Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 30

October 15, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Hulda didn’t get to Blaugdone Island until after dark, but she was becoming so used to its shadows she didn’t mind. She tipped her boat driver handsomely and took a lantern with her, hurrying down the path from Merritt’s enchanted vessel to the house. Light glowed from the dining room window, and she focused on it, not realizing until she reached the porch that the glass had been completely shattered, the door left ajar.

Panic seized her and sent a thorny rush into her crown. Grabbing her skirts, she hastened into the house, seeing first Mr. Babineaux slumped in a chair, holding a rag to the back of his head. Miss Taylor, on the floor, held her middle with one hand and carefully sipped water. Her eyes widened at the sight of Hulda. “Mrs. Larkin!” She tried to stand, then winced and dropped to her knees.

“Good heavens, what happened?” She rushed to Miss Taylor, inspecting her.

The woman winced and pushed her hands away. “B-Broken ribs, one or two,” she ground out.

Hulda turned to Mr. Babineaux, who murmured, “Is just a little blood.”

She took the man’s face in her hands and brought a candle closer, watching his pupils. “You hit your head, didn’t you? You have a concussion.”

“He took Mr. Fernsby,” Miss Taylor wheezed.

Hulda’s skeleton turned to jelly, which sent her heart down to her navel. “Wh-What? Who?”

“Silas Hogwood.”

The jelly morphed to ice. Strife and truth. Was this what she’d foreseen?

“I sensed him like I did before.” Miss Taylor carefully leaned herself against the wall, still holding her middle. “He left just . . . fifteen minutes ago.”

“Maybe half hour,” Mr. Babineaux grumbled. “Tried to follow but . . . too dizzy.” He slumped even further.

Hulda’s eyes burned. Her limbs shook like she’d run all the way from Boston. “H-He’s gone?” A pick chiseled through the center of her chest.

Miss Taylor nodded, face screwed like she was holding back tears. “He saved my life. Hogwood . . . he meant to kill me. But I felt Mr. Fernsby’s spell touch me first. A shield like before.”

Shivers coursed down Hulda’s arms. “Then you know it’s him. He’s the second source of magic.”

“That’s what Mr. Hogwood said.” She took a careful breath.

Panic bubbled up Hulda’s throat. So Silas Hogwood knew, too. Was that what he meant, by Hulda being the first? Had he already planned on taking Merritt, too? “All right. All right.” She breathed deeply. In, out. In, out. “Which way did they go?”

Miss Taylor winced. “Don’t know.”

“God help us.” On her feet, Hulda rushed to the window and peered out into the night. “Owein! Owein, did you see? Do you know anything?”

The house didn’t respond.

Hulda knocked on the wall. “Owein!”

Nothing.

Think, Hulda! Mr. Hogwood wouldn’t still be on the island. The transference took a long time—that’s what the police report had said back in Gorse End, and her own experiences lent to that theory. Using so much magic would surely leave a man sick as well. Vulnerable. Mr. Hogwood wouldn’t risk getting caught again, like he had with Hulda, which meant he must have left the island. He’d want to avoid witnesses, too, so he wouldn’t have a hotel room, or anything in a big city. Where, then? There were more remote places in the United States than anyone could ever count!

She shook her hands, trying to attenuate the nerves burning her like bug bites. She searched the room, eyes landing on the shattered glass. She stared at it hard, trying to connect the patterns . . . but it told her nothing. Either Mr. Hogwood’s earlier spells on her had affected her augury or his future was too convoluted for her magic to see.

“I have to go to BIKER.” She didn’t know where else to turn. They had no neighbors on this island or the neighboring ones, and she didn’t know where the Portsmouth constable lived, or if he’d be available. “I have to go to BIKER and ask Myra for help. If she knows someone with communion spells, the plants and birds can tell us where to find him.” But would that take too long?

It doesn’t matter. I have to do something! And to think of the way she and Merritt left things . . .

She spun back to Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux. Grabbed her lantern. “I’ll send a doctor for you straightaway. Can you hold on a little longer?”

Miss Taylor nodded. Mr. Babineaux grunted.

Good enough. Grabbing her skirt, Hulda flew from the house and ran down the trail, holding the light ahead of her so she could avoid rabbit holes and wayward tree roots. She barely felt the effort of the run; panic was wonderful like that. It was a good fuel.

“Hold on, Merritt.” She set the lantern in his boat and shoved it into the water, uncaring that her stockings got soaked in the process.

She activated the kinetic spell on the boat and pleaded with it, “As fast as you can.”

The boat sped off into the night.

Hulda used her key to unlock the front door of the Bright Bay Hotel in Boston, not bothering to keep her footsteps quiet as she rushed through BIKER’s headquarters to the room where its director slept. She threw open the door, and Myra sat upright in bed with a gasp.

“Who—Hulda!” She rubbed her eyes. Immediately stood, the skirt of her nightgown swishing around her ankles. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Silas Hogwood has attacked Whimbrel House!” Hulda set her lantern on a short bookshelf. “Merritt Fernsby has been captured. I don’t know how to track them!”

Myra stared at her, openmouthed, for several seconds, then shook her head, her loose hair bobbing about her shoulders. “Surely . . . Surely not.” She lowered herself back onto the bed as though standing had become too much of an effort.

“You cannot continue to deny it.” Hulda marched over and grabbed the bed post. “He nearly killed Miss Taylor and our chef! Miss Taylor confirmed his identity.”

“He wouldn’t have left witnesses.”

“Mr. Fernsby is a wizard, Myra!”

The woman’s breath hitched.

“Yes,” Hulda pressed. “I researched it myself. That’s why I left. The second source of magic wasn’t the tourmaline, but Mr. Fernsby! Through his paternal side.” She crouched to better see Myra’s face. “Mr. Hogwood must have figured it out . . . he may have psychometry spells. Perhaps he sensed it when he attacked me.” She shuddered at the thought of Merritt pinned down, suffering the same—no, worse—fate. They were running out of time. “At the least, Mr. Fernsby has both communion and wardship spells in his blood. He warded Miss Taylor.”

Myra shook her head yet again. “Too soon. Not like this.”

“Not like what, Myra?”

Myra stood, forcing Hulda to do the same so she wouldn’t be stepped on. “Maurice would never—”

“Maurice?” Hulda repeated. “Myra, are you awake? I’m talking about Silas Hogwood!”

But then she stopped short. She knew that name. Maurice. Maurice Watson.

She remembered Merritt holding a letter. A Watson fellow is inquiring about purchasing the house.

Miss Taylor had chimed in, Odd feeling about this one. Can’t explain what, but . . . doesn’t sit right with me.

And there was Miss Steverus’s interruption the other day. I just received a notice from Mr. Maurice Watson. He wants an appointment today.

Hulda had augured premonitions about a wolf on Blaugdone Island and at BIKER. And with an alteration spell, any wizard could take a beastly form.

Hulda was talking about Silas Hogwood.

But so was Myra.

Merritt . . . Merritt had always been the target.

Hulda backstepped. “You knew.” Her hand went to her chest. “You knew the whole time that Silas Hogwood was alive. That he was here. That’s why you tried so hard to assure me otherwise.”

Myra paled. “It’s not what you think—”

“How is this not what I think?” Hulda was shouting now. “You . . . You traitor!”

Myra rushed for the door and slammed it closed. “Keep your voice down.”

Hulda’s tone darkened as the shadows when she said, “Tell me one reason why I should.”

“I had nothing to do with your attack,” she hissed, but her energy puffed away, leaving her face drawn and shoulders slouched. “I was sick, Hulda.”

Hulda gaped. “What do you mean . . .” She paused. “That was years ago, Myra.”

Myra nodded. “I know. But it wasn’t simply a passing illness. I didn’t want to tell you, or Sadie, or anyone.” She kneaded her hands. “But I was sick, and Mr. Hogwood is a powerful necromancer.”

Hulda’s breath caught. “He healed you.”

Myra nodded. “I bartered with him. I would help break him out of jail, out of England, in exchange for the cure.”

“You helped him.” She felt light-headed. “You used your powers . . . BIKER . . . to falsify those records.”

Myra waved the accusation away. “I knew he would keep his word. I read his thoughts. He was trustworthy.”

Hulda closed the space between them and grabbed Myra’s shoulders. “He. Is. A. Murderer!”

Myra tugged free. “Because of him, I survived. And so did BIKER.” She looked away. Rubbed a chill from her arms.

“Tell me everything,” Hulda pressed. “I can’t read your mind, Myra. Tell me, or else I’ll—”

“Don’t.” She cut off the threat. “Don’t.” Rubbing her temples, Myra paced the length of the room and back.

Hulda stamped her foot. “I do not have time for this. Merritt is in danger. I’ll never forgive you if he dies. I will never—”

“New favors came up,” Myra croaked. “My sister got sick, too. A friend of mine, her husband was a drunk . . . She needed wardship to protect herself. I knew Maurice—Silas—could do it all. I knew he would always hold up his end of the bargain. He’s a man of his word.”

Hulda scoffed.

“So I went back to him a few times. Always in exchange for something. A new identity, new papers . . . and BIKER was on the brink of ruin.”

Hulda pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “You never said anything.”

“We were losing funding. Magical houses are increasingly rare, especially in the States. Silas agreed to travel around and infuse high-potential dwellings with spells so we could stay in business. So you could stay here.”

Hulda slapped her glasses back on. “Do not pretend you did this for me.”

Myra waned. “For his next payment, he wanted Whimbrel House. I don’t know how he knew about it. He must have read my mind, or dove into our records.”

Now Hulda paced. “Why?”

“It has magic he wants.”

She whirled on the director. “So you knew he was back at it again. You knew he was taking magic.”

“From a house, Hulda!”

“From Merritt!” she countered. “From me!”

“You were supposed to leave!” Myra screamed, voice echoing. Both of them froze from the outburst for several seconds. Regaining composure, Myra said, “Why do you think I tried so hard to pull you from that house? I refused to sign it over until I could make sure you were safe! He even tried to purchase it!”

“And a bloody good job you did! However trustworthy you might think that . . . that criminal is, he is a selfish, power-lusting horror that you unleashed on us!”

Tears brimmed Myra’s eyes. She sank to her bed. “I know,” she whispered, weeping. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Tell me where he is. You owe me that.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Tell me where he is,” she pressed. “Surely you weren’t so naïve as to help him without plucking that information from his mind.”

Myra cradled her head. Sniffed.

Hulda crouched before her again. “Myra. I am running out of time.”

“Marshfield,” she whispered. “He’s outside of Marshfield in a rundown house with a gambrel roof.”

An image pushed its way into Hulda’s mind—an image Myra had no doubt stolen from Mr. Hogwood. Hulda saw the dilapidated three-story house clearly, the large oak tree outside it, the surrounding fields.

She could find it.

“If you care for my life at all, you’ll wake the city watch and send them,” she said. “Because I am going. And I’m taking your horse.”

Standing, Hulda snatched her lantern and hurried from the room, not leaving so much as an ounce of gratitude in her wake.