s him.” She glanced at the blue ceiling. “Owein, would you please drop the shield on the door? Miss Taylor needs to come in.”

They were quiet a moment. The ceiling shifted to a darker blue. The shield remained.

Mr. Fernsby’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Is it dangerous?”

Hulda moved toward the dining room with her rods. They didn’t react. “Highly unlikely.”

“Then . . . let’s not worry about it.” Mr. Fernsby knocked on the shield. “Miss Taylor! Perhaps you could try a window—”

The shield gave way, causing Mr. Fernsby to stumble into Miss Taylor, nearly knocking her over. Fortunately, he caught himself and steadied Miss Taylor with hands on her shoulders, though his elbow smacked into the doorframe, eliciting a hiss, followed by, “Terribly sorry! Mrs. Larkin, I fixed it! Oh goodness, that will leave a bruise—”

Hulda approached the door, her dowsing rods limp in her hands. She hummed to herself, wondering. Magic houses were rarely dangerous, and this second source of magic was mild enough that they hadn’t detected it before. Hulda didn’t worry about it . . . but she wanted to know. Enough questions had gone unanswered in her life that she ached to answer the ones she could. This was her specialty, after all.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind them, followed by Mr. Babineaux’s low inquiry, “Is anyone going to eat? It’s getting cold.” His dark eyes passed over them. “What did I miss?”