Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“That’s what Mr. Hogwood said.” She took a careful breath.

Panic bubbled up Hulda’s throat. So Silas Hogwood knew, too. Was that what he meant, by Hulda being the first? Had he already planned on taking Merritt, too? “All right. All right.” She breathed deeply. In, out. In, out. “Which way did they go?”

Miss Taylor winced. “Don’t know.”

“God help us.” On her feet, Hulda rushed to the window and peered out into the night. “Owein! Owein, did you see? Do you know anything?”

The house didn’t respond.

Hulda knocked on the wall. “Owein!”

Nothing.

Think, Hulda! Mr. Hogwood wouldn’t still be on the island. The transference took a long time—that’s what the police report had said back in Gorse End, and her own experiences lent to that theory. Using so much magic would surely leave a man sick as well. Vulnerable. Mr. Hogwood wouldn’t risk getting caught again, like he had with Hulda, which meant he must have left the island. He’d want to avoid witnesses, too, so he wouldn’t have a hotel room, or anything in a big city. Where, then? There were more remote places in the United States than anyone could ever count!

She shook her hands, trying to attenuate the nerves burning her like bug bites. She searched the room, eyes landing on the shattered glass. She stared at it hard, trying to connect the patterns . . . but it told her nothing. Either Mr. Hogwood’s earlier spells on her had affected her augury or his future was too convoluted for her magic to see.

“I have to go to BIKER.” She didn’t know where else to turn. They had no neighbors on this island or the neighboring ones, and she didn’t know where the Portsmouth constable lived, or if he’d be available. “I have to go to BIKER and ask Myra for help. If she knows someone with communion spells, the plants and birds can tell us where to find him.” But would that take too long?

It doesn’t matter. I have to do something! And to think of the way she and Merritt left things . . .

She spun back to Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux. Grabbed her lantern. “I’ll send a doctor for you straightaway. Can you hold on a little longer?”

Miss Taylor nodded. Mr. Babineaux grunted.

Good enough. Grabbing her skirt, Hulda flew from the house and ran down the trail, holding the light ahead of her so she could avoid rabbit holes and wayward tree roots. She barely felt the effort of the run; panic was wonderful like that. It was a good fuel.

“Hold on, Merritt.” She set the lantern in his boat and shoved it into the water, uncaring that her stockings got soaked in the process.

She activated the kinetic spell on the boat and pleaded with it, “As fast as you can.”

The boat sped off into the night.

Hulda used her key to unlock the front door of the Bright Bay Hotel in Boston, not bothering to keep her footsteps quiet as she rushed through BIKER’s headquarters to the room where its director slept. She threw open the door, and Myra sat upright in bed with a gasp.

“Who—Hulda!” She rubbed her eyes. Immediately stood, the skirt of her nightgown swishing around her ankles. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Silas Hogwood has attacked Whimbrel House!” Hulda set her lantern on a short bookshelf. “Merritt Fernsby has been captured. I don’t know how to track them!”

Myra stared at her, openmouthed, for several seconds, then shook her head, her loose hair bobbing about her shoulders. “Surely . . . Surely not.” She lowered herself back onto the bed as though standing had become too much of an effort.

“You cannot continue to deny it.” Hulda marched over and grabbed the bed post. “He nearly killed Miss Taylor and our chef! Miss Taylor confirmed his identity.”

“He wouldn’t have left witnesses.”

“Mr. Fernsby is a wizard, Myra!”

The woman’s breath hitched.

“Yes,” Hulda pressed. “I researched it myself. That’s why I left. The second source of magic wasn’t the tourmaline, but Mr. Fernsby! Through his paternal side.” She crouched to better see Myra’s face. “Mr. Hogwood must have figured it out . . . he may have psychometry spells. Perhaps he sensed it when he attacked me.” She shuddered at the thought of Merritt pinned down, suffering the same—no, worse—fate. They were running out of time. “At the least, Mr. Fernsby has both communion and wardship spells in his blood. He warded Miss Taylor.”

Myra shook her head yet again. “Too soon. Not like this.”

“Not like what, Myra?”

Myra stood, forcing Hulda to do the same so she wouldn’t be stepped on. “Maurice would never—”

“Maurice?” Hulda repeated. “Myra, are you awake? I’m talking about Silas Hogwood!”

But then she stopped short. She knew that name. Maurice. Maurice Watson.

She remembered Merritt holding a letter. A Watson fellow is inquiring about purchasing the house.

Miss Taylor had chimed in, Odd feeling about this one. Can’t explain what, but . . . doesn’t sit right with me.