Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 26

October 5, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Mr. Portendorfer stayed the weekend, leaving after dinner Sunday night. The day after his departure, Hulda was forced to consider her predicament. It floated through her mind as she aided Miss Taylor with the day’s tasks, even going so far as to scrub wainscoting, wash windows, and repolish silverware. When that wasn’t enough to still her thoughts, she combined half-empty vials of ink in Mr. Fernsby’s office and swept the carpet. Organized her clothes by color. Ordered herbs in the kitchen by name and took stock again of dwindling supplies. Trimmed her nails.

In the end, though, work could not distract her from an inescapable truth: she couldn’t put off Myra forever. So she put her bag over her shoulder that evening and ventured outside, knowing no one would question her goings-on if she had her bag with her. She would appear busy, and it would afford her time to think.

She walked north, winding through weeds and plants that grew low to the ground, following a saltwater brook through the property. The cooling air invigorated her; the sound of birdsong and sight of bright leaves calmed her spirit. Her bag of tools bounced at her hip with every other step.

Yes, she wanted to stay at Whimbrel House. No point in attempting to pother her way out of that one. She would prefer not to resign from BIKER in order to keep her position, especially since paying her out of pocket would be a drain on Mr. Fernsby’s wallet. Neither did she want a demotion. Perhaps she could barter with Myra, do an on-and-off-again position where she spent most of her time on Blaugdone Island but took on an occasional job when a new enchanted structure was found and required her attention. Such an arrangement would require her to be gone for weeks at a time, but that was nothing the other staff couldn’t handle. Mr. Fernsby would fare just fine with a part-time housekeeper.

Beyond that . . . it wasn’t reasonable to think of the possibilities beyond that. Hulda would get carried away with herself, and that would be no beneficence, especially for her.

Crossing the brook, Hulda allowed herself to stroll and enjoy the open sky, which slowly colored with sun. Sunsets were always prettiest when there were clouds to reflect the light, and the perfect amount of them swam overhead. She went over what she would say to Myra—it would be better to discuss the matter in person and offer a logical argument, something that would conceal her emotional attachments. She could offer to train Miss Taylor in housekeeping. That seemed a viable reason to stay, did it not? And the training wouldn’t add a single penny to BIKER’s allotted budget for the house. Perhaps she could even offer to survey the other isles in Narragansett Bay. Perhaps there was magic yet to be found—

“Hello, Hulda.”

Her body reacted to the low voice before her mind did. It seized, stung by a sudden chill. Her organs drooped as she turned around to meet a dark, penetrating gaze framed by wild, dark hair.

She mouthed, Mr. Hogwood. He was there, in the flesh, standing over her, dressed simply and in muted colors, his eyes narrow and mouth pinched. Older than she remembered him. Rougher.

How . . . How was he here? He was supposed to be dead!

He grabbed her.

Panic burned through her limbs like fire. She twisted free and bolted away, tall grasses pushing her back, mud sucking at her shoes. Her skirt yanked backward; she fell forward. Her magnifying glass fell from her bag.

Her bag.

Kicking at Mr. Hogwood, she fumbled through the satchel, pushing aside dowsing rods and her umbrella, her fingers brushing the selenite communion stone.

Mr. Hogwood’s fingers dug into her hair, yanking her back.

She screamed, and the bag fell to the earth, lost amidst the marsh.

A scream echoed against the walls of Merritt’s bedroom.

He froze, shirt halfway unbuttoned, changing for the night. The hairs on his arms rose. He spun around, confused. That scream . . . It had sounded far away, yet so close.

It had sounded like Hulda.

Blood rushing through his veins, he searched the room, wondering if it was a trick of Owein’s, but he’d never done sounds before. “Hulda?” he called, crossing to his dresser.

His eyes landed on his communion stone just as the magic seal on it faded.

His bones shifted to butter. Grabbing the stone, he pressed his thumb into the seal and shouted, “Hulda! Are you there? Hulda!”

He waited for an answer. He didn’t receive one.

Rushing through the door, Merritt barreled down the hallway, stone in hand. “Hulda!” He peeked into the library. Turned back and flew down the stairs. “Hulda!”

Baptiste stepped out from the lavatory. “What is happened?”

Merritt held up the stone, as though it could explain everything. “Where is Hulda?”

Baptiste shook his head.

“Mr. Fernsby?” Beth came in from the dining room.

“Where. Is. Hulda?”

Beth bit her lip. “I haven’t seen her since she went out. I thought to study the tourmaline . . .”

Owein might as well have opened a sinkhole in the floor beneath him.

“Find Hulda.” He spun to Baptiste. “Find her now. Something is wrong.”

He barreled for the door, then paused, letting Baptiste go in front of him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he bounded back to his bedroom and grabbed his rifled musket from the wall, then the Colt Paterson from his drawer. As he tried to leave, however, an invisible barricade slammed into him, striking his head and knocking him off his feet.

“Not now!” He leapt up and rammed the butt of the rifled musket against the wardship spell once, twi—

The shield gave way, and he dashed through the house without second thought. Outside, wind stirred his hair over his face, temporarily blinding him. The sun was a golden tracing on the horizon, nothing more. He cursed. Baptiste’s low voice bellowed Hulda’s name. Beth bounded toward the gravestones.

“Hulda!” Merritt called. He tried the stone once more, but no one responded. Picking a direction, he started running. “Hulda! Hulda!”

A rabbit hole nearly snapped his ankle in half.

The rifled musket was slick in his hands. “Hulda!”

A cold breeze blew through the vegetation. Sssssshhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeee, it whispered.

A shiver coursed up Merritt’s neck. “Hello?”

Sssssshhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeee . . .

“Owein! Where is she?” He trudged through thistles, voice hoarse. “She! Where is she?”

Ssssssshhhhhhheeeeee, the air wheezed, and in his head, Merritt saw a coastline far from where he was standing.

He ran.

Hulda’s face pressed into reeds. Her wrists stuck together with nothing but a spell, stronger than any manacles. The sun abandoned her, leaving her to the darkness and Silas Hogwood’s hands, one of which stayed at the back of her head, shoving her mouth into mud.

She felt the exact moment a necromancy spell oozed beneath her skin, beckoning her life force away.

She jerked, trying yet again to free herself. Her panic was overwhelming. Suffocating. She couldn’t breathe! She writhed, bending her glasses. Managed to buck up one hip.

Mr. Hogwood’s grip tightened, pulling hair from her scalp.

“It’s not worth fighting. Even without magic, I could overpower you,” he murmured. Her muscles heated with his spell, while her skin turned icy. “I should have taken you out first the last time. I’m not making that mistake again.”

The statement rang alarms in her head. She tried to talk, to plead, but it only pushed muck against her teeth.

Something buzzed in her blood. Her thoughts flashed to the basement of Gorse End, to the shriveled, blackened bodies of people, no longer recognizable. She screamed. The marsh absorbed the sound.

Mr. Hogwood’s knee pressed into the small of her back, sending a wave of pain up her spine. Tears leaked from her eyes. “This takes a while.” He was so quiet she could barely hear him over her thundering heart. “But you know that, don’t you?”

His nails dug into her scalp. Hot breath brushed her ear before he said, “But do you know how? Hm? How I’ll suck up your life force, break apart your magic, and move it from this worthless sack of flesh? I’ll make you even uglier than the rest. But your eyes . . . I will try so hard to preserve your eyes. I want you to see how wretched you are.”

He leaned onto his knee in her back. Hulda screamed into roots and earthworms as lightning coursed through her body, overwhelming the subtle pull of the spell. Her backbone was going to snap.

“Hardly worth it.” He pulled back, unaffected by the sobs shaking her chest and shoulders. She gasped for air and sucked up dirt, barely able to cough it out. She tried to kick, but the spell restraining her wrists also glued together ankles and knees.

She was going to die. God help me, I’m going to die.

“I thought about you every day.” A new spell jolted through her, one that truly felt like lightning. She cried out as it burned the backs of her thighs. Was this part of the draining, or just a means to torture her? Grit clung to her eyelashes and melded with her tears. “Every day in that Godforsaken place.” He shoved her head down again, burrowing her face so deep in the muck there was no air to be had. She struggled, twisted, jerked. “Never thought it would be—”

Thunder exploded. It crashed into Hulda’s head and made her ears ring.

Suddenly the unbearable weight on her head and back lifted. Hulda wrenched away, tears streaming down her face. Her arms and legs, unexpectedly free, prickled from lack of blood. She fell back into the grass. Picked herself up again. Her glasses hung off one ear.

Through a single lens, she saw a shadow approaching.

And Mr. Hogwood . . . Mr. Hogwood was gone.

“Show yourself!” The demonic and grating words sounded in Merritt’s voice. Thunder ripped through the air again, and Hulda’s hands rushed to her ears. Some distant piece of her recognized it wasn’t a storm she’d heard, but a firearm.

The shadow rushed across the grass, swinging the butt of a musket like a sword. Heart in her throat, Hulda twisted, searching the marsh for Mr. Hogwood, but it was as if he’d never been there. And with the repertoire of spells that man possessed . . . he could truly be gone.

“Hulda.” The edge of the voice dissipated as the shadow dropped down beside her. Her frenzied mind managed to recognize it.

Bloodied lips struggled, “M-Mister . . . Merritt?”

His hands cradled her jaw. It was so dark she could barely see his outline against starlight. He felt so warm against her cold skin, his touch nearly scorching. “You’re hurt. You’re—”

A rustle in the grass, likely only a hare, but panic shocked Hulda from crown to heel. Merritt leapt to his feet, musket in hand.

Nothing but the wind greeted them.

“Baptiste!” Merritt bellowed. “Baptiste, bring the light! I found her!”

Hulda gawked at him, shaking, teeth chattering, her mind a flurry of disjointed thoughts and fears. Her body still burned from spells.

She didn’t see or hear what he did with the gun. But Merritt Fernsby crouched beside her and drew her trembling body into his arms, lifting her from the shallow grave of muck and reeds. Far in the distance, a lantern swung, slowly making its way toward them.

Finally, one thought managed to rise above the others: Safe. She was safe.

Hulda turned into Merritt’s shirt and wept.