Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

The portrait behind him tsked, and the wall resealed itself.

Pinching his nose, Merritt dropped onto the first stair and sunk his elbows onto his knees. “Just like everyone else does,” he whispered, and squeezed his eyes closed so tightly no tears could escape.

Hulda could not remember the last time she’d been so angry.

It was embarrassing to have been caught in her escape by Merritt—Mr. Fernsby, that was—but why should she have to explain herself? It was no lie that BIKER wanted her return. Myra had pushed for it more than once. And what did he care? Heaven forbid something disrupt his comfortable life! I’ve just gotten used to you, he’d said once. A person wasn’t entitled to service merely because he was “used to” it.

And his assumptions about her and the Genealogical Society . . . how utterly crude. He knew she’d gone there to get information for him. His words had been vile and confusing. What had fueled him to act in such a savage way? Just his true colors, perhaps.

In an odd way, she was grateful for the argument. Anger was easier than dolefulness, humiliation, despondency. She clung to anger.

She managed to dial her mood down to simmering by the time she arrived at BIKER; the moving company would deposit her things in her temporary apartment, until Myra sent her to Nova Scotia. Lugging her empty bag up the stairs, Hulda was relieved to see her friend standing over Miss Steverus’s desk, looking through a file. The secretary herself was away at the moment.

Myra glanced up at her approach, then jumped from her chair, a grin splitting her face. Hulda couldn’t help but return the smile. Oh, to be appreciated. It was a cool balm to her wounded soul.

“You’re back!” She eyed the bag. “Are you here to stay?”

Hulda nodded, a gesture that gave her the utmost satisfaction. “You’ll be pleased to know I considered what you said and decided you were right. I’m ready for whatever assignment you need me for, even filing.” Anything to keep her busy.

Myra clapped her hands before embracing Hulda. “I’m so glad. Oh, it will be good to have you around, if only for a little while. I’m expecting news from London any time now.” She paused. “Hulda, are you all right? I’m reading—”

“Please, don’t.” Hulda put up a stalling hand while scrambling her thoughts, tucking away the sore ones and replacing them with meticulous descriptions of the office. “I know you can’t help picking up on strong thoughts, but please . . . I’ll explain later.”

Myra frowned. “Of course, if that’s what you want.”

Relief tickled beneath her skin. “It is.”

Myra collected the folder. “I need to compare this to some findings. It should only be a minute. Do you mind waiting?”

“I might see to unpacking.” Hulda patted her bag.

“Of course. I’ll come to you.” Myra squeezed her arm, sympathy coming through her countenance—an expression Hulda was all too familiar with, from all too many people. Myra ducked into her office, taking her pity with her.

Switching the heavy bag to her other shoulder—carrying a crowbar, among other things, across state lines took a physical toll—she started for the stairs, trying to ignore the frustrating ache over her diaphragm. She just needed to get engaged in her work. Occupy herself. She prayed for a lot of filing—

“Mrs. Larkin!” Miss Steverus hurried down the adjoining hallway. “Just my luck! I ran off to send you a telegram, but here you are!”

Hulda paused, confused. “Telegram about what?”

“Your report.” She motioned for Hulda to follow, then slipped behind her desk and dug through a stack of papers there, pulling out the letter Hulda had sent via windsource pigeon. “It’s just, I was copying this, and, well, I studied metaphysical geology for a time before taking this job.” She looked up through her lashes sheepishly. “And you mentioned tourmaline, and I thought . . . well, I went and looked it up to be sure, and I don’t think . . . that is, it’s not my place to correct—”

Hulda didn’t have patience for pandering, not today. “Just spit it out, Sadie.”

“Right. Right.” She set the paper down. “It’s just that tourmaline can only hold a magical charge for about a week before it diffuses.”

Hulda took a few seconds to work that out. “You’re sure?”

Miss Steverus nodded.

“But that makes no sense.” She adjusted her bag. “The only thing that could recharge the tourmaline is the wizarding spirit, and he doesn’t possess wardship abilities. He’s never exhibited them, and his genealogical records have no such recordings.”

Miss Steverus shrugged. “I can show you the research if you want to see it, but if the tourmaline is producing magic, it’s pulling it from another source.”

Hulda shook her head. “Yes, I’d like to see it.”

“One minute.” The secretary bounded back down the hallway she’d come from.

Hulda tapped her fingernails against the desk’s surface. It made no sense. Perhaps Hulda had somehow missed something, or the Mansel records were incomplete, or . . .