Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 23

October 1, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Hulda had followed up with the warden the following day, desperate for more information. Nearly a week later, she received his response. This time it was a simple telegram reading, I’m afraid I cannot disclose more information.

The missive irked her. Was it truly an issue of privacy, for a man who had been publicly decried, or were his records missing information? All this fuss over a dead man, she told herself, yet every time she reasoned herself to stability, a loose thought would send her spiraling into doubt again.

She had seen him. She swore she had seen him! But why would the prison cover up the release of a repeat murderer? Or the escape of one?

The only thing that gave her some comfort was Mr. Fernsby’s admonition that she was safe here. And she was. It seemed incredulous that Mr. Hogwood would somehow fake his death, slip out of a high-security prison, and immigrate to America, only to break into BIKER, find her records, and sail all the way out to Blaugdone Island for revenge.

Mr. Fernsby had also been occupied, to the point where Hulda was only seeing him at meals, save for yesterday, when he took a long walk across the island, mumbling to himself as he left the house. He spent almost all his time lucubrating in his office. Had taken dinner there twice. Hulda wondered at it, but it wasn’t her place to pry, nor to interrupt. Still, she’d lingered by the door a time or two, listening, and heard nothing within. She’d thought to ask him about A Pauper in the Making, which she had taken the initiative to purchase, but with her mind so taken up with the possibilities of Mr. Hogwood, she’d yet to start it.

When Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux were occupied with their own tasks and Mr. Fernsby was not around to banter, Hulda quickly got bored. She still had not found the second source of magic and was ready to tear apart the foundation with teeth and nails, if only to occupy her mind with something other than Silas Hogwood.

After Mr. Fernsby took dinner in his office for the third time, Hulda volunteered to see to retrieving his tray, telling Miss Taylor she could retire early. Shadows waved to her as she passed through the hallway; Hulda waved back, and the house rumbled in pleasure. She rapped at the closed office door with her first and second knuckle.

“Come,” Mr. Fernsby’s voice issued from within.

Pressing open the door, Hulda suppressed a sigh at the sight before her. Papers and pencil shavings scattered across the floor, ink smears on the desk, open books by the chair. His dinner tray rested precariously on the corner of the desk. Miss Taylor had cleared out other dishes, but Mr. Fernsby must have shooed away her efforts to do more.

“I’m here for your tray,” she offered.

He straightened like she’d trickled cold water down his spine and turned in his chair. “Hulda! I thought you were Beth.”

She didn’t correct him for not calling her Mrs. Larkin, though her wiser half warned that she should. Professionalism is protection, she reminded herself, but now it was too late to make the correction without being awkward about it, so she let it slide. She moved for the tray but paused before picking it up. “Might I ask why you’ve become a hermit?”

Mr. Fernsby set down his pen and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The other letter I got last week was from my editor. I’ve a meeting with him in a week and a half, and I want to have as much of this damnable thing finished as possible before I see him. I’m worried it won’t be as good as the first book.”

She glanced over the stacks of paper at his elbow. “I don’t know about the first book, but would presenting a synopsis of sorts suffice?”

“I can’t write a synopsis.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I would have to know the ending, and why would I finish a book when I already know how it ends?” There was mirth in the question, but she sensed his reasoning was entirely serious. “Actually.” He turned his chair toward her, and Hulda became very aware of how close his knees were to hers. She could feel heat emanating from them . . . but that was preposterous. Who had hot knees?

She flushed, realizing she’d completely missed what he’d said. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”

“Would you help me?” He clasped both hands over his knees, as though hiding them from her scrutiny. Her chest tightened. She hadn’t been staring at his knees of all things, had she? “Your idea for the beginning unfolded so well. I’d like to pick your brain again, if you have a moment.” Suddenly sheepish, he glanced around the room. “I, uh, will clean this up afterward.”

She waved the barter away. “I hardly care for the mess considering you’re under deadline, Mr. Fernsby.” She was grateful for the excuse to talk with him. She felt . . . better . . . around Merritt Fernsby. There was a simple wood chair in the corner, so she pulled it over, ensuring adequate space separated their knees. Fixing her professional self into place, she asked, “For what, precisely, do you need my assistance?”

He pulled over several papers and scanned them. “It’s for this blasted romance subplot.”

Her warm feelings dissipated, and the professional mask cracked. She stood. “I should go.”

“Oh please.” He grasped her hand. “Just hear me out.”

Her gaze shot to his fingers. He definitely noticed that, given how quickly he released her afterward. He cleared his throat. “That is, if the others aren’t waiting on you.”

Rolling her lips together, Hulda sat, wrists and neck pulsing. “All right.” Her upright tone was slipping. “Tell me.”

“I’ve only just started it. I’ll go back and allude to it. Longing glances and the like,” he replied, and Hulda was grateful his eyes had focused on his papers and not her. “But I’ve got them alone together at this Quaker’s house, and I’m wondering . . . should I do this now? And do what? Though with her being an heiress and him being from Hartford, I intend for them to go their separate ways at the end. But I don’t want female readers to think—”

“Mr. Fernsby.” Straight back. Firm voice.

Pausing, he met her eyes. His looked especially blue when he was tired. “What?”

“I am aware my reading background does not make me an expert on the subject,” she went on, “but that is not a romance.”

“Sure it is—”

“If you don’t intend for the couple to have a happy ending, then don’t involve them with each other at all. You’ll lose readers. The general populace prefers comedies, not tragedies.”

He pondered this for a moment. His nose dipped when he pursed his lips. “So I should have them, what, kiss?”

Hulda fidgeted, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “I don’t know about that. But I’m sure as long as they’re together, perhaps married or engaged by the end . . .”

“They have to kiss before they get married. He’s a liberal.” He winked and glanced at the papers. “Might be too soon for that . . . unless I add some tension to this scene where they’re hiding in a shed.”

“I-It’s your book, Mr. Fernsby. I’m sure whatever you think is best will be right.” She stood and picked up her chair, meaning to return it to the corner.

“I’m just asking your thoughts.” He sounded inquisitive. “Surely you wouldn’t kiss a man in a stranger’s shed if he hadn’t . . . what, held your hand first? Perhaps a declaration is needed? Or am I getting ahead of myself and the kiss should come at the end of the story?”

Her ears were burning. “Everyone is different.” She set the chair down with more force than intended, then made the grievous mistake of turning back.

Mr. Fernsby was watching her, his papers forgotten, his right eyebrow raised, his upper lip quirked like a mischievous school boy’s.

She felt like she was in her underwear all over again.

“Mrs. Larkin.” Two of the usual three lines appeared between his brows. “Have you never been kissed?”

Fire. She was on fire.

“If you’ll excuse me.” The roughness of her voice only embarrassed her more. She made a beeline for the door.

He stood, papers shuffling. “I’m sorry, it was impertinent of me to ask.”

She hesitated at the door.

“I’m just comfortable with you.” Regret lightened the words and carried them like candle smoke. “Don’t answer. Just . . . forgive me.”

Letting out a slow, calculated breath, she glanced back, hardly daring to meet his eyes. Her heartbeat was erratic, but she didn’t want to leave. “I fear my reaction has already answered it for you.”

She expected a jest at her expense, but Mr. Fernsby sat down, set his manuscript aside, and asked, “What’s it like to have magic?”

The change in subject was both surprising and appreciated. She released the door handle, cupped her elbows, and took a few paces into the room. “I . . . well, I don’t particularly remember not having it, except as a little girl imagining being a wizard.”

He smiled. “What did you imagine?”

“Psychometry, actually. I wanted to read minds. Know what people really thought of me.”

“That would be a terrible spell to have.”

“I agree with you. Now, that is.” She shrugged. Took another step toward him. “It certainly has been useful. I would hate to be without it. It’s akin to a fifth limb.”

“Or a sixth sense,” he offered.

She nodded. “A more apt metaphor. I suppose that’s why you’re the writer.”

“Or trying to be.” He passed a glare at his manuscript. “And you’ve never been interested in setting up some sort of horoscope shop? They’re very popular.”

“My great-grandmother had one.” Another step. “She was eccentric.”

“You don’t have to be eccentric to run your own business.”

“No,” she agreed, “but when you turn yourself into a novelty, you attract a certain kind of person. They see only the novelty, and once they’ve had their fill, they leave. She had thousands of friends, but none of them were true connections. From what I’ve been told, at least. She passed away when I was young.”

He rubbed his chin. Stubble covered it; he hadn’t shaved today. There was something distinctly masculine about the unkemptness, and Hulda briefly wondered how rough it would feel under her fingers. “She sounds like quite a character.”

“She was very real.”

“Have you ever wondered,” he followed up without missing a beat, “if we’re all characters in another’s book? If all of our actions, whims, thoughts, and desires are being controlled by some omniscient author?”

A strange notion. “By God?”

“If He’s writing it, I suppose it would classify as nonfiction.”

Hulda laughed. “I would hope so, because fiction would mean none of us were real.”

He grinned. It was an appealing grin—genuine and slightly feline, his upper teeth straight. She’d noticed he had two crooked ones on the bottom set.

“Well.” He leaned back in his chair. “So long as BIKER is giving you good opportunity to use your gifts.”

She studied him for a moment, pushing up her glasses to better do so. He eyed her inquisitively in return. After a moment, she said, “All right. Finish your tea.”

“Pardon?”

“You asked me once to do a reading for you.” She picked his cold tea up off his tray; the cup was a third full. “I’ll do it now.”

The expression that washed over his face made him look boyish. “Really?”

She rolled her eyes. “Dawdle, and I’ll change my mind.” His excitement was palpable; it made her chest flutter that she was the source of it. Besides which, she wanted to know more about Merritt Fernsby, for better or for worse.

He finished the cold tea with only a slight grimace. She took the cup from him and leaned toward a candle, examining the tea leaves. Sometimes it took a moment . . . Perhaps if magic ran thicker through her veins, she’d have more control over the spell—

Her thoughts flashed. Not to a vision this time, but to words and feelings, like she was touching the tip of her tongue to a forkful of food without being allowed to put the morsel in her mouth.

Strife. Confusion. Longing. Betrayal. Truth.

It flashed away just as quickly, though Hulda continued staring at the tea leaves afterward.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked.

For a brief moment, Hulda forgot where she was. But her augury was so faint, the spell so brief, that the side effect of using magic abated quickly.

Smoothing her forehead, she lowered the cup. A few pretty lies spun beneath her skull. Nicer things to pass on than the discomfort lingering under her breastbone. But Merritt . . . he would want to know.

“Good and bad, I suppose,” she managed, setting down the cup. “There’s strife in your future . . . but strife that will lead to truth.”

“Strife and truth? Sounds religious. I’m not joining the Mormons, am I?”

She blinked. “Who are the Mormons?”

He waved the query aside. Peered into the cup himself. “Well, I see . . . a rabbit. With its ears and tail cut off.”

She smiled. “Perhaps Mr. Babineaux can be persuaded to incorporate that into your future as well.” Picking up his tray, she turned for the door.

“Does it ever bother you?” His voice trailed in her wake. “Knowing the future all the time?”

Her hands tightened on the tray, and the fluttering in her chest died. “Not at all. Because in truth”—she turned and met his eyes, hoping hers didn’t reveal her own truths—“I never really do.”

Hulda was up early Saturday morning, determined yet again to make herself useful. There was nothing she was better at than making herself useful. Being useful made her feel good about herself, regardless of all the nonsense and trepidation going on in her life.

And so she scoured every inch of the house. Walked every foot of carpet with her dowsing rods. Hung charms and moved charms and wove new charms that provided her with zero useful information. She even took Miss Taylor with her, in case her clairvoyance turned up anything, but alas, it did not.

With nothing else she could do inside, Hulda decided to examine the outside of the house. Mr. Fernsby had already set out for a walk, Mr. Babineaux was busy in the kitchen, and Miss Taylor . . . well, Hulda hadn’t checked to see what currently occupied Miss Taylor. It was as good a time as any. She donned her sturdiest dress and shoes, strapped a sun hat onto her head, and ventured outside, her heavy bag over her shoulder.

She started with the easiest tool to use, the dowsing rods, and walked in a tight circle around the house before taking a step out and walking around it again. Another step out, and this time she moved counterclockwise. She repeated this pattern until she was a good thirty feet from the house. Either there was nothing to detect, or she was in need of a new pair of dowsing rods.

Returning to the house, Hulda pulled out her stethoscope and crouched, placing the drum against the foundation. She heard her own heartbeat from the exercise, and waited a minute until it quieted down. Then she shifted over and listened again.

The stony foundation rippled beneath her touch.

Sighing, Hulda sat back on her haunches. “I’m looking for the second source of magic. Do you have wardship spells, Owein? Maybe one pulse for yes, two pulses for no?”

The house remained still for a few seconds, then rippled twice.

Heaven forbid this be easy. She chewed on her lower lip. “Is there a second source of magic? Do you sense it?”

The house shifted slightly, as though shrugging.

That shrug gave her an idea. Placing her hand flat against the foundation, she ran her fingers down to where it connected with the earth. Dug her nails into the dirt, uncovering a sliver more.

“Owein. Do you think you could, hmm, stand up a little straighter? Shift the house up and over a bit, so I can get a look underneath?”

The wall facing her faded to indigo.

“I’m not sure what that means.”

The spot just above her hand rippled twice.

Hulda sighed.

It rippled again, one time.

She paused. “Does that mean you’re willing to try?”

Instead of answering with their new code, the house began to tremble.

Soaring to her feet, Hulda clamped one hand over her hat as stone cracked and wood bowed. She heard a shriek from inside—Miss Taylor—and immediately felt sorry, but it was hard to schedule one’s interactions with a twelve-year-old house-bodied ghost. She would apologize thoroughly in just a moment.

The corner of the house closest to her lifted from the grass, splitting the foundation as it did so—something Owein should be able to fix, if Hulda had guessed correctly about his chaocracy spells. The house looked like a dog relieving itself, one leg in the air.

Fumbling through her bag for a match, Hulda lit it and dropped to her stomach, hesitant to crawl into the newly made cavern. While chaocracy could fix split stone, it could not fix split bone. Not that Hulda had ever heard of, at least.

She slipped her arm inside, coughing at the dust, and peered into the darkness. Stone, stone, dirt, stone. The tail of a fleeing mouse. A disgruntled centipede. And—

Her tiny light glinted off something far off. Something dark and reflective. “Just a moment longer!” she cried as the match burned her fingertips. She dropped it and ignited another. Crawled across the ground, uncaring if she soiled her dress. This would be worth the wash if she were right—

The glassy veins glimmered as she stretched her hand closer.

She grinned wide enough to hurt.

Found you.