Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(9)

Mr. Fernsby hissed through his teeth as one pressed into his backside. He desperately tried to open the door. The lock jammed. He threw his shoulder into it once, twice—

The door grew spikes fine as needles.

“Mr. Fernsby!” Hulda shouted.

He reeled back before puncturing himself—reeled back into her. Spikes whispered against her neck.

Think, think! She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, noting that Mr. Fernsby smelled of ink, cloves, and the light, floral addition of petitgrain.

She searched through her bag, her knees threatening to buckle as the floor pressed upward. A spike jabbed her elbow, and—

She’d forgotten she’d packed that.

Yanking her hand out, she shouted, “Hold on, Mr. Fernsby!”

And threw her bomb at one of the spiked walls.

The lavatory erupted. False smoke filled the space. The walls, floor, and ceiling all snapped into place, the force of which expelled both Hulda and Mr. Fernsby from the room. She landed hard on the reception floor, but with little injury other than a bruised knee. Coughing, she dropped her bag and checked her hair. Darkness or no, she would not look frumpy while performing her job.

Mr. Fernsby was slower to rise. He blinked rapidly and puffed hair from his face. “What the hell was that?”

Given their circumstances, Hulda did not rebuke him for his language. “A chaocracy mine. Very—”

“Expensive,” he finished for her, shaking out his shirt and finding his feet. He offered her a hand, which she took, then glanced back toward the lavatory. The lamp, still lit, lay on the floor just outside the door, illuminating a very normal-looking space and toilet.

He shook his head. “Chaocracy . . . It should be in shambles.”

“A common misconception.” She cleared her throat, forcing the slight tremble in it to smooth. “Chaos is disorder, but if something is already in chaos, then its disorder is order.”

He glanced at her. “Where did you say you were from again?”

“BIKER. It’s on my card.”

He fished the card from his pocket as Hulda retrieved her lamp. She took a moment to steady herself. Perhaps she should go back to Boston and get a second opinion . . . but no, she could finish this. Enchanted houses were rarely malicious, and this was hardly the worst she’d come by.

It was simply a challenge. And she’d never convince Mr. Fernsby to give the place a chance if she couldn’t do the same.

So she pulled out her stethoscope and listened to the outer wall of the lavatory.

“What does that do?” Mr. Fernsby asked. “Commune with the wall?”

“Communion only works with flora and fauna, Mr. Fernsby.” It was the eighth school of magic. “This tool is noetic—imbued with psychometry. Also generally reserved for the living, but enchanted houses do meet one or two of the qualifications.”

Indeed, she could almost make out a heartbeat. Stowing the stethoscope away, Hulda strode past him, moving into the reception hall and then the living room.

Whimbrel House insisted on keeping its shadows and creaks, but this time it added cobwebs.

“The furniture was melting yesterday.” Merritt prodded a settee quickly and jerked back, as though it might attack him as the kitchen stool had.

Hulda hoisted her light.

“I am more concerned about the color scheme.” She clucked her tongue, taking in the space. Everything was in deep hues of red and green, like a sad Christmas. If the client’s budget allowed it, she would see some of this updated. In her peripheral vision, she caught the slight tic of a grin from Mr. Fernsby and ignored it.

She started for the next door, then paused when something dropped from the ceiling.

A rope, made of cobwebs. Or more specifically—

“A noose,” Merritt croaked. Then, in false humor, he added, “At least there isn’t anyone in it.”

“Yet,” Hulda said, and couldn’t help but smile at Mr. Fernsby’s widening eyes. Internally, she chided herself. Dark jocularity would not help her, nor would it reflect well on BIKER.

The rope was made of cobwebs, so it disintegrated when she swiped her hand through it. “I have never heard of a house killing a man, if that settles you,” she offered.

“How about maiming him?” he countered.

She marched for the next door, listening for any new surprises. Mr. Fernsby said, “The sunroom is through there.”

The door was locked.

“I didn’t lock it,” he added.

Hulda sighed. “Do you have a key?”

He felt at his stomach, perhaps forgetting he wasn’t wearing a vest, then his slacks, pulling out a simple key ring from the right pocket. Approaching the door, he put in a small key.

The lock spit it out.

“Come now,” Hulda chided the house.

Mr. Fernsby tried again. This time, he couldn’t even fit in the tip of the key. The house was changing the lock.

Hulda rapped at the door. “Will we need to do this all day?”

The house didn’t respond.

Rolling her eyes, though she ought not to, Hulda fished around in her pack and pulled out a crowbar.

“And what spell does that have on it?” Mr. Fernsby nearly sounded entertained.

“It is a crowbar, Mr. Fernsby. Simple as that.” She wedged the claw between the door and its jamb and, with a solid thump from her hip, forced the door open. The space beyond was well lit—the house hadn’t darkened the windows—and narrow, filled with dead and overgrown plants. Hulda waited for something to happen, then breathed easily when nothing did.