Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Four days after inheriting Whimbrel House, after Merritt’s New York apartment was emptied courtesy of a Boston institute he’d never heard of, his things brought to a remote island in the Narragansett Bay, Merritt got out the tools he’d collected over the last thirteen years and hesitantly entered the kitchen that had more or less tried to kill him.

Hulda had placed little red sacks around the place—wards from BIKER. Ever since placing them, the house had seemed . . . like a house. Shadows and creaking had kept to a minimum, so long as he stayed within the boundaries of the wards. He’d slept more soundly than he had in days. It almost felt normal.

The kitchen, however, was a mess. Beside him, Fletcher whistled, as though he had heard the thought and meant to punctuate it.

The house might have been able to repair itself if the wards were taken down. Merritt wasn’t sure. Or perhaps it would open the floor again, suck him and Fletcher in, and trap them for good, turning the root cellar into a grave. That made him swallow. He really didn’t want to go into the pit again. For multiple reasons. And Fletcher had to return to that agricultural wholesaler he worked for. Not sure how his employer would take “eaten by a house” as an excuse for not showing up to work.

As it were, the floor was still split, opening for about two paces at its widest part and the length of his foot at the smallest. The edges of the floorboards were splintered, and the second cupboard from where he stood was singed, the door hanging uneasily on its hinges, possibly warped from exposure to water.

But the oven was fine, so there was that.

“Floor first?” Fletcher asked.

Merritt nodded and approached with caution, stepping over the narrowest part of the gap, waiting for the floor to buck and knock him in again. The house rumbled slightly. It knew he was here.

“All right.” Unsurety danced in his voice. “I’m making an attempt, all right?”

“Done floors before,” Fletcher said.

“I’m talking to the house.”

Merritt set the tools down on the counter, his attention lifting to the cabinets. He examined the hinges. Couldn’t replace them without a trip into town, but he could tighten and oil them, shave off the bottom of the door so it closed better.

And it just so happened the movers who’d delivered his things had loaded them into two large wooden crates. Possibly just enough raw material to patch the floor.

“Mind fetching those crates?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the kitchen’s maw. He imagined Fletcher nodded, for his footsteps toed out, and a moment later, the front door opened and shut. Like Hulda, Fletcher had been granted freedom to come and go as he pleased. Only Merritt was prohibited from leaving.

Frowning, Merritt knelt gradually, as though the hearth were a bull ready to charge. Holding his breath, he touched the first splintered board.

The house rumbled like the belly of a dragon. But it didn’t buck or twist or drop rats on him.

And so, very carefully, Merritt pulled out a handsaw and got to work.

Hulda’s augury was essentially useless.

She had some control over it, and she used that word delicately. Her only augury spell was divination, or the ability to see one’s future specifically through patterns he or she created. In the case of the house, she wished it would show her the precise moment she discovered its secrets, thus revealing them to her early. But then that would change the future, and her augury seldom gave her the opportunity to do something so substantial. Otherwise, she certainly would have taken advantage of it by now. Thus far, all her augury had done was inform her of Mr. Portendorfer’s coming arrival, which she would have learned about, anyway, and the possible presence of a wolf, which, while peculiar, hardly seemed relevant.

Her dowsing rods, likewise, hadn’t told her much about the house, so she’d carefully collected the wards from her bedroom and set them up in the library so she could search it instead. She made modest use of the wards, hoping that if the books began flying again, they might form a pattern, which would in turn show her something relating to the house’s magical source. She needed to prove herself capable here, for both the health of the house and Mr. Fernsby.

After three-quarters of an hour, however, all she’d found were a few interesting titles on old spines. She noted their location for the future, though she predicted without the aid of magic that the house would likely move them before she got around to cracking open a cover.

She’d just packed up her things when Mr. Portendorfer appeared in the doorway. “Can I be of assistance to you, Mrs. Larkin? Merritt’s up to his elbows in sawdust downstairs, and given the shortage of tools, I only seem to be getting in the way.”

She paused. “He’s making the repairs?” She’d thought those grinding and hammering sounds were the house complaining to her.

He nodded as he stepped into the space, holding his hands up to shield himself from possible projectiles.