Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(4)

The cry of a bird broke the silence momentarily, announcing Merritt’s arrival to others. Shading his eyes from the sun, he spied what he believed to be a heron off in some tall grass between trees. The leaves had not yet changed on the elms and oaks spotting the land, but they were certainly thinking about it. Just beyond that was a nub of a shadow—the house, most likely. He walked toward it, and the heron took off, long legs trailing behind.

The earth was moist beneath his shoes, the local plant life wild and untouched. He recognized some of it: weeping cherries, golden aster, autumn olive. He thought he smelled chrysanthemums as well, which had the effect of relaxing his shoulders. He hadn’t realized they’d been tense. Crouching, he pinched some soil between his fingers. It looked rich; if he started a garden now, he might be able to wheedle some garlic, onions, and carrots out of it before the frost hit.

A cottontail thumped and darted from his path—he’d have to cut down some of this grass—and a flock of swallows watched him from a slippery elm. The house grew in size, enough to garner some color—was that a blue roof? Blue shingles were a surprise, given the age of the house. Time faded colors. That, and most of the early roofs in the States were thatched.

The house continued to grow to two stories, and its sides took on a yellow hue. Merritt’s steps quickened, startling a feeding bird—a whimbrel—from a puddle. He’d half expected the house to be slanting one way, to have gaps between weathered boarding, to shelter large families of mice. Hence his decision to pack a single bag. It wasn’t his intent to stay; this visit was exploratory.

He approached the house from the north; it faced east. When he came around to the front, his lips parted as sea-scented air puffed his hair back.

The house was . . . fine.

It was perfectly fine. In fantastic condition, at least from the outside. No weathering, no missing shingles, no broken windows. The nature around it was wild, but surely someone lived here for the place to be so pristine. It could almost be brand new, though the style was certainly colonial.

“I’ll be,” he said, and followed it with a whistle, which seemed appropriate. He squinted at the windows but couldn’t see much within. So feeling strange, he approached his front door and knocked. He didn’t know how to feel when no one answered. Had he expected someone to answer?

“Surely someone has been keeping it up . . .” Perhaps they had vacated the premises after the place was bequeathed to him, but Mr. Allen had said there had been no recent tenants. Squatters, perhaps? Very handy squatters?

There was a key in the lawyerly envelope in his bag, but when Merritt tried the handle, the door opened with only the slightest creak of its hinges. It was early afternoon, so sun shined through the windows, which were only lightly pocked with trails of rain. The moderate reception hall looked every bit as fine and put together as the exterior. At the end was a set of intact stairs and a door. Leaving the front door open, Merritt stepped in, marveling. He’d intended to open that second door, but his attention was diverted by the rooms stemming off either side of the reception hall—a dining room on the right, with a table already set for a party of eight, and a living room on the left, fully furnished in burgundy and forest green.

Merritt gaped. He had considered that his grandmother’s will was set to dump an unwanted parcel on him, leaving it to him to let it rot or try to sell it, but this house already looked . . . amazing. More than he could afford, unless he managed to pull an Alexandre Dumas and make bank off his publisher.

“Thank you, Anita,” he murmured, reaching out and touching the wall. There was a portrait there of a British woman, though nothing else to denote who she might have been. She seemed to look at him, wondering about the transition of ownership just as much as he did.

He turned to the living room, stepping reverently. Everything was in order, like it’d been prepared for him, though a heavy coat of dust lined every available surface, and the furniture had some wear. But no sign of rodents, or even a fly. He ran his hand over the back of a settee before peering through the next doorway, which led to a sunroom. The plants there were either dead or overgrown, as though whoever had been caring for this house lacked a green thumb. But Merritt owned a sunroom. The thought put a weird pressure in his chest he didn’t quite understand.

Turning back, he was a quarter of the way through the living room when something caught his eye. Turning toward the window, his gaze fell upon a burgundy armchair, upholstered in velvet, maple leaves carved into the armrest and legs.

And it was melting.

Merritt squinted. Rubbed his eyes. Inched closer.

It was . . . most definitely melting. Like a candle under too hot a flame. The seat dripped onto the carpet, though the carpet didn’t absorb or repel it. The drips simply ceased to be. Meanwhile, the wood glistened with perspiration and wobbled, ready to break under the lightest touch.

“Good Lord,” Merritt mumbled, stepping away. He caught himself on the settee, and his hand pushed through its soupy exterior.

Yelping, he wrenched back, toppling onto the carpet, quick to get his legs under him again. Drips of settee clung to his fingers, then puffed away as though they never were. Once the walls began warping, Merritt sprinted back into the hall, his breath coming fast, his previously gooped hand to his chest.

“What on earth?” he asked, spinning about.

The portrait’s eyes followed him.

Something thumped up the stairs.