Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 24

October 3, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt had thoroughly turned his mind to mud that week, so he decided to spend Saturday in the yard. He tucked his scarf in his shirt, wore an old pair of trousers, rolled up his sleeves, and even tied his hair back, then set to weeding the garden and foundation, leaving a clear trail at the front and west side of the house. If he’d had a scythe, he’d have cut down some of the vegetation elsewhere, but that would have to go at the bottom of the long list of supplies he needed to be a decent homeowner. And here he’d thought his publisher’s advance would make him feel wealthy.

Leaves were falling from the island’s trees. Merritt walked out to explore them, satisfied with the crunch beneath his boots and the crisp breeze rattling through the branches. He should really have a picnic out here before it got too cold. Right here, under this elm. It was a lovely spot. The autumn scent and color scheme made him nostalgic for something he couldn’t quite describe. Perhaps it was simply for childhood autumns, when he hadn’t had a care in the world.

For a moment, he thought he heard a cracking, like man splitting stone in two, but when he looked back toward the house, nothing seemed amiss. Curious.

Leaning up against the elm, Merritt closed his eyes and breathed in the beauty of the island, letting it unwind the muscles in his arms and shoulders, soothe the lining of his lungs, dance across his lips. Spots of sun glimmered through the tree’s thinning crown, driving back gooseflesh raised by the shade. The breeze spun around him, sounding like the whispers of dozens of children, flitting shyly around his ears.

He opened his eyes. The leaves and grasses had gone still, which gave him pause.

No breeze.

No more whispers.

Strange. He glanced back to the house. He must have missed a school of cicadas or some such.

“Merritt!”

Whirling around, Merritt spied a dark figure dressed smartly in gray moving toward him, hand raised in greeting.

He grinned and walked to meet him. “You’re late!”

“I’m late?” Fletcher repeated. “You live in the middle of Godforsaken nowhere, and you’re going to accuse me of being late? Show me your watch.”

Merritt patted his side, only to remember he hadn’t worn a vest, and he never donned his watch without a vest pocket to slip it into.

Fletcher raised his eyebrows. “And the accused rests his case.” He glanced over Merritt’s shoulder. “Seems . . . tame.”

Merritt embraced him, patting him firmly on the back. “It is, mostly. Thank you for coming out again. I need a break from words.”

“Am I allowed to read it?”

“Only if you get bored with our other festivities.” They started toward the house.

“Then yes,” Fletcher said. “I’ll be reading it.”

They reached the house; Beth was hanging laundry, so Merritt introduced Fletcher, who tipped his hat to her. Inside, the portrait craned to get a better look at their guest before waving.

“So strange.” Fletcher leaned forward to study the animated painting.

Hulda came down the stairs. “Greetings, Mr. Portendorfer. I trust your travel was pleasant. I’ve your room prepared for you. Any other needs can be addressed to myself or Miss Taylor, our maid.”

Merritt, after closing the front door, glanced to Hulda and paused.

Fletcher spoke for both of them when he said, “You look nice, Mrs. Larkin.”

She was wearing a new dress, a bright straw-colored thing with a pattern of dark-maroon roses and three-quarter sleeves. Whereas all her other dresses buttoned up clear to the chin, this one had a wider collar, actually exposing her neck and collarbones. Her hair was done up as she usually did it, but . . . there was something different Merritt couldn’t quite put his finger on. She looked . . . radiant.

“Indeed,” he mumbled, earning himself a curious side glance from Fletcher.

“Thank you, Mr. Portendorfer. I’m afraid the dressmaker mistook my order, but it fits, so I shan’t complain about it.” Her eyes shifted to Merritt. “In good news, Mr. Fernsby, I believe I’ve discovered the second source of magic in the house.”

“Second source?” Fletcher asked at the same time Merritt said, “Oh?”

“I discovered tourmaline deposits in the home’s foundation.” She smiled fully at the accomplishment, which only added to her allure. “Tourmaline is a stone associated with wardship. Whimbrel House was used to house necromancers fleeing Salem for several decades; it’s very likely some of those women also possessed wardship spells. The tourmaline would be the perfect substance to absorb them.”

He nodded slowly. “Makes sense to me.”

“Tourmaline, eh?” Fletcher set down his suitcase. “I heard about the whole gemstones and magic connection. My mother used to visit a doctor who used all kinds of stones to cure ailments, saying they linked to the various magics. I didn’t believe a lick of it.”

Merritt tugged his attention to Fletcher. “I recall that. Why not?”

He shrugged. “The one time I went, I ended up getting hives. Don’t you remember? We were fourteen. Took two days off school, and when I went back, the Barrett brothers were relentless about my ‘new freckles.’”

“I don’t remember, but I really wish I did.” Merritt laughed. “Same room as last time; I’m willing to share, but our dear housekeeper thinks it’s not hospitable enough. So she’s temporarily displaced our maid to her own room. Refuses to hear of anything else.”

Fletcher snatched his suitcase again. “Very kind. Let me put this down, and you can show me what you’ve done with the place.” He nodded to Hulda as he made his way to the stairs. Merritt followed, trying not to gawk at her. But he did, and a faint pink arch stretched across her nose.

Before Fletcher could reach the stair rail, however, the stairs began to shift. As did the floor, walls, and ceiling.

Merritt stumbled backward as the floor began to tilt upward, much as it had when Owein had moved Hulda’s chair in Merritt’s office. Except the incline became much steeper much quicker, and all the floorboards shifted at once.

Managing to stay on his feet, Merritt slid into the back corner between the portrait and the door. When his back hit the wall, he realized the entire room was rotating.

“Owein!” Merritt bellowed. “We have guests!”

And yet the declaration only incited the ghostly wizard to push his magic harder, and the room bucked to a full forty-five-degree angle. Fletcher dropped his suitcase, which went flying into the dining room, and grabbed the stair rail with both hands. Hulda shrieked, stumbled, and fell back toward the door.

Shoving off the wall, Merritt managed to snag her around the waist before she hit. The impact sent her glasses to the very edge of her nose.

But Owein wasn’t finished. The room tilted to fifty degrees, fifty-five, sixty—

Gravity slammed Merritt back into the corner by the portrait. He kept his hold on Hulda, which in turn slammed her into him. He wedged one foot into the doorjamb to keep their place.

“Never fear, Mrs. Larkin.” He smiled even as the room continued to churn. “In a moment we may be able to slip into a stationary room.”

Fletcher shouted something. Beth’s face appeared in the window, but it was difficult to open the door, angled and turning as it was. The room arched enough that Hulda was practically lying on top of him, and his body lit up everywhere she pressed, soft beneath the new dress, hard where the corset hid underneath.

He expected her to berate the house—Owein listened to her above anybody else—but instead she stared at him, her cheeks that lovely shade of pink, her spectacles barely hanging on, a delicate curl drooping over the side of her neck.

They’d reached ninety degrees when she blinked as though waking up and planted both hands on his chest—which he didn’t mind—and pushed herself as upright as she could, given the circumstances. “Owein Mansel! The threat of the library still stands!”

The house seemed to sigh around them. And poor Fletcher dangled from the stairway.

“I did say mostly tame!” Merritt pounded his fist into the wall behind him. “Come on now, or Fletcher will have to go home.”

With a groan, the reception hall slowly began ticking back into place, one degree at a time. Not quick enough for Hulda to be able to right herself with any sort of ease, so Merritt kept one arm encircled around her waist, ensuring she didn’t hurt herself.

She tried to straighten her clothes despite the position. “My apologies, Mr. Fernsby.”

“Hardly your fault.”

“Technically, it is.”

“It’s a very nice dress,” he offered, and she rewarded him with more of that rosy glow. She smelled like rosewater and rosemary . . . and wore roses on her dress. He wondered if she realized what a lovely metaphor she presented.

The room creaked into place. Hulda was slow to pull away from him, and Merritt was slow to let her go. It was not until Beth burst through the door, asking after their welfare, and Fletcher inquired whether the shifting of rooms would be a common occurrence during his stay that Merritt recalled they were not alone in their space, although he wished it were so. His hands fell from Hulda’s person. She brushed off her skirt, her hazel eyes dragging slowly from his. What would he have seen in them had her gaze lingered?

She cleared her throat, breaking him from his reverie. “I will ensure it does not happen again, Mr. Portendorfer. Now, as to your room . . .”

Hulda spent the day finishing her report and assisting both Mr. Babineaux and Miss Taylor; Mr. Portendorfer’s second visit was going much more smoothly than his first. The scents of dinner were starting to waft through the rooms, the sun was bright, and Owein minded himself after the incident with the stairs, though his spells followed Mr. Portendorfer around like a second skin, as though the boy was trying his best to impress him.

She thought for the dozenth time of Mr. Fernsby’s arm snug around her waist, their bodies pressed close enough for her to smell the petitgrain and ink that seemed to emanate from his skin. And for the dozenth time, she pushed the fancy away, though this time it was with more of an internal, desperate pleading to her mind to let it go than a stiff refiling of her thoughts.

She was just finished setting the dining room table when a pecking sounded at the window. Glancing over, she spied a windsource pigeon and wondered if it had flown down here after trying and failing to get through her bedroom window. Hurrying over, Hulda opened the pane and let the weary bird in, took the missive from its foot, and offered it a bread crumb.

She opened the letter, which bore the seal of BIKER. It read, Hulda, I must insist—

“What’s that?”

Jumping, Hulda turned to see Merritt coming in, and instinctually hid the letter behind her person.

“Is that a windsource pigeon?” He crossed the room to eye the bird, who was unfazed by the closeness of another human. “It is! Look at the seals on its feathers. Been a long time since I saw one up close.” He eyed her elbow. “That isn’t a letter from your beau, is it?”

The insinuation jolted her. “It is not.” She pulled it back out, silently chiding herself for her strange behavior. “It’s only a missive from BIKER.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “I suppose now that you’ve figured out the tourmaline . . .” He didn’t finish the statement, but he didn’t need to. Now that you’ve found the second source of magic, there’s no reason for you to stay.

Except that there was, however much she fought it.

She shrugged and glanced over the letter—it wasn’t long. Couldn’t be, if a pigeon were to carry it. It essentially said what the last had, but with stronger verbs and darker punctuation, clear signs of Myra stabbing the paper with her pen. “The director has suggested I return to aid in administrative work, though it is not my forte.”

“Soon?”

She folded the paper. “‘Soon’ is relative. In truth, I’m not sure why she’s so adamant about it. I haven’t sent in my report yet.”

“Then”—his words were careful, and she wondered at them—“you might be able—or willing—to stay a little while longer.”

The way he’d spoken—the look in his eyes and his tilted posture—rang faint little bells in her head that she’d silenced so many times before. She pressed her shoulders back. Professional. “Perhaps. I am an excellent housekeeper.”

He smiled. “There is that, too.”

The bells clanked and sang. Ring! Ring! Ring!

He perked. “That’s right, I’m supposed to be borrowing Baptiste’s chess board. Do you know where it is?”

Hulda shook her head. “But he’s in the kitchen.”

Thanking her with a nod, Merritt circumambulated the table, passing back a compliment on how well it looked, and slipped into the breakfast room toward the kitchen.

Sinking against the window frame, Hulda let out a sigh. She hated to assume, but surely a man who cared only for maintaining the status quo wouldn’t say such things. Wouldn’t care so much about her staying, with her housekeeping as only the second reason! She’d heard him correctly, hadn’t she? She was formally educated. It wasn’t like she didn’t understand English.

The thought that Merritt Fernsby might care about her stirred a terrifying hope inside her that had Myra’s letter quivering in her fingers. Maybe everything in her past had gone wrong because God or the fates or whatever was out there had known it wasn’t yet time for it to go right. Maybe there was something desirable within her after all . . . something a man might want, and not just things she could slap onto a résumé for employers. That maybe hurt, but the thrill of it made her feel twenty again.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, she chided, but her admonition couldn’t dampen the whirlwind of emotions beating against her ribs. Steadying herself, Hulda read through the letter and offered a finger to the pigeon, who stepped onto it obediently. She’d reply in her room, where she could pace and think for a moment. Sort out what she wanted.

She would be clear and concise to Myra. She considered leaving out information about the tourmaline, but she wouldn’t subvert her occupation for girlish whims, so she’d send along her full report. And a request to stay on board a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Merritt and Fletcher resumed their chess game after dinner, playing by the streaks of dying sun through the large multipaned windows, a glass lamp, and half the candles in a modest chandelier overhead. Merritt liked chess well enough, but Fletcher loved it, which meant that if a game wasn’t drawn out beyond the point of enjoyment, there would have to be another one.

Their game tonight was running long. Merritt’s pride alone kept him going. He still had his queen and a rook, which could prove deadly adversaries. Around them, the house had quieted, save for the call of a whimbrel outside and the settling of the house, which could also signify that Owein was entertaining himself in another chamber.

“So you’re really going to stay?” Fletcher moved his bishop a single aggravating square. Merritt had caught him up on the exorcisms and such over dinner; Fletcher’s own stories had gradually subsided as the man concentrated on the board between them.

“Really.” Merritt shifted his rook one square as well, just to see if his friend would notice.

“It’s a nice house.” Fletcher shifted his last pawn. He’d complimented the house’s niceness half a dozen times since arriving. Perhaps because he feared Owein would warp the room again. “But I couldn’t do it.”

“You’d rather keep that room with the parson?”

“I’d rather not have a ghost living in my walls.” He watched Merritt shift his queen—only one square—like a hawk. “I’d rather not worry about breaking my leg on the stairs.”

“Ankle at worst,” he offered.

Fletcher smirked. “At least you’re staying positive.”

“At least I don’t share my lavatory with a family of seven.”

He chuckled, studying his pieces. The front door opened, Baptiste’s heavy steps announcing him before he passed within sight of the doorway.

There was a skinned foreleg of a buck over his shoulder, and a trail of blood dripping down the back of his shirt.

Baptiste glanced over like a dog caught with a dinner plate.

“Baptiste.” Merritt put his heel up on the table, which Fletcher smacked back down. “Can I make you a character in my next book?”

Baptiste stared for a solid three seconds, shrugged, then slipped into the dining room. That shirt would be a nuisance to clean. Merritt would offer his services so Beth didn’t get overwhelmed. It’d been a while since he’d scrubbed at a washboard.

“You’re my witness that he consented,” Merritt chimed.

“I saw nothing.” Fletcher’s queen crossed the board, venturing close enough to capture Merritt’s rook.

He moved it one square.

“Stop doing that.” A vein on Fletcher’s forehead was beginning to pulse.

“Let me win, and the torture will end.”

Laughing, his friend shook his head. “Never. Your move.”

Leaning elbows on knees, Merritt studied the board, hoping that a means of victory would magically present itself. Perhaps I could teach Owein how to help me cheat . . .

“Merritt.”

It was only his name, but it carried a tone Merritt knew well. He glanced up through a lock of hair. Fletcher’s attention was entirely on him, not the game.

“Am I about to be scolded?” he guessed.

Fletcher shook his head. “Just thought I should tell you something while we’re alone.”

“The ghost is always lurking.”

“In earnest,” he pressed, and Merritt sat up. “I ran into Mrs. Larkin the other day. Well, I saw her. Didn’t say anything.”

“Oh?” That certainly piqued his interest. “In Boston?”

Fletcher nodded. “She was at that Genealogical Society.”

Shrugging, Merritt said, “She had to do research for the Mansels. You know that.”

“Sure, sure, they’ve got records. A veritable library.” He scanned the board but didn’t make any moves. “But I overheard a bit of her conversation with the director in passing, and—”

“You know the director?”

“Everyone knows Elijah Clarke. All the locals do, anyway. Always very loud come election time.”

Merritt waved for him to continue.

He haphazardly moved his queen. “Thing is, the place essentially arranges marriages for wizards.”

The muscles around Merritt’s stomach tightened. A strange defensiveness rose in him, and he soothed it back down. “Is that so?”

“She was talking to him about it.”

“And you heard this clearly?”

“She was talking to him about it,” he repeated, enunciating his words. “I see the way you look at her . . . I don’t want to make any presumptions.”

“You are presuming.” Even so, a chill braided around his collarbone. Was he so obvious?

“Could be she’s only interested in magic folk.” Fletcher moved his bishop.

Merritt pointed. “It’s my turn.”

Fletcher’s bishop retreated. Then the man palmed it and brought both fists under his jaw. Low, he added, “I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Merritt’s muscles tightened, and he leaned back in his chair in an effort to relax them. In an effort to stay nonchalant. “Are you referring to Ebba or the time your sister turned me down?”

“She wasn’t right for you. You weren’t right for her, either, broken as you were.”

That same lock of hair fell into Merritt’s face. He blew it away. They sat in silence for a dozen heartbeats before Merritt sighed.

“You know I trust you,” he said.

Fletcher replaced his bishop. “I know. I’m not telling you to do nothing, but I am telling you to be careful.”

Reaching forward, Merritt forewent his rook and slid his queen up several rows. “Check.”

Fletcher cursed under his breath, immediately shifting back into strategy mode. Merritt was grateful. It gave him a moment to sort through his thoughts.

Was Hulda proffering herself to the Genealogical Society? He doubted it. She was too conservative a woman for such things. He even thought—hoped—she might fancy him. Or could learn to. Maybe it would end like all the others. Maybe it wouldn’t start to begin with. Maybe he was a fool.

But tomorrow he would turn another page, and see where the story went.