Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Slapping himself twice on either cheek, Merritt forced wakefulness into his person and trudged through the wild grasses and reeds toward the house. At least he had this quiet place for refuge. At least he could wrap himself up in normalcy while he reordered the story of his life and determined what to do next. At least he could depend on Beth and Baptiste to keep the days going, and Hulda . . .

He still needed to talk to her. He wanted to, as soon as he got his head around all of this—bastard—and stuffed it away like he always did. It took time and tears, and a few unfortunate trees would bear the brunt of his target practice and likely his fists, but he would piece himself back together, and they would talk. There could still be a silver lining to the mess of his life. God grant him just one silver lining.

That hope buoyed him. His porch grumbled under his weight—Owein was either happy to see him or anxious about something. The boat, perhaps? Concerned, Merritt quickened his step and opened the front door.

He tripped over a trunk sitting just behind it.

Hulda’s trunk.

“What on . . .” He left the door ajar and stepped around the trunk. There was a suitcase sitting beside it. He grasped its handle and lifted it—full.

What was going on?

Two men came down the stairs just then, complete strangers dressed in work attire. They nodded to him before pushing past, taking up either end of the trunk and hauling it outside—

Beth stepped out from the living room and started upon seeing him. “Mr. Fernsby! Are you . . .” She took him in—he undoubtedly looked a mess—and finished weakly, “. . . well?”

“Hardly.” He hefted the suitcase. “What’s all this?”

Beth bit her bottom lip.

Hulda came down the stairs, not noticing him until she’d reached the third to last. She paused, her overlarge bag—which also appeared to be very full—slung over her shoulder. She blanched upon seeing him.

“What the hell is going on?” He brandished the suitcase. His freshly painted mortar cracked. He might as well be standing outside Manchester City Hall yet again.

Hulda lifted her chin and descended the final stairs. He thought her lip quivered for an instant, but the mark of uncertainty vanished the moment she spoke. “As you know, Mr. Fernsby, BIKER has been requesting my return to Boston.”

He stared at her incredulously. Beth backed out of the room.

“BIKER?” His tone was more forceful than he meant it to be. “I thought you spoke with them already. You’re staying on.”

“You are misinformed.” She cleared her throat. Stood even taller. “Which is a blunder on my part. However, seeing as you were out of the house—”

“With a communion stone you failed to use,” he interjected.

She pressed on, “I have taken matters in hand. I am departing today, but a new housekeeper will be appointed to you within the fortnight, if you choose to hire a replacement.”

He gawked at her. Set down the bag, then kicked the door closed and whirled on her. “So you’re moving out, without so much as a note?” No letter. No word. No trace. Something sharp and hard formed in his chest. “You said you were staying.”

She huffed. “What I said is not relevant. I am BIKER’s employee, not yours—”

His heart bled acid. “This is because of that consarning Genealogical Society, isn’t it?”

She looked taken back. “What do you mean?”

Lies, lies, and more lies. Why did everyone lie to him?

“You know exactly what I mean.” He closed the distance between them, and Beth all but fled. “I know you’ve been meeting with them. Don’t lie to me. You’re leaving because this house is tamed, and I’m not some fancy wizard. There’s nothing fun in your boring life anymore, so you’re quitting.”

Hulda’s eyes widened. Cheeks tinted carmine. “How dare you make such asinine assumptions! And how dare you judge me, when you just spent the last thirty-six hours chasing some hussy across New England!”

“Hussy? Hussy?” The acid blazed into fire, melting his fingertips and choking out his air. “If she’s a hussy, then what does that make me?”

Hulda flushed darker. Pressed her lips into a hard line.

“Huh, Hulda?” he pushed. “Because I’m every bit as guilty as she is.”

Gripping the strap of her bag, Hulda pushed past him and scooped up the suitcase. “I don’t have to listen to this. I’ve no contract with you.”

“Contract!” he barked. “Why don’t I help you with your self-righteous tirade, eh? I’m a bastard, too! An unemployed, sex-mongering, unmagical bastard. Hardly good enough for the likes of a pretentious housekeeper, if I say so myself.”

She spun on her heel. “You insolent, horrible man! Don’t pin your shortcomings on me or anyone else in this house!” With that, she marched for the door.

“Leave, then!” he bellowed after her. “Leave, just like everyone else does!”

She slammed the door.

The pyre burned hot and cold. He felt like a loaded and cocked gun; he needed somewhere to fire. Spinning, he punched the wall hard enough to crack it . . . and to send white-hot pain racing up his arm.