Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Owein perked, his floppy ears lifting. Merritt turned just in time to see Hulda slip out of the back door, her trusty bag ever on her shoulder, all her bandages covered by a modest dress with a collar snug against her chin. Despite the long and arduous night, she managed not to look exhausted, though her hair looked like someone had taken her to bed in a very passionate manner. Merritt bit down on a grin and did not share the simile.

When she reached him, she held out a file. “Here.”

He straightened and took the papers, flipping over the first one. “What’s this?”

She rolled her lips together. “This is the information on your father. That is, who I believe your father to be.”

Merritt lowered the papers without reading them. “I see.”

“When you’re ready.” She rubbed her hands together like she wore gloves that didn’t quite fit. “If I’m right, then Owein is your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-uncle. Give or take.”

The papers felt like steel sheets in his hand. He glanced at the dog, who barked at his side, tail wagging.

“Thank you.” Unsure what to do, he tucked the file under his arm. Lingered. Frowned.

“Are you well?” Hulda asked.

He shook his head. “Are either of us?” Hulda shrugged, and he added, “I should feel bad about it, shouldn’t I?”

She studied him. “About what?”

“Killing him,” he said, softer. “I killed a man last night. But I . . . I don’t feel bad about it. Shouldn’t I feel bad? Guilty, perhaps?”

Hulda drew in a shuddering breath. “Mr. Hogwood was not a good man. You did what you had to.” Her shoulders relaxed. She lifted a hand toward him, then dropped it. “You saved me. No one could hold you accountable for it.”

“I believe you saved me.”

Her lip quirked. “Regardless.”

He nodded slowly, letting the absolution roll over him. “All right, then. Shall we?”

He stepped onto the street, but when Hulda didn’t follow, he paused.

She sighed. “I don’t know, Merritt. My position with BIKER is . . . tenuous.” She’d whispered Ms. Haigh’s involvement as they rode over in the back of a patrol wagon. “I don’t even know whether I’m employed anymore . . . and all my things are here. But I do not want to stay here.”

He shrugged a shoulder, hope building in his chest. “You could pack a bag. Send for the rest.”

A small smile flickered on her mouth. “I’m not sure that would be . . . appropriate, given the circumstances.”

He deflated. “Of course.” He glanced to the hotel. “Then where will you go?”

Rubbing the back of her neck, she said, “My sister’s, I suppose. She lives not terribly far from here. Until things . . . sort.”

He shifted his weight to his other leg. “And when will they sort?”

She picked at her hem. “I’m not sure.”

An open carriage rolled by.

“Do you still have your communion stone?” he asked.

She patted her bag. “Of course.”

He nodded, unsure what else to say, or what to do with his hands. “Well then.”

She checked her posture. “I should . . . get my things together before Myra returns.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“But I’ll leave a note.”

He smiled. “Also a good idea.”

They stood there awkwardly for another moment before Merritt finally turned away, taking the road toward the dock. He glanced back once. Hulda was still watching him.

Is she not coming back? asked a youthful, clipped voice in his head.

He started. A man on horseback was coming his way, so he quickly crossed the road, Owein following at his heels. It took him a second to identify the voice as the dog’s. “Um.” He wasn’t sure what to do with this magic business. He wasn’t sure he believed it. Perhaps he would be persuaded by the contents of this file . . . a file he had no desire to read. Yet. But despite the strangeness of the conspicuous second voice in his head, heaviness replaced surprise. He glanced back a second time, but didn’t see her.

“I don’t know, Owein,” he admitted. “I don’t know.”

It took three days for Merritt to open the file Hulda had bequeathed him. The first bit was a family tree, with the name Nelson Sutcliffe underlined.

Merritt stared at it. Cattlecorn was a decent-sized place; he’d half expected not to know the man. But he knew Sutcliffe. Constable Sutcliffe, that was. He had a wife and three sons younger than Merritt. His . . . brothers?

He looked at the notes underneath; it took a minute for him to figure out they were magic markers. If this was taken from the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic, the markers made sense. His eyes scanned the branches, noting the Chs, the Ws, and, in one line, Cos. Communion. That seemed to be the most prevalent in the family line. It was communion that had led him to Owein’s grave marker. Which meant . . . what? That the grass and reeds were speaking to him? He’d had the same experience when looking for Hulda in the dark. And then those mutated things in Silas’s laboratory . . .