Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

He shook his head. No. She was his housekeeper. That would be awkward. And kindness did not equate interest. He was just letting his loneliness get the better of him.

Not that he was lonely.

“I need to work,” he growled, pulling a piece of paper in front of him. His characters were undercover with the local crime lords now, and Merritt needed to pull on that imagination of his since he had no desire to do firsthand research. He tapped his pen on the paper, leaving bleeding ink circles like unsightly moles across its face. He wrote, Elise, which was the name of his heroine. Thought for a moment, then added, Elise wasn’t fond of dressing like a man.

He could work with that.

A bubble appeared under the wallpaper of the bedroom, about the size of his head, and moved in lazy circles like some sort of sleepy demon trying to gain entrance.

“Don’t go spying on the girls, Owein,” Merritt murmured, redipping his pen. “Wouldn’t want your soul to rot out of this house, now would we?”

The bubble rippled and sunk as though disappointed. Leaning over, Merritt pet it like it were a cat, and the entire wall rippled.

“Help me out,” he said, grateful for the distraction. “If you ran an infamous crime ring, where would you want your headquarters to be? Is beneath the city too dank, or would you be out in the open, maybe in a gambling house?”

The wall pulsed twice.

“Gambling house it is.”

And he started writing.

Three days after she’d discovered Whimbrel House had a second source of magic, Hulda received a letter via windsource pigeon, which was a rather expensive mode of communication. It required specific spells of elemental magic—air, to enhance flight—and communion magic, which allowed the birds to receive instructions for delivery. In the Middle Ages, the method hadn’t been terribly pricey, but in the nineteenth century, it was hard to find people who possessed the right spells to enchant new birds. Thus the people who could accomplish it were paid lavishly for their services. But where there was no telegram or appropriately connected communion stones, this was the next best means of communicating quickly.

BIKER’s seal was on the letter, so Hulda opened it immediately.

Hulda,

How is everything going in the bay? I hope your health is still well and you’ve managed to figure out the possessor. Is Mr. Fernsby still insistent that he or she be expelled?

You may be happy to hear I’m reassigning you. To Boston, for now. There’s always work to be done at the main office. But our team in Nova Scotia is close to uncovering some interesting finds! I don’t think we’ve sent you there yet, have we? We can discuss in person.

Bring your receipts to Sadie; she’ll reimburse you and finalize your payroll.

Best,

Myra

Hulda’s stomach sunk into her pelvis.

She didn’t want to leave.

She liked Whimbrel House. She liked the island and the ocean air. She liked working with Miss Taylor and Mr. Babineaux. She liked Mr. Fernsby . . .

Pressing her lips together, she paced the length of her room twice before pulling out a parchment of her own. Her hands trembled as she gripped a pencil. Why were they trembling? She straightened her spine and glared at them, willing them to be reasonable. After a moment, they obeyed.

Myra,

Thank you for catching up with me. I’m sorry I haven’t sent you an update on the house; in truth, I thought I had more time. We did indeed learn the identity of the wizard. He’s a twelve-year-old lad named Owein Mansel. Mr. Fernsby determined not to exorcise him, so the house is maintaining its enchanted classification.