Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(7)

She pulled off her gloves. “You need not be so aghast, Mr. Fernsby. Magic is uncommon in today’s age, but hardly unheard of. I took the kinetic tram to get here.” A tram powered by kinesis, one of eleven schools of magic.

“Yes, yes.” He rubbed his eyes. Likely hadn’t slept last night, assuming he’d stayed the night. “I am aware, but it is particularly”—he waved his hand, trying to find a suitable word—“dense here.”

“Indeed. As is the case with domiciles. Enchantments existing outside a flesh body do not receive the normal backlash from the constant casting of spells.”

He shifted. “Pardon?”

“I will need to take a tour if you would like it diagnosed,” she continued. “An enchanted house cannot be well kept without a thorough diagnosis.”

Mr. Fernsby ran a hand back through his hair. No wonder it looked so unkempt.

“You mean diagnosing the type of magic?”

“Among other things. There are several reasons for a house to be enchanted.” She pushed up her glasses. “It could simply be under a spell, or built on a site where an abnormal amount of magic was expelled. It could have specifically been built to be enchanted, which is common. Or there could be half a dozen other explanations. Perhaps the materials used were magicked, or a wizard possesses it, or it is very old and gained sentience on its own, which is unlikely given the colonial style. Sometimes homes are just unhappy with their floorplans and choose to enchant themselves, merely so they can amend—”

Something thudded upstairs. Mr. Fernsby jumped.

Tilting her head, Hulda listened, but heard nothing more. “Is anyone else in residence?”

He shook his head.

Clearing her throat, Hulda finished, “It would be best for me to see the house and determine the source of the magic, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Fernsby looked through the house, almost as though frightened by it. Hulda couldn’t blame him; the walls of the reception hall were beginning to melt. Chaocracy, most likely. The eleventh school of magic.

“Anything to get me out,” he muttered.

“It is my goal to see you well situated. Enchanted houses can be tamed.” When he gave her an incredulous, bloodshot expression, she gestured to the right. “Perhaps we’ll start in the dining room?”

Mr. Fernsby shifted. “T-The dining room table ate my wallet. That must sound utterly absurd to you—”

“Not at all.”

“It nearly ate me.”

Fishing through her bag, she pulled out a string necklace with a red embroidered sack hanging from it and handed it to him. “This is a ward.” She pulled out a second for herself. “Wear it, and it should offer some protection as we move through the house—”

“Some protection?”

“Nothing is foolproof.” She slipped her own ward over her head before meeting his eyes. “They’re dangerous to keep on the person for too long; portable spells like these can have strange effects on the body, but it’s safe to keep in-house, otherwise.”

Mr. Fernsby picked up the sack in his hand and turned it over. “How does it work?”

“This is first-rate magic. Very expensive.” She gave him a look that hopefully said, Please don’t break it. “This ward in particular is a chaocracy ward. Order and restoration, specifically. Very few people are at risk of having too much order in their lives, so I doubt the house will wield it against us.” They were packed with obsidian dust, but each sack also contained some blood and a fingernail from the wizard who had created them. Mr. Fernsby seemed an excitable sort, however, and she determined it would be better not to mention that.

“May I?” She gestured toward the dining room.

Mr. Fernsby nodded and followed her. The shadows darkened significantly as she entered, trying to choke out the light coming from the large window on the east wall. They did a decent job of it.

“It wasn’t like this when I first arrived,” Mr. Fernsby said as she approached the table.

“What was it like?”

“Like a normal house.”

“Hm.” She set her hands on the back of the chair—eight total. It was a small dining room, though a host could sit twelve if he was in dire straits. The table was already set, though dusty.

Rapping her knuckles on the surface, she said, “Come now, give it up. What is the point? You certainly can’t do anything with his wallet, now can you?”

The floor creaked like they stood on the deck of a ship sailing into troubled waters.

Reaching into her bag, Hulda pulled out a stethoscope, inserted the earpieces into her ears, and pressed the drum into the tabletop. She shifted it around a few places, tapping with her free hand, until she found a spot where the wood sounded compact. Pulling out a smaller ward, she dropped it on the table, and the furniture belched up a well-used leather wallet.

“You’re a saint.” Mr. Fernsby snatched up the wallet before the table could consume it once more.

Gesturing to the west door, Hulda asked, “And through there?”

Mr. Fernsby wrapped his free hand around the ward hanging from his neck. “Admittedly, I haven’t explored that way yet.”

That didn’t surprise her. The doorway was completely dark.

Retrieving the ward and slipping it into her pocket, Hulda pulled free a small lamp. She twisted a dial on it, and it illuminated.