Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Hulda hefted her bag onto her shoulder. “I assure you it’s safe enough for the time being.” She eyed the wards. “At least, it won’t throw anything with dynamism.”

Mr. Portendorfer relaxed and spun, taking in the rows of books. “It would take a lifetime to read all of these.”

“I suppose that depends on how fast of a reader you are compared to how long you intend to live.”

Mr. Portendorfer pointed a finger at her. “You’re a funny one.”

Was she? “It’s unintentional, I assure you.”

He pulled a book off the shelf and tilted it toward Hulda’s lantern. Then did the same with another title, and another one. “I’ve never heard of these.”

“I haven’t looked at even a fraction yet, but many are missing title pages and dates. They’re quite old.”

“Perhaps a librarian in Portsmouth could look them up.”

“Perhaps.” It wasn’t a bad idea, to research some of these titles. She would, if she failed to find clues elsewhere.

His smile grew. “You know, in Cattlecorn, back when Merritt lived with us, we would get so bored in the winters we’d stow away to a small, locally run library when the weather wasn’t too bad. It was four and a half miles away, but it was worth the walk to get out of the house. We’d pretend those shelves were just about anything. Monsters, mountains, the British army . . . you name it.” He laughed. “Not so much reading.”

It was a quaint image, but that wasn’t what caught Hulda’s attention. “When Mr. Fernsby lived with you?”

The mirth faded a fraction. “Oh, well . . .”

What reason would Mr. Fernsby have to live with another family? Did he have no relatives? “Were you at a . . . boarding school?”

Mr. Portendorfer returned the book to the shelf. “Something like that.”

Now, augury did not pertain to the mind, not like psychometry did, but Hulda rarely needed magic to detect a lie. “Something like that,” she repeated, perhaps a little too deadpan.

Mr. Portendorfer sighed. “I mean, we did meet in school. Merritt . . . he and his father . . .” He paused, lifting hands in surrender. “You know, Ms. Larkin, it’s not my story to tell. Merritt is my best friend; I would be doing him a disservice sharing his history when he’s here to tell it. But”—he lowered his hands—“I will say there are few men out there better than he is. He’s got a good heart. I think you two, and whoever else comes along, will get on real nice.”

She nodded, and Mr. Portendorfer departed, venturing down the hallway toward Merritt’s room. Hulda lingered in the doorway, wondering. It wasn’t so odd that a man—a boy—might stay with another family for a time. She could fathom a dozen reasons for it. But the manner in which Mr. Portendorfer defended the history made her curious.

What issues did Mr. Fernsby have with his father? Why didn’t he keep spirits? And why had he inherited this forgotten house, left on an island in the middle of Narragansett Bay?

In truth, it wasn’t Hulda’s business to know. But staying out of clients’ business had hurt her in the past. Not that she thought this would be another Gorse End catastrophe, but she wanted to know.

Seemed discovering the source of this place’s magic wasn’t the only secret Hulda had to unwind.

Merritt needed wood glue and more nails, but considering his limitations, the work was coming along nicely.

He’d been in the kitchen half the day, hardly remembering to eat, measuring and cutting and sanding floorboards. When he got sore, he worked on the cabinet door, then buffed away as much of the scorch as he could, which was most of it—the house hadn’t let him get far with the matches. He stopped once, and only once, to glance at the windowsill that had eaten Scarlet’s scarf, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. Wasn’t anything he could do about it at this point.

Hulda checked on him a couple of times, but she never said anything, just peeked in. Fletcher came by, too, chatting with him while he worked, forcing him to eat. Merritt was grateful his friend had up and left home to help him. It was a sort of cycle of theirs, though neither of them had ever pointed it out.

As the day eased on, Merritt pushed the darkness back little by little, like an overgrown cuticle, until he felt more himself again. Fletcher was due back to Boston and his accounting work tomorrow morning, but Merritt . . . Merritt could do this. This life. This house. This change. He was nothing if not adaptable.

The sun was half-set when Merritt stood and stretched his back. The repairs weren’t perfect. The wood didn’t match. Part of the gap still showed. But the cupboards looked unscathed, and no one was going to break their legs walking across the floor, so that was success.

Progress.

Hulda’s and Fletcher’s voices sounded softly from the dining room. In the kitchen, there were three wards total, including the one on his person, which Hulda had reminded him hours ago he should take off.

What are the side effects if I don’t? he’d asked.