Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(11)

She prodded a lump in the carpet with her toe. “I believe they are here.”

Merritt stared at the lump like he was missing his spectacles, then marched over and inspected it. “But . . . how? The carpet is nailed in! How am I supposed to retrieve them?”

“I believe you have three choices. Pull up the carpet, cut them out, or wait for the house to return them.”

He gaped at her, but before he opened his mouth, she added, “I would recommend restraint when it comes to disparaging the house. We need it to be our ally.”

“Right. Ally.” He rubbed his palms into his eyes. Let out a long puff of air.

She gave him a moment to collect himself before asking, “And the rest of the house? Other than the fourth bedroom.”

He slowly stepped away from the books. “Um. Bedrooms, yes. Sitting area. Library. Be careful of the library.”

“What happened there?”

“It threw books at me.”

Hulda bit down on a smile. When Mr. Fernsby saw it, he did the same. At least there was still some humor left in the poor man.

“Threw them at you?” She headed back into the dark and dreary hallway. “Or did you simply get in the way of the throwing?”

Mr. Fernsby did not answer.

Utilizing the umbrella, they passed through the dripping hallway again, past the stairs, and headed straight into the library. Indeed, books flew from shelf to shelf, seeming to pick up speed under Hulda’s scrutiny. More portraits hung on the walls here; one with a sailboat in the bay appeared to be leaking water. The one of a poppy field had the flowers swaying in the breeze, but the only “wind” came from the flying books. Another sign the house likely didn’t possess any elemental spells.

Attempting reason one last time, Hulda said, “Come now.” She rubbed the interior wall of the library. “Settle down. This is no way to treat a guest.”

The books continued flying.

She toed into the room. “You may not like him, but I am reasonable, am I not?”

For just a moment, it seemed the books slowed. Only a moment, but that was a win in Hulda’s book.

Mr. Fernsby also noticed, for he said, “I take offense.”

The fourth bedroom’s door was open, revealing a bubbling carpet. “This would make an excellent office.”

“I wish I had your optimism.”

“Soon enough.” She turned to the final door. “Then I suppose this is the sitting room?”

“I only had a glance.”

“Only a glance?” She tested the knob.

“You may recall my story about nearly losing my nose—”

It took her last few wards, but Hulda got the door open. The sitting room was as dark as the rest of the house, though not from shadows.

“The windows are gone,” Mr. Fernsby said astutely.

“Indeed.” Handing him the light, she retrieved her stethoscope and a small hammer and then traced the wall, lighting tapping here and there. She never heard the tinkle of glass, which confirmed this wasn’t an illusion. Likely alteration, the seventh school of magic. Which would also explain much of the house’s other . . . quirks.

Pulling a ward from the door, Hulda gestured to two chairs in the sitting room. The door slammed shut in protest as they sat down. Hulda set the ward beside them, then took off the one she wore around her neck and set it at their feet. Mr. Fernsby hesitantly followed suit, placing his ward behind them.

“That should stultify the area for a moment.” She took the lamp from him and turned it all the way up, revealing a simply decorated room with oak panels that matched the shutters, an Indian rug, a full blush sofa, and a smattering of matching armchairs. A white-painted fireplace took up the opposite wall, along with the bust of a bored child. Hulda wondered if that was the artist’s original sculpture or if the house was trying to tell her something.

Setting down her tool bag, Hulda pulled out Mr. Fernsby’s file, a pad of paper, and a pencil.

“All right, Mr. Fernsby, let us discuss your house.”





Chapter 3


December 2, 1820, London, England

“A letter for you, Lord Hogwood.”

Silas blinked from the snowy, gray scene outside his window. He didn’t remember standing from his chair and walking over here, but he’d brought his tea with him, and it had cooled to lukewarm. Turning, he saw his butler, once his father’s butler, awaiting his reply, a cream-colored envelope on a silver tray before him. He’d turned it so Silas could see the seal. The royal seal.

Silas took the letter and set his cup on the tray, nodding his thanks. The butler left without word. Alone in the study, Silas turned the letter over in his hands twice before breaking the seal and reading it, confirming his suspicions.

It was from the regent himself, who, being the active ruler of Britain, was also the leader of the King’s League of Magicians. The same league his mother had belonged to, before her illness forced her to retire. The same league that had expelled his father that fateful night.

“Personally invited,” he read aloud. He was eighteen now. In truth, he was surprised the invitation hadn’t been extended on his birthday. His family’s pedigree was almost as impressive as the regent’s. Spells of chaocracy, alteration, necromancy, augury, and kinesis ran through Silas’s veins. And for the briefest moment, he’d possessed even more. He knew he had, but his father’s death had taken those borrowed abilities away.