Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 29

October 15, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt was exhausted when he came home the next morning. He’d managed to find a bed at a local coach house around eleven last night, which he’d shared with two men who snored louder than firing cannonballs. He’d then emptied his wallet to get back to Blaugdone Island. His body was sore, his eyes were dry, and everything else was . . . wrung out and still wringing. He needed to . . . he wasn’t sure. Run until he couldn’t move another inch, only so he could sleep for a week and force his mind to work out these new revelations in his dreams. Wouldn’t that be nice.

Bastard. Could it be true? What reason would she have had to lie about it? It worked with the events as they’d transpired, but . . .

Bury, bury, bury.

For now, he’d have to settle for staring at a wall. Perhaps Hulda knew of some sort of tea or tincture that would settle him down enough to get some rest. If only it were as simple as sleeping it off.

She’d taken his boat, after all, so he’d hired a driver to cross the bay. As he handed over his last coins, he noticed a new boat tied about two hundred feet east—larger than his, big enough for maybe eight people. He squinted at it awhile, until the driver of the boat he stood on asked, “Um. Could you get off?”

Merritt forced his feet to step into eight inches of water, eyes still on the unknown sea vessel. Who was visiting? Not Fletcher . . .

Slapping himself twice on either cheek, Merritt forced wakefulness into his person and trudged through the wild grasses and reeds toward the house. At least he had this quiet place for refuge. At least he could wrap himself up in normalcy while he reordered the story of his life and determined what to do next. At least he could depend on Beth and Baptiste to keep the days going, and Hulda . . .

He still needed to talk to her. He wanted to, as soon as he got his head around all of this—bastard—and stuffed it away like he always did. It took time and tears, and a few unfortunate trees would bear the brunt of his target practice and likely his fists, but he would piece himself back together, and they would talk. There could still be a silver lining to the mess of his life. God grant him just one silver lining.

That hope buoyed him. His porch grumbled under his weight—Owein was either happy to see him or anxious about something. The boat, perhaps? Concerned, Merritt quickened his step and opened the front door.

He tripped over a trunk sitting just behind it.

Hulda’s trunk.

“What on . . .” He left the door ajar and stepped around the trunk. There was a suitcase sitting beside it. He grasped its handle and lifted it—full.

What was going on?

Two men came down the stairs just then, complete strangers dressed in work attire. They nodded to him before pushing past, taking up either end of the trunk and hauling it outside—

Beth stepped out from the living room and started upon seeing him. “Mr. Fernsby! Are you . . .” She took him in—he undoubtedly looked a mess—and finished weakly, “. . . well?”

“Hardly.” He hefted the suitcase. “What’s all this?”

Beth bit her bottom lip.

Hulda came down the stairs, not noticing him until she’d reached the third to last. She paused, her overlarge bag—which also appeared to be very full—slung over her shoulder. She blanched upon seeing him.

“What the hell is going on?” He brandished the suitcase. His freshly painted mortar cracked. He might as well be standing outside Manchester City Hall yet again.

Hulda lifted her chin and descended the final stairs. He thought her lip quivered for an instant, but the mark of uncertainty vanished the moment she spoke. “As you know, Mr. Fernsby, BIKER has been requesting my return to Boston.”

He stared at her incredulously. Beth backed out of the room.

“BIKER?” His tone was more forceful than he meant it to be. “I thought you spoke with them already. You’re staying on.”

“You are misinformed.” She cleared her throat. Stood even taller. “Which is a blunder on my part. However, seeing as you were out of the house—”

“With a communion stone you failed to use,” he interjected.

She pressed on, “I have taken matters in hand. I am departing today, but a new housekeeper will be appointed to you within the fortnight, if you choose to hire a replacement.”

He gawked at her. Set down the bag, then kicked the door closed and whirled on her. “So you’re moving out, without so much as a note?” No letter. No word. No trace. Something sharp and hard formed in his chest. “You said you were staying.”

She huffed. “What I said is not relevant. I am BIKER’s employee, not yours—”

His heart bled acid. “This is because of that consarning Genealogical Society, isn’t it?”

She looked taken back. “What do you mean?”

Lies, lies, and more lies. Why did everyone lie to him?

“You know exactly what I mean.” He closed the distance between them, and Beth all but fled. “I know you’ve been meeting with them. Don’t lie to me. You’re leaving because this house is tamed, and I’m not some fancy wizard. There’s nothing fun in your boring life anymore, so you’re quitting.”

Hulda’s eyes widened. Cheeks tinted carmine. “How dare you make such asinine assumptions! And how dare you judge me, when you just spent the last thirty-six hours chasing some hussy across New England!”

“Hussy? Hussy?” The acid blazed into fire, melting his fingertips and choking out his air. “If she’s a hussy, then what does that make me?”

Hulda flushed darker. Pressed her lips into a hard line.

“Huh, Hulda?” he pushed. “Because I’m every bit as guilty as she is.”

Gripping the strap of her bag, Hulda pushed past him and scooped up the suitcase. “I don’t have to listen to this. I’ve no contract with you.”

“Contract!” he barked. “Why don’t I help you with your self-righteous tirade, eh? I’m a bastard, too! An unemployed, sex-mongering, unmagical bastard. Hardly good enough for the likes of a pretentious housekeeper, if I say so myself.”

She spun on her heel. “You insolent, horrible man! Don’t pin your shortcomings on me or anyone else in this house!” With that, she marched for the door.

“Leave, then!” he bellowed after her. “Leave, just like everyone else does!”

She slammed the door.

The pyre burned hot and cold. He felt like a loaded and cocked gun; he needed somewhere to fire. Spinning, he punched the wall hard enough to crack it . . . and to send white-hot pain racing up his arm.

The portrait behind him tsked, and the wall resealed itself.

Pinching his nose, Merritt dropped onto the first stair and sunk his elbows onto his knees. “Just like everyone else does,” he whispered, and squeezed his eyes closed so tightly no tears could escape.

Hulda could not remember the last time she’d been so angry.

It was embarrassing to have been caught in her escape by Merritt—Mr. Fernsby, that was—but why should she have to explain herself? It was no lie that BIKER wanted her return. Myra had pushed for it more than once. And what did he care? Heaven forbid something disrupt his comfortable life! I’ve just gotten used to you, he’d said once. A person wasn’t entitled to service merely because he was “used to” it.

And his assumptions about her and the Genealogical Society . . . how utterly crude. He knew she’d gone there to get information for him. His words had been vile and confusing. What had fueled him to act in such a savage way? Just his true colors, perhaps.

In an odd way, she was grateful for the argument. Anger was easier than dolefulness, humiliation, despondency. She clung to anger.

She managed to dial her mood down to simmering by the time she arrived at BIKER; the moving company would deposit her things in her temporary apartment, until Myra sent her to Nova Scotia. Lugging her empty bag up the stairs, Hulda was relieved to see her friend standing over Miss Steverus’s desk, looking through a file. The secretary herself was away at the moment.

Myra glanced up at her approach, then jumped from her chair, a grin splitting her face. Hulda couldn’t help but return the smile. Oh, to be appreciated. It was a cool balm to her wounded soul.

“You’re back!” She eyed the bag. “Are you here to stay?”

Hulda nodded, a gesture that gave her the utmost satisfaction. “You’ll be pleased to know I considered what you said and decided you were right. I’m ready for whatever assignment you need me for, even filing.” Anything to keep her busy.

Myra clapped her hands before embracing Hulda. “I’m so glad. Oh, it will be good to have you around, if only for a little while. I’m expecting news from London any time now.” She paused. “Hulda, are you all right? I’m reading—”

“Please, don’t.” Hulda put up a stalling hand while scrambling her thoughts, tucking away the sore ones and replacing them with meticulous descriptions of the office. “I know you can’t help picking up on strong thoughts, but please . . . I’ll explain later.”

Myra frowned. “Of course, if that’s what you want.”

Relief tickled beneath her skin. “It is.”

Myra collected the folder. “I need to compare this to some findings. It should only be a minute. Do you mind waiting?”

“I might see to unpacking.” Hulda patted her bag.

“Of course. I’ll come to you.” Myra squeezed her arm, sympathy coming through her countenance—an expression Hulda was all too familiar with, from all too many people. Myra ducked into her office, taking her pity with her.

Switching the heavy bag to her other shoulder—carrying a crowbar, among other things, across state lines took a physical toll—she started for the stairs, trying to ignore the frustrating ache over her diaphragm. She just needed to get engaged in her work. Occupy herself. She prayed for a lot of filing—

“Mrs. Larkin!” Miss Steverus hurried down the adjoining hallway. “Just my luck! I ran off to send you a telegram, but here you are!”

Hulda paused, confused. “Telegram about what?”

“Your report.” She motioned for Hulda to follow, then slipped behind her desk and dug through a stack of papers there, pulling out the letter Hulda had sent via windsource pigeon. “It’s just, I was copying this, and, well, I studied metaphysical geology for a time before taking this job.” She looked up through her lashes sheepishly. “And you mentioned tourmaline, and I thought . . . well, I went and looked it up to be sure, and I don’t think . . . that is, it’s not my place to correct—”

Hulda didn’t have patience for pandering, not today. “Just spit it out, Sadie.”

“Right. Right.” She set the paper down. “It’s just that tourmaline can only hold a magical charge for about a week before it diffuses.”

Hulda took a few seconds to work that out. “You’re sure?”

Miss Steverus nodded.

“But that makes no sense.” She adjusted her bag. “The only thing that could recharge the tourmaline is the wizarding spirit, and he doesn’t possess wardship abilities. He’s never exhibited them, and his genealogical records have no such recordings.”

Miss Steverus shrugged. “I can show you the research if you want to see it, but if the tourmaline is producing magic, it’s pulling it from another source.”

Hulda shook her head. “Yes, I’d like to see it.”

“One minute.” The secretary bounded back down the hallway she’d come from.

Hulda tapped her fingernails against the desk’s surface. It made no sense. Perhaps Hulda had somehow missed something, or the Mansel records were incomplete, or . . .

A memory surfaced—the wardship shield disintegrating after Merritt knocked on it. Before that she’d been telling him about Mr. Hogwood. Wardship was a protective discipline, and if Merritt had been feeling protective . . .

He pointed me in the right direction . . . He said, ‘She,’ like he was referring to a woman. To you . . . He pointed, I suppose. But without pointing.

Hulda’s body went so slack her bag dropped to the floor.

It couldn’t be . . . Merritt . . . could it?

She had to know. The urge to know burned within her like a blacksmith had hooked bellows to her lungs and shoved iron down her throat. Securing her bag, Hulda rushed for the stairs, essentially tripping over them, her feet moved so quickly.

Sadie Steverus called out after her, but Hulda had her own research to perform.

Mr. Gifford stood from his desk as Hulda swept into the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic’s office, her skirt inches from getting caught in the closing door.

“Miss Larkin! How are you to—”

“I need to see your records immediately. I do not require an escort. It’s BIKER business. Do I need to fill anything out before I go down?”

The man choked on his words. “N-No, let me just write down your name—”

She sped past him, grabbing a lantern and taking the winding stairs down to the basement library. She managed to get it lit before touching down on the main floor. The smells of mildew and old parchment wafted over her like the tide. She wove through shelves until she found the box that would contain records for the surname Fernsby. Grabbing it, she found the same table she’d used before and set to work.

The file was larger than the Mansel one had been, and after spreading it out on the table, she took a full five minutes to find his name. Merritt Fernsby, listed second under Peter Fernsby and Rose Fernsby. He had two sisters—the elder was named Scarlet and the younger Beatrice. Her heart panged reading the names of family who had left him behind—family he avoided speaking of—but ravelment overtook her as she scanned up the family line.

No magic notes. No estimates or wizarding markers of any kind.

She leaned back, confounded. If not Merritt, then what—

Why don’t I help you with your self-righteous tirade, eh? I’m a bastard, too! An unemployed, sex-mongering, unmagical bastard.

“Bastard,” she repeated, that pang hitting harder this time as his self-deprecating anger pushed to the front of her memory, still fresh, still stinging. If Merritt was a bastard, then this lineage wouldn’t be correct . . .

She paused. She hadn’t unpacked yet. Reaching down, she shuffled through her black bag until she found the BIKER file on Whimbrel House. The file that included the short list of past inhabitants.

She spread it out. Found the name of the previous owner, Anita Nichols—Merritt’s maternal grandmother, if she remembered right. She had apparently won the house and land in a game of chance, from Mr. Nelson Sutcliffe, who’d inherited it from his father, who’d taken it from his brother. None had ever inhabited it.

Hulda knocked over her chair in her hurry to get to the shelves, then retrieved the Mansel file and brought it over. She spread it on top of the Fernsby file. Found Horace and Evelyn and their daughters—Owein’s sisters. She traced their lines down until . . .

There! There was a Mary Mansel in Crisly’s line that married a Johnson, and her third daughter married a Sutcliffe! The families were connected.

She chewed on her lip. Pondered. Grabbed her lantern and ventured upstairs.

“Mr. Gifford,” she said to the frazzled clerk, “is there a means to look up genealogical records by location?”

“Um. Yes, there is . . . Allow me.” He set a few papers straight and escorted her back into the dark, taking up a lantern of his own. He led her deeper into the basement, to another set of shelves. “These are by location. Do you know what you’re looking for?”

Hulda snapped her fingers, trying to think of it. Merritt’s birthplace hadn’t been included in the Whimbrel House file, but Mr. Portendorfer had mentioned it before. “New York. New York . . . Cow, no, that’s not it. Cattle something . . .”

“Cattlecorn?” Mr. Gifford supplied.

“Yes! Yes, Cattlecorn.”

He passed by a few shelves, then took his time studying the different files, leaving Hulda to force patience into restless limbs. When he finally pulled a bin free, Hulda snatched it, rushed a thank-you, and hauled it over to her table.

She opened up the files to the newest entries. “Sutcliffe,” she murmured, drawing her finger down. “Sutcliffe, Sutcliffe . . .”

Sutcliffe, Nelson. No magic markers, though his grandfather had W10 written on his name, and a great-uncle had Co12. There was a smattering of other magic markers going up the line.

So Nelson Sutcliffe lived in Cattlecorn and had the magic markers Hulda was searching for . . . If this man was Merritt’s biological father, then it was Merritt causing those spells. He must have used communion to find her the night of the attack! She laughed, disbelieving. All this time, Merritt had been adding to the enchantments . . .

And he didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“Oh dear.” She fished out her communion stone.

“Miss Larkin?”

She jumped. “Oh, Mr. Gifford. I forgot you were here.”

He glanced to the mess she’d made on the table. “Can I help you sort anything?”

“I . . . No. But I need to make some copies. Please.”

He nodded. “I’ll get you a pencil and paper.”

She waited for him and his lantern to vanish up the stairs, then activated the selenite. “Merritt?” she asked. “Merritt, I’ve found something very important.”

She paused, the stone heavy in her hands. If this was all true . . . Merritt was related to Owein. She’d trace that line in just a moment.

No answer.

“Merritt, it’s Hulda. I know you’re angry, but I need to speak with you! It’s about the house. About Owein, and you.”

No answer.

“Impertinent man,” she mumbled. She’d make her copies and try again. If he still didn’t answer, well . . . she’d go back to Blaugdone Island herself and make him.

If nothing else, she needed the exercise.

Merritt sat at the head of the dining room table, the room dimly lit with a smattering of candles, the shutters drawn closed against the twilight. He slouched in his chair and propped his forehead halfheartedly on his palm. Both elbows were firmly planted on the table, but this was his house. He could put his joints wherever he wanted.

He felt Beth and Baptiste watching him as he speared and respeared a pea with his fork, over and over until it resembled a shucked oyster, then moved on to mutilating another. He never did manage to take that nap. His body felt heavy yet hollow, his brain fuzzy, his innards numb. But numb was good. He tried very hard not to think about anything, as thoughts disrupted apathy. He was weary of thinking, besides. Perhaps, if he never slept, he would never think. Wouldn’t that be something?

He was beginning to regret the lack of liquor in the house.

Beth murmured, “I’ll take your plate.”

Merritt glanced up, though she’d been addressing Baptiste. Both he and the maid had finished their dinner. Merritt’s was growing cold and being slowly massacred by silver prongs.

Sighing, he set the weapon down. “I’m sorry, Baptiste. It’s nothing you’ve done. In truth, meat pies are my favorite food.”

Baptiste frowned. “I know.”

Merritt perked a little. “You do?” He couldn’t remember mentioning it.

The cook shifted an uneasy glance to Beth. “Er . . . the menu is Mrs. Larkin’s task. She chose it.”

Merritt wilted. “Oh.” So much for apathy. A bitter screw began twisting its way up his middle. He stared at the golden-brown crust before him. Picked up his fork and attacked it, but couldn’t bring himself to eat.

Perhaps tomorrow Baptiste would make soup so Merritt could drown himself in it. Though he really should eat something. He’d only feel worse if he didn’t. Lifting a tiny morsel to his lips, he chewed, barely registering the flavor.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Beth said, “I’ve some chamomile tea, if you’d like.”

Ah, chamomile. Calming, sleepy chamomile. “As strong as you can manage it, please. Thank you.”

Beth nodded and walked toward the kitchen, but came to a sudden halt after three steps. Turned back to Merritt—no, the window.

Merritt sat up. “What’s wrong?”

Beth pursed her lips. “I sense something. Something bad—”

The glass shattered, raining shards over Merritt’s head and back, blowing out half the candles.

Beth screamed.

“Get down!” Merritt shouted, dropping from his chair and slipping under the table. An earthquake? But the ground wasn’t moving—

The table jerked; a thick something slammed against the far wall, followed by a deep grunt. Heart in his throat, Merritt crawled under the table to see Baptiste slumped against the far wall, a streak of blood leading to his head.

“Baptiste!” Merritt dove for the man, but not before a giant, unseen hand wrapped around him, turning him about.

A shadowy figure stood in the dining room, a black cloak billowing around him, a high, white collar pressed against his face. He was a tall man, broad shouldered, with dark hair swept to one side. Long sideburns marked his cheeks.

And there was a dog, some sort of terrier, on a leash beside him, whimpering.

“Mr. Fernsby, we have not been properly introduced,” he said in an English accent.

Beth, standing from the ground, said, “You’re Silas Hogwood.”

Merritt’s stomach sank.

The Englishman growled. “And you are a pain in my side.”

The spell holding Merritt released, dropping him several feet to the ground. He landed sideways on his foot, which sent a sharp pain racing up his leg as he collapsed to the floorboards. The same spell took hold of Beth and pinned her to the ceiling.

The house shuddered, and the far wall came alive, jutting forward and slapping Silas in the back, nearly knocking him off his feet. He let go of the mongrel, who scurried into the reception hall with its tail between its legs.

“Oh don’t worry.” Silas scowled and planted his hand on the wall. “I’ve plans for you.”

Something sparked—Merritt tasted it on the back of his tongue—and the house went still.

“What do you want?” Merritt forced himself to stand, favoring his right leg. He glanced to Baptiste, whose head lolled to one side. His chest still moved, thank God. “She’s not here!”

“I’m aware.” A gust of wind collided with Merritt’s back, blowing him toward the taller man. But as Silas reached for him, his hand struck an invisible wall, and the wind cut out.

The wardship spell again. The tourmaline?

Merritt backpedaled, grabbing a chair to keep balance. His heart was the size of his entire torso and pulsed with the power of a hurricane. He searched frantically for a knife. Baptiste moaned again—a good sign.

Silas chuckled, tapping a gloved knuckle against the shield. “Very clever. I sensed your magic when you came for her. A two-for-one deal. Very generous.”

That gave Merritt pause. “Magic?” He didn’t have any magic. What he needed was help—his guns were all the way upstairs. Baptiste’s eyelids fluttered. He crouched by the man and tried to help him up.

“You know what another wardship spell is, Mr. Fernsby?” Silas asked. “Spell-turning.”

He waved his hand, and the shield disappeared. In four long strides, the Englishman reached Merritt and grabbed him around the throat. A feeling like lightning jolted from his neck down to his heel. His body spasmed. His lungs gasped for air.

“I always learn from my mistakes.” Silas’s dark eyes found Beth, still bound to the ceiling. “And I don’t like snitches.” He raised his other hand.

“No!” Merritt screamed.

Beth fish-mouthed like she’d been punched in the gut. The spell holding her vanished, and she fell hard to the floor, unmoving.

“No!” Merritt grabbed Silas’s arm, almost breaking his hold, but that blasted spell from before overtook him, freezing him in place. He could barely blink, let alone fight.

“Nor do I like loud cargo,” he sneered as the distant gleam of a lighthouse reflected off the window.

Noise built up in Merritt’s brain, a thousand different sounds calling over one another, filling his thoughts, blocking out everything else. He fell limp to the floor, just barely registering the whimpering of that dog.

And he finally got to sleep.