Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 31

October 15, 1846, Marshfield, Massachusetts

The farther Hulda rode from the city, the denser the forest grew. Cedars, birches, and oaks crammed together. In the daylight, their autumnal crowns would have appeared lovely, restful. In the dark, they were shadows, walls, and obstacles, terrorizing both her and Myra’s gentle mare.

Hulda never would have found the place had Myra not pressed the images into her mind. Images Myra never should have had in the first place, but Hulda would save her indignation for later. She was in a race against the clock. A race in which she hopefully had the upper hand, as she wasn’t dragging a captive along with her.

The poor horse was exhausted when Hulda neared the house in question. It was an early 1700s building in ill repair, barely distinguishable from the narrow dirt road leading near it. Its walls were dark and slightly bowed in, its windows unlit, its roof sloping as though a heavy snowfall might make the entire thing collapse. She pulled the mare off the road some distance from the house, not wanting to be overheard, though the running of a nearby shallow canal helped muffle her footsteps. Whispering an apology to the mare, for she would not be able to tend to her just yet, Hulda balled her skirts in her hands and crept toward the house.

It appeared abandoned. There was no sound of humans whatsoever, only the mild babbling of the canal waters. Sourness built in her stomach. Had Myra led her astray? Surely she hadn’t turned so far from goodness . . . and surely Hulda could not have beaten Mr. Hogwood to his hidden residence.

Then her toe hit what felt like a very stiff rock, but was in fact a warding wall, much like the one Merritt had accidentally made that day at Whimbrel House.

Pursing her lips, Hulda ran her hand over the spell. It seemed to surround the entire house. Something so large could be cast only by a powerful wizard, which indicated this, at least, was the right place. Stepping lightly, she followed the ward to see if it got any closer to the house. It connected with the canal and stretched on from there. Moonlight reflected off the water.

A dog barked somewhere far off. Hulda stiffened, listening, and reached into her bag for something to defend herself with. A second bark made her pause. It wasn’t distant, but stifled. A third bark, fourth. Kneeling, Hulda pressed her ear to the earth just as a yip! ensued, and the animal fell quiet.

Underground, she thought. Mr. Hogwood had built his lair underground, away from detection. Just like in Gorse End. With as many spells as he’d stolen, he’d likely been able to dig it out quickly.

Certainty thrummed through her bones. Finding the entrance would prove tricky in the dark, though, and she didn’t have time. That, and if Hogwood had other wards more lethal than invisible walls, she could be in a lot of trouble.

Think, Hulda. She dug into her bag. She had no firearms—she barely knew how to use them, and she was hardly going to wander the streets of Boston at night in an attempt to secure one. The only offensive objects she possessed were a letter opener and her crowbar, for what good they would do. At least she had some dice in here—if she could read her own future, she might see how she got into the house, thus saving herself precious minutes. Inching closer to the moonlight, she was about to pull the dice free when her eyes landed again on the canal.

And the grate in its side, leading toward the house.

She swallowed. Highly unlikely that was the front door, but . . . Hogwood was a tidy person. He’d want means of disposing of his messes . . . or at least a second exit to save himself from being cornered again, like he had been eleven years ago in his own home.

Hulda blew out a puff of air that stirred the mess her hair had become. After retrieving the charms she’d hung at Whimbrel House to prevent the wardship wall from restraining her, she pushed her bag to the back of her hip and carefully lowered herself into the canal, gritting her teeth when cold water climbed up her calves, knees, and paused mid-thigh. Her dress floated atop it, ballooning where air had been trapped. The grate wasn’t screwed in, but the way was tight, wet, and rank. She wouldn’t be able to do it in this dress. Even if she made it through, she’d drip an ocean once she was inside, and the clothing would easily quadruple in weight, further hindering her.

She peered back up to the house. She could wander in there and find an actual door . . . but would Hogwood hear creaking wood under her feet? Was the door even there, or elsewhere?

She eyed the grate and sighed. “He’s already seen you in your underthings, so it hardly matters.” Still, as she hurriedly stripped from her dress and tossed it against the side of the canal so it wouldn’t float downriver, her courage waned. This was a job for the town watchmen, whom Myra was hopefully contacting. What could she hope to do?

Then she thought of the blackened, shriveled bodies at Gorse End. She couldn’t let that happen to Merritt. She simply couldn’t. So she heaved the grate from its place, clutched her bag to her chest in hopes of keeping it dry, and crawled down the long, grimy pipe, trying very hard not to think of what the slime at her hands and knees consisted of.

She crawled for some time, until her knees and shoulders ached and she’d gotten used to the smell, before she reached a second grate. This one had a hinge, thank the Lord, so it wasn’t quite so loud when she slid under it into a dark, stony cellar. She couldn’t see a thing, but feeling in the dark, she touched meat hanging by string, jugs, and wine bottles. Foodstuffs. Purchased or stolen? Hardly mattered.

Concealed by darkness, Hulda did her best to ring out her drawers so she wouldn’t leave a trail of drips wherever she went. Feeling along the wall, she passed a shelf and a stack of burlap bags and clanked her nails against a lantern. Pulling it off the wall, she retreated, rump smacking into another shelf, and rummaged through her bag until she found a match to light it.

The dim light burned her eyes. A short door made of two planks of wood strapped together with leather sat ahead of her. If she couldn’t see light coming in, Hogwood likely wouldn’t see light going out.

All right, Hulda. Use what you have. She reached for her dice again, then paused. She had more than temperamental divination in her arsenal. She knew Silas Hogwood. She’d lived with him for two years. She’d managed his staff, his kitchen, his house.

So what did that tell her?

She tapped one of the embedded stones on the ground. Hogwood hated filth. He was an immaculate person—the majority of the tiny staff he’d kept at Gorse End were maids; the cleanliness had made it impossible to divine his future when Hulda’s suspicions began. This lair was out of sight and out of mind, his main goals, surely, but he still wanted to minimize the dirt. This place was likely reinforced with rock and wood all over, if only to protect it from earth. Which might mean it wasn’t terribly large, because Hogwood also wasn’t in favor of manual labor. At least not manual labor he had to perform himself, magic or no. On top of being a wizard, a murderer, and a convict, he was also an aristocrat.

Hogwood was not the sort of person who would live like a pauper anywhere, including prison. So Hulda guessed this lair would be, perhaps, half the size of Whimbrel House.

What else . . . She flew through memories of Gorse End. Oh! His living and sleeping areas would be at the farthest point from the entrance, wherever that may be. He was a very private person. He had not liked anyone but his steward venturing into his wing, and he’d despised unsolicited visitors.

But where is the door? Gingerly lifting the lantern and turning it as low as it would burn, Hulda crept to the exit of the cellar and creaked it open. Dim light flowed down a low but long corridor straight ahead. Immediately to her right was an adjoining hallway, and to her left, a set of stairs leading up to a door.

Front of the “house,” she determined. She hoped that dog would bark again, if only as a distraction.

She was stepping out of the cellar when she noticed muddy boot prints on the makeshift cobblestones, veering down the corridor. Still wet—recent. Hogwood would only have tracked mud into this place if he were in a hurry. He must have taken Merritt that way, which was . . . north, she believed.

A pulse of fear thudded in her chest. She swallowed.

Hogwood wouldn’t want to be cornered. Not after losing his freedom before. There had to either be a second exit—which could be the canal route, though Hogwood would have a harder time using it in human form—or another way around.

Lifting her lantern, she peered down the short way to the right, which was entirely dark. Illuminated a set of dog prints mingled with the boot prints. Looked to be a medium-sized dog. Could Hulda overpower a medium-sized dog if need be?

Without a skirt in the way, certainly.

Cheeks warm, she closed the cellar door behind her. Slipped into the passageway. Paused and turned back to the mud.

She scooped up a handful of it and tossed it down again, grit splattering.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Merritt flying back through the air, colliding hard onto a stone floor.

Shuddering, she pulled back and wiped her hand on her corset, focusing to keep any forgetfulness at bay. She couldn’t change the future. Her visions took everything into account, including any attempts to alter it. What she saw was what would come to pass. Still, she needed to hurry.

Footsteps sounded in the long corridor going north. Hulda quickly toed her way east, around the next bend, letting the shadows envelop her. Frozen, she listened for the footsteps to come closer. They didn’t.

Down the corridor, the dog yipped.

Shifting her joints one at a time, Hulda crept across the stone. She didn’t have to go far before finding another room, more of a large cubby, really, with a hanging sheet instead of a door.

Pushing the sheet aside, she choked on a sigh. “Merritt.”

The space was barely large enough for a man to lie down, and certainly not tall enough for him to stand up. Merritt lay in the middle of it, tied up in enough rope to hinder a bull. It made sense that Hogwood wouldn’t use a spell when a rope would do. Spells cost. But why was he waiting?

Shuddering, she hurried inside as he rolled over, blinking at her. One of his eyes was swollen. There was nothing else in the room but a jug in the corner.

“Hulda?” he rasped.

“Shh.” She ran her hands over his bindings, trying to find the end of the rope. Of all the useful things in that bag of hers, none of them bore a blade.

He still blinked at her, confused. “Did he capture you, too?”

“No. Be quiet.” Fear was starting to leak into her hands, making her fingers tremble. She pushed him over to find his wrists. He released a relieved sigh as she loosened the expert knot there.

“How’d you find me?” he whispered.

“Augury.” Truth enough.

A pause. “Doesn’t he have that, too?”

Hulda hesitated half a second. “I don’t know.” If he did, had he foreseen Hulda’s arrival? Was he waiting for her? Her heart pumped quicker, which made her fingers tremble more. Still, she managed to unravel the first knot. Merritt flexed his hands and hissed through his teeth.

She followed the rope to the second knot and tugged. Merritt held still to let her work, but being quiet was not in his repertoire. “I need to apologize—”

“Later, Merritt.” She jerked another portion of rope free, then rolled him to his back to get at a knot over his stomach.

A few seconds passed. “You’re in your underwear.”

She gave him a scathing look.

He rested his head back. “I have to—ow!”

She paused. “What?”

“He socked me there.”

Sympathy calmed her irritation. She tugged at the knot with a fraction more gentleness.

“I have to apologize.”

She shook her head. “We can talk when we’re not in danger of homicide.”

“My point, though. What if one of us dies down here, and I never get the chance?”

She tugged the third knot free. Sitting up with a stifled grunt, Merritt shook his arms free and helped her work on his legs and feet.

“I was very . . . unkind . . . at the house,” he said without looking at her. “I didn’t understand. I should have asked for an explanation.”

Hulda hated that they had to discuss this now. “I hardly care, Merritt. We need to hurry.”

“I am hurrying.” He tugged more rope from his thighs. “I’d just learned that my father bribed Ebba to seduce me so that he could disinherit me—”

Hulda’s hands stilled. “What?” It was as close to a yell as one could get without using her actual voice.

“It’s all very dramatic.” The words were meant to be humorous, but the delivery was anything but. “Perhaps that is something to be discussed if and when we survive,” he continued as Hulda freed his feet. He shimmied out of the rest of the rope. “But I am sorry for it. I saw you leaving . . . You were going to leave just like she did, without a word or letter—”

Face hot but hidden by darkness, Hulda said, “I was leaving because I didn’t want to be present when you returned with another woman.” Strife and truth. That had been, by far, the most meaningful and utterly useless premonition she’d ever had.

He stared at her. “I hardly intended to proposition her. I’m . . . rather fond of you, Hulda.”

Blood rose to the skin in her neck and chest, but all she could think to say was “Oh.”

He tried to stand, knees shaking, so Hulda grasped his upper arm and helped him right himself. Clamoring for the lantern, she said, “Merritt, you are the second source of magic at Whimbrel House.”

He rubbed his wrists. “I’ve sorted that out, considering my abduction by a murderous wizard.”

“Yes, of course. And . . . I think I know who your father is. Your biological father, that is.”

He paused. “Now that you can tell me later. I’m still working through the abduction at the moment.”

Grabbing his hand, she whispered, “There’s a canal just this way. I’m going to blow this out. Be quiet—”

He tugged her back from the hanging sheet. “We can’t leave without Owein.”

Her breath caught. “Pardon?”

“Owein. He has Owein.”

She stared, confused.

“He . . . took him somehow,” he rushed to explain. “He took his spirit out of the house and put him into a dog.”

Her lips parted. The barking. The footprints. The house hadn’t responded to her, either. Was Hogwood so powerful a necromancer that he could move spirits? Such a thing hadn’t been done since Edward III’s time . . .

The dog had cried out moments ago. Was Mr. Hogwood hurting Owein? Had he already begun?

“We need to hurry.” Merritt took the lantern from her. “Beth and Baptiste—”

“Are fine enough. A doctor should be reaching them by now.” She shook her head at his hopeful look. “Later. Where’s Owein?”

He pointed north. “Around there, I think.” He paused, head cocked. “There are . . . others. I hear voices.” He winced, shook his head. “I don’t understand, I—”

His lips moved, but his voice cut out.

Hulda pressed a thumb to his lips. Any other time, the gesture might have sent a wave of red through her body, but her nerves were otherwise occupied with the situation at hand. “You’re using communion.” She barely put any air into the words, keeping them hushed. Muteness was a side effect of communion—he must have unknowingly been pushing the spell hard to have already garnered a side effect, though it should last only seconds.

Lines dug between his brows, but he removed his shoes and crept down the corridor in perfect silence, shielding the lantern light with his body. Hulda shouldn’t have been surprised by his presence of mind—this was just like something out of his novel. Whether they’d get a happy ending remained to be seen.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she hugged herself to keep her fear localized and followed him.

As they neared the end of the passageway, that same light Hulda had noticed earlier spilled into view. Her heart pounded at the back of her skull, warning her. If it came to her versus Hogwood . . . any of them versus Hogwood . . . they would lose.

Passing back the lantern, Merritt poked his head into the adjoining room. Holding her breath, Hulda spied under his arm.

The space was relatively large, about one and a half times the size of the living room at Whimbrel House. Shelves stacked with ropes, chains, and all sorts of tinctures, potions, and bandages took up the walls. Two barrels sat in the corner, near an iron grate that—

Oh God. Hulda’s stomach clenched. Behind it were the shrunken, mutated victims . . . but she didn’t have long to study it, for her eyes fell onto a straight bench in the center of the room. The dark terrier strapped to it convulsed silently as Mr. Hogwood pressed both his palms into it, enacting the slow-moving spells that would suck the animal—Owein—of his power and turn him into one of the pruney dolls that had haunted Hulda’s dreams for eleven years.

But Mr. Hogwood hadn’t noticed them yet.

Hulda grabbed Merritt’s elbow—what was their plan?—but Merritt didn’t budge. He stood there, stiff as granite, his eyes not on Mr. Hogwood or Owein, but on the shriveled monsters behind the iron bars.

And he trembled.

Moans. Cries. Screams.

They filtered through Merritt’s head like a gentle winter wind. The suffering felt very far away yet omnipresent, and it came from that corner, where the masses that looked like old, dehydrated cacti sat on shelves behind bars. Heaven help him, were they still alive? Alive and suffering, pleading for death—

Owein whimpered.

The magic cut off abruptly, leaving Merritt in blissful silence. He blinked his eyes, trying to reorient himself—

A wall of fire burst to life behind him and Hulda.

Silas Hogwood had risen from his macabre spell-winding. He glared at Merritt and Hulda with dark, furious eyes. His hand extended toward them, his fingertips . . . frosty? Owein whined but tilted his head to see. He was still all right. He was still alive.

But Merritt had a feeling he and Hulda soon would not be.

“You think you can thwart me?” Silas’s dark gaze slunk from Merritt to Hulda. The fire behind them burned hotter, forcing them into the revolting laboratory. “Nobody will have power over me. Not family, not BIKER, not even the Queen’s League.”

He eyed Hulda up and down, sneering, then flung out a hand, sending her flying across the room. Merritt burst forward, but not quickly enough to catch her. She slammed into the shelving on the wall opposite the mutated dolls, ripping free a wooden plank, knocking over half a dozen bottles that shattered when they hit the stone floor. Merritt dropped to his knees at her side, picking her up. Blood from several shallow cuts smeared his fingers.

Anger and fear warred within him. “We don’t want power over you,” he spat. “We want nothing to do with you. Just let us go.”

Silas’s mouth split into a foul smile, parting to release a chuckle. “Release you? No. Chaocracy has such beautiful enchantments, and I’ve craved them for a long time. The one thing that could make me truly untouchable.” His lips curled. “Even for the royal family. And you two are rife with it.”

Merritt blanched. Two? Owein and . . . him? Chaocracy? “You’re mad.” He still struggled to believe he had any magic, even though he’d seen and heard evidence. But chaocracy?

Hulda pushed herself upright. Her eyes flicked to the dolls.

Merritt’s gaze followed but didn’t linger. The dolls. They were important. Hadn’t Hulda said Silas got his magic from the people he did that to? So if they could destroy them . . .

Hulda stood; Merritt rose next to her. Owein writhed, his straps slowly turning into glass marbles . . . a sluggish chaocracy spell to free himself. Merritt pointedly kept his gaze on Silas so as not to give the dog away.

“Mr. Hogwood, please,” Hulda begged. “I know you can be reasonable. Let me strike a deal with you, just as Myra did—”

“Don’t be so hysterical.” He flung out his fingers.

Hulda retreated into Merritt, then doubled over shaking. Her skin turned cool and clammy beneath his touch. “Hulda!”

What was this? Another spell? Hysteria?

Merritt grasped her shoulders, trying to shake her out of it—

The pattering of marbles hitting the floor sounded just before a vicious growl tore through the air. Owein, free, ran for Silas and leapt, clamping his teeth down on the man’s forearm. A gasp escaped Hulda as Silas lifted Owein from the ground and flung his arm outward, slinging the dog toward the fire.

“No!” Merritt reached for the animal.

Owein collided with an invisible wall erected before the flames. He yelped and fell to the stone.

Merritt gave himself half a heartbeat to marvel at the shield he’d managed to put up. Then he turned about and charged the Englishman himself.

Still shaking off the fear spell, Hulda dashed again for the dolls, nabbing a shard of glass on her way. Merritt cried out. Hulda winced. Ran. Collided with the bars.

And stabbed the glass shard into the center of the closest doll.

Hogwood roared and arched like a gargoyle coming to life, throwing Merritt off his back. The fire extinguished, but she couldn’t be sure whether he’d lost his hold on the spell or lost it forever because the stabbed doll had been giving him that power.

Lifting her arm, she stabbed the next doll—

An unseen force slammed into her, knocking her into the wall, tearing both the air from her lungs and the glass shard from her hand. Moving stiffly as a side effect of the kinetic spell, Hogwood hunched, turned back to Merritt, and picked him up off the ground with the same spell, shoving him toward the plank with the leather straps nailed to it. As his shoulder blades hit, Merritt said, “I can hear them.”

Hogwood hesitated.

“Your dolls,” Merritt rasped as Hogwood’s knuckles pressed into his throat. “I can hear them screaming.”

A stone slammed into Hogwood, right below his neck. Merritt dropped.

Owein barked, his magic ripping another stone from the floor and hurling it in Hogwood’s direction. Hogwood used wind spells to shift that stone, then another, and another, away from him. Spells that left him gasping for air. His left hand crooked up, and the air popped as lightning came down from the ceiling and struck the dog.

“Owein!” Hulda cried, trying to push herself up. But Merritt, recovered, was faster, darting to the dog’s side.

Hogwood shifted to wolf form and barreled after him. Panic flooded Hulda’s limbs. She flew to her feet. The wolf bit down on the back of Merritt’s trousers, sending him crashing into the torn-up floor. But as Hogwood pounced, Merritt reared and flung up a protection spell that sent the wolf crashing into another invisible wall.

Merritt winced and hissed through his teeth. The side effect of wardship was physical weakness—he would be feeling his bruises acutely.

Hulda searched for a weapon. Moved for another glass shard—

Her blood dripped onto stone and earth, forming an uneven pattern that pushed an image into her mind. It was her. She ran to the doll cage. Hogwood shot a kinetic spell after her to crush her—

The future.

Ignoring the glass, Hulda turned around and bolted for the dolls.

She heard the popping as Hogwood shifted back into a man. The spell was coming. She was almost to the cage—

Hulda dropped to her stomach, bruising her knees and hips as she did so, nearly breaking her nose against the floor. The kinetic spell she’d foreseen flew overhead and struck the cage, so powerful the iron bars groaned and snapped. Two of the dolls toppled to the ground.

“No!” Hogwood bellowed. He crawled along the floor toward her. The shock of losing more magic had to be reverberating through his body.

Owein barked, and to Hulda’s horror, the dolls began jumping off the shelves, bobbing about on their mutated, bulbous limbs as though trying to escape. Hulda screamed and reeled back before one could touch her.

Owein whimpered and shook his head. Of course! He’d used a spell, just like the one that set the books dancing in the Whimbrel House library. Chaocracy spells caused confusion—Owein wouldn’t be used to suffering side effects, after having an ability to cast without cost for two hundred years.

With the dolls spreading out, Hogwood couldn’t protect them all at once.

“The dolls, Merritt!” Spinning on her hip, Hulda smashed her foot into a small one, sending it into the wall.

“I will kill you!” Hogwood leapt to his feet. Shot out a hand. Nothing happened.

Whatever spell he’d planned to use was gone.

It was working.

He shot out his other hand. Hulda’s corset began squeezing in on her, its size shrinking with an alteration spell that threatened to snap her ribs.

Merritt leapt onto Hogwood’s back. Her corset released, but a kinetic spell rippled out from Hogwood’s body, striking all three of them. Merritt, the hardest. He flew backward into a narrow alcove in the wall. He didn’t move.

“Merritt!” Oh God, what if they didn’t escape this?

Owein, limping, snatched one of the vile dolls in his mouth and shook it until something snapped.

Hogwood faltered. Another burst of lightning hit Owein’s hind leg. The dog yipped and collapsed.

Hogwood whirled around, fiery countenance focused on her. He moved toward her with stiff legs, his kinetic spells having sucked the mobility from his knees and hips. Lifting an equally stiff arm, he reached his hand toward her. A larger, unseen hand scooped her up, gluing her knees together and pinning her arms to her sides. A tendril of lightning pierced the back of her neck and needled to her ankles. Her body seized with the pain of it. A second followed, setting her limbs on fire, and the strain frosted the tips of Hogwood’s hair.

“I would love to make you suffer, little canary, but I’ve work to do.” He squeezed her tighter. Shuffled toward her, growling at the scattered dolls that no longer danced. “Give my best to that little maid of yours when you reach the other side.”

The fingers closed in, cutting off her air. Blood pooled in her face. Her head felt like an expanding balloon. Her bones bent and—

A dense whap! echoed through the chamber. Hogwood’s face slackened. Hulda dropped, landing on her feet but falling forward onto her knees. She coughed. Gasped for air. Looked up just as Hogwood teetered to one side and collapsed in a great heap on the stone.

Behind him stood Merritt, shoulders heaving, his mess of hair netting over his face.

And in his grasp was her crowbar.

They held their positions for several seconds. When Hogwood didn’t move, Merritt gradually straightened. Blew hair from his face. Looked down at his weapon.

“That is handy.” He turned the metal rod over.

A painful laugh rang up Hulda’s throat, but it died on her lips. “Owein.”

Dropping the crowbar, Merritt sped to the dog. Knelt at his side. “He’s all right. Breathing.” He stroked the mutt’s fur. “Hey, boy, can you hear me?”

Snatching a broken bottle, Hulda shakily rose to her feet and approached Hogwood. Stepped over a deformed doll. Hogwood’s chest moved slightly with his breaths. She knelt by his head, pushing the glass against his cheek should he wake—

Silas Hogwood drew in a fluttering breath, then released it.

His body remained still.

Hulda gaped. Dead. Dead. Too hurt to even heal himself . . . She couldn’t internalize it. Like her brain had disconnected from her body and sat in one of those jars on the shelves.

Her tormentor . . . gone. And all his magic with him.

Sounds came from overhead—footsteps, creaking floorboards, a few shouts.

Merritt stood, Owein filling his arms, and looked up. “Please don’t say those are his accomplices.”

Hulda tilted her head, listening. “I believe it is the local watchmen.”

“Ah.” He glanced at the heap that was Silas Hogwood, then at her. He hefted the dog. “Do you want to hold him?”

Hulda gave him an inquisitive look.

He merely tipped his head toward her. Hulda looked down . . . at her underthings.

Sighing, she held out her arms. “Yes, please.”

At least the animal would give her some sense of modesty when the patrol made their way downstairs.