Whimbrel House 1 - Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 32

October 16, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

BIKER was more powerful than Merritt had given it credit for.

Watchmen had poured into the strange basement hovel that Silas had built for himself, like any true villain would, followed shortly thereafter by a Ms. Myra Haigh, an attractive woman in her late forties. Hulda and Merritt were separated—Hulda still using Owein as a modesty shawl—and thoroughly questioned, which really wasn’t a problem, as Merritt had nothing to lie about. In the end, Ms. Haigh stepped in and covered everything, assisting law enforcement, cleaning up the mess, ridding them of the . . . body. By dawn, after the strangest and most dangerous night of his life, Merritt and Hulda were free to go.

Which was how he ended up in Boston midmorning, stifling a yawn as he leaned against a whitewashed brick wall of Bright Bay Hotel, where BIKER was supposed to be clandestinely tucked away. He picked absently at the bandage around his forearm, where Silas had burned him with a handy streak of lightning. Owein danced nervously around his feet, taking in the sights of the city, sniffing people as they passed by. He wondered how much of the creature’s mind was mutt and how much was boy. He certainly heeled well.

Owein perked, his floppy ears lifting. Merritt turned just in time to see Hulda slip out of the back door, her trusty bag ever on her shoulder, all her bandages covered by a modest dress with a collar snug against her chin. Despite the long and arduous night, she managed not to look exhausted, though her hair looked like someone had taken her to bed in a very passionate manner. Merritt bit down on a grin and did not share the simile.

When she reached him, she held out a file. “Here.”

He straightened and took the papers, flipping over the first one. “What’s this?”

She rolled her lips together. “This is the information on your father. That is, who I believe your father to be.”

Merritt lowered the papers without reading them. “I see.”

“When you’re ready.” She rubbed her hands together like she wore gloves that didn’t quite fit. “If I’m right, then Owein is your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-uncle. Give or take.”

The papers felt like steel sheets in his hand. He glanced at the dog, who barked at his side, tail wagging.

“Thank you.” Unsure what to do, he tucked the file under his arm. Lingered. Frowned.

“Are you well?” Hulda asked.

He shook his head. “Are either of us?” Hulda shrugged, and he added, “I should feel bad about it, shouldn’t I?”

She studied him. “About what?”

“Killing him,” he said, softer. “I killed a man last night. But I . . . I don’t feel bad about it. Shouldn’t I feel bad? Guilty, perhaps?”

Hulda drew in a shuddering breath. “Mr. Hogwood was not a good man. You did what you had to.” Her shoulders relaxed. She lifted a hand toward him, then dropped it. “You saved me. No one could hold you accountable for it.”

“I believe you saved me.”

Her lip quirked. “Regardless.”

He nodded slowly, letting the absolution roll over him. “All right, then. Shall we?”

He stepped onto the street, but when Hulda didn’t follow, he paused.

She sighed. “I don’t know, Merritt. My position with BIKER is . . . tenuous.” She’d whispered Ms. Haigh’s involvement as they rode over in the back of a patrol wagon. “I don’t even know whether I’m employed anymore . . . and all my things are here. But I do not want to stay here.”

He shrugged a shoulder, hope building in his chest. “You could pack a bag. Send for the rest.”

A small smile flickered on her mouth. “I’m not sure that would be . . . appropriate, given the circumstances.”

He deflated. “Of course.” He glanced to the hotel. “Then where will you go?”

Rubbing the back of her neck, she said, “My sister’s, I suppose. She lives not terribly far from here. Until things . . . sort.”

He shifted his weight to his other leg. “And when will they sort?”

She picked at her hem. “I’m not sure.”

An open carriage rolled by.

“Do you still have your communion stone?” he asked.

She patted her bag. “Of course.”

He nodded, unsure what else to say, or what to do with his hands. “Well then.”

She checked her posture. “I should . . . get my things together before Myra returns.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“But I’ll leave a note.”

He smiled. “Also a good idea.”

They stood there awkwardly for another moment before Merritt finally turned away, taking the road toward the dock. He glanced back once. Hulda was still watching him.

Is she not coming back? asked a youthful, clipped voice in his head.

He started. A man on horseback was coming his way, so he quickly crossed the road, Owein following at his heels. It took him a second to identify the voice as the dog’s. “Um.” He wasn’t sure what to do with this magic business. He wasn’t sure he believed it. Perhaps he would be persuaded by the contents of this file . . . a file he had no desire to read. Yet. But despite the strangeness of the conspicuous second voice in his head, heaviness replaced surprise. He glanced back a second time, but didn’t see her.

“I don’t know, Owein,” he admitted. “I don’t know.”

It took three days for Merritt to open the file Hulda had bequeathed him. The first bit was a family tree, with the name Nelson Sutcliffe underlined.

Merritt stared at it. Cattlecorn was a decent-sized place; he’d half expected not to know the man. But he knew Sutcliffe. Constable Sutcliffe, that was. He had a wife and three sons younger than Merritt. His . . . brothers?

He looked at the notes underneath; it took a minute for him to figure out they were magic markers. If this was taken from the Genealogical Society for the Advancement of Magic, the markers made sense. His eyes scanned the branches, noting the Chs, the Ws, and, in one line, Cos. Communion. That seemed to be the most prevalent in the family line. It was communion that had led him to Owein’s grave marker. Which meant . . . what? That the grass and reeds were speaking to him? He’d had the same experience when looking for Hulda in the dark. And then those mutated things in Silas’s laboratory . . .

Merritt shuddered and pulled his mind back from the cringe-inducing memories, refocusing on the pedigree. Sure enough, Nelson Sutcliffe’s paternal line traced back to the Mansels, though Owein’s name wasn’t recorded on this document. He took a moment to pen it in.

Merritt’s eyes dropped back to Nelson Sutcliffe. “Let me get this straight,” he said to the page. “You had an affair with my mother, who had me, and my father knew about it. Which was why he was such a boor to me all my life, but either because of social pressure or perhaps some semblance of conscience, he waited until I was eighteen to bribe my sweetheart to seduce me and fake a pregnancy, but in the meantime you, what, looked up my grandmother and gave her this house to make amends?”

He threw down the papers and sat back in his chair. The door to his office creaked, and the sound of sniffing told him it was Owein. Unless Baptiste had gotten hit in the head harder than he thought.

“I should write a memoir,” he said to the dog. “Though no one would believe it was true.”

What’s a memoir?

He still wasn’t used to the voice in his head. It was happening more and more frequently, which meant somehow Merritt was getting the hang of a communion spell trapped in his blood. “It’s an autobiography with oomph,” he answered.

From what Merritt understood, Owein would stay a dog indefinitely . . . until he died, in which case he could inhabit the house again, so long as he passed away on Blaugdone Island. Not that Owein was eager in the slightest to inhabit the house—he enjoyed having a body again, smelling, touching, tasting things, which he couldn’t do in a frame of wood and brick. That, and Merritt’s communion spells only worked on plants and animals—if Owein were to transfer back to the house, they’d lose that outlet of communication.

Merritt rubbed his eyes. On top of the mess of discovering he was a wizard at thirty-one, he needed to go back to New York. He needed to confront Nelson Sutcliffe and Peter Fernsby. At least one of them would not be happy to see him.

He glanced to the communion stone sitting quietly at the edge of his desk. “One thing at a time.” Opening a drawer, he pulled out his ever-growing manuscript.

Right now, it was very crucial that he finish his book.

It’d been just over a week since Hulda had come to stay with her younger sister, who’d received her most graciously, considering Hulda had been unable to send word ahead. Danielle Larkin Tanner lived in Cambridge, northwest of Boston, in a nice home she shared with two children and her husband of ten years, who was a lawyer hailing from a family of the same profession. Which was excellent, for they had room to spare for Hulda and her things, and room for her to wander about and sigh wistfully and be generally aoristic about her life.

She hadn’t heard from Myra. She hadn’t heard from Merritt. Miss Taylor had contacted her once through the stone, which was nice. Then again, perhaps someone else had tried and Hulda hadn’t been around to hear it. She’d forbidden herself from carrying the stone around, knowing it would lead only to sulking. Admittedly, though, she’d spent a good amount of time staring at it. She’d tried to work up the courage to activate it, even written down possible phrases she could use to open a conversation, but her courage was shaken, presuming she’d ever had any to begin with. In truth, every night she played with a variety of ideas for reaching out to Merritt, but by morning her strictly trained rational side dismissed every last one.

Now, belly full of a luncheon she had no hand in preparing, Hulda sat in the seat of a multipaned window, watching her nephews and brother-in-law run around outside, bright orange and red leaves flying about their feet. It was cold enough now for hats, scarves, and gloves, and the trees were half-naked, but the sun remained bright. Pushing up her glasses, Hulda smiled at the scene, feeling wistful again, and a little sad. But that was becoming the norm for her.

“Miss Larkin?” Her sister’s only hired staff, Miss Canterbury, approached with a broom under one arm and a brown-paper package in her hands. “This just came for you.”

Hulda blinked. “For me?” Who even knew she was here? Only Myra had the address. Was this some sort of apology? “Thank you.”

She took the package—it felt like a book—onto her lap, and Miss Canterbury gave her some privacy.

Unwrapping the parcel, she found it was not a book, but a stack of papers in familiar handwriting, atop which sat a note:

Hulda,

I thought you might like to know the ending.

Sincerely,

Merritt Fernsby

PS: Sadie Steverus is very kind and not hardly secretive enough to be of your acquaintance.

Hulda smiled, though in truth she wished the note were longer. She read it again, slower, and set it beside herself on the window seat. The papers in her hand left off exactly where Merritt had finished reading to her while she was recuperating from Silas Hogwood’s first attack. She was surprised he’d remembered the place so precisely.

“This is it.” She turned the ruby-studded cross over in her hands, gilt glinting in the candlelight. “Red Salvation.”

The priest hunkered into his oversized robes, getting comfortable. A warm smile lit his face, one that reminded Elise of her father. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

Warren bent over, holding up the magnifying glass. “But you know what this is, don’t you?”

The priest’s expression was unwavering. “Aye, I know. I’ve forgotten many things, but I know that.”

“Must be worth a fortune.” Warren held out his hand, and Elise placed the crucifix against his palm like it were a newborn babe. “I can easily see how this could bring a man happiness.”

“Then you see nothing at all.” Father Chummings clicked his tongue. “Do you know Latin?”

“I do,” Elise offered.

He dipped his head. “Then read the inscription on the back, child. Aloud, for your partner’s sake.”

Hulda put the page aside, curious. However, the story changed completely on the next page.

Once upon a time, there was a lonely old (but not really very old) rogue who lived in a dingy (but not that dingy, let’s be honest, he’s not a pauper) apartment in New York, who suddenly received a call from a very polite lawyer about a house in the middle of nowhere that was his. By the way, this house was haunted. Fortunately, the rogue did not believe in ghosts at the time, so he went anyway.

Hulda smiled. Something warm and strange ballooned in her chest.

The house was utterly terrible, as one can expect a haunted house to be. But fortunately for the rogue, someone competent came by. Competence claimed she was sent by a special organization with a truly terrible acronym, but truthfully her visit had been arranged by divine intervention.

The house (which later became a talking dog, but that is a story for another day) gradually settled down under her hand, and so did the rogue. In fact, the rogue found he no longer slept in and made pastries the highlight of his day; he woke (relatively) on time just to see Competence chewing absently on her lip while she was nose deep in a book, or chattering with the staff, or admiring the sunset when she thought no one was looking.

The balloon swelled. Rings of heat formed around Hulda’s eyes. She turned the next page, covering the second half with her hand, terrified she would read ahead and ruin it all.

Competence helped the rogue write what was likely a terrible novel, hired help who would become his friends, and provided him with conversation that was both amusing and deep. Very soon, the rogue found that he wanted nothing more than to share that house with her forever, though there was the tricky business of her refusing to use his Christian name.

Hulda laughed. A tear pooled in the corner of her eye.

The rogue, of course, was a rogue for a reason. He had a less-than-savory past, involving a contumelious (Competence would appreciate the complexity of that word) father and a tricksy belle, which had left him with some heavy thoughts and (mostly) without an inheritance. Plus, unfortunately, both the rogue and Lady Competence shared the trait of being very poor communicators when it came to important and uncomfortable things.

A second tear formed. Hulda wiped it away with her thumb. Smudged her glasses, but didn’t bother to clean the lenses.

And so it was that the rogue went on a mission to uncover the truth of his labyrinthine (there’s another word for you) past when he had intended to tell Competence that he was falling madly in love with her.

A sob tore up her throat. Hulda clapped a hand over her mouth, fearing Miss Canterbury would hear it, and continued reading through increasingly foggy spectacles.

Competence, in turn, determined to move out immediately. Which the rogue very much hoped was a way of dealing with heartbreak because, if so, that meant Competence likewise might be falling in love with him. Or, at the very least, strongly tolerated him.

She laughed. A teardrop fell on the paper and smudged the penned likewise. She felt like her ribs were pulling apart in the most fascinating way. Her heart pumped like it was skipping rope. Pleasant prickles danced across her scalp.

And so, after some nonsense with a supernecromancer that is hardly important to the story, the rogue determined to tell Competence how he felt in the hope she’d return to him someday. He lucked out in that he got to do it in a very strangely arranged letter, as he always was a better writer than speaker.

Take your time, Hulda. I’ve kept the communion stone in my pocket.

Absolutely Yours—Merritt.

Speechless, Hulda turned the page, only to see the continuation of Elise and Warren’s story. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to read it. Not now.

Collecting the papers together, she clutched them to her chest and hurried from the window seat, out into the hallway. Her sister was playing the pianoforte in the front room, so she ran to see her, uncaring that her eyes were probably red.

“Danielle!” she burst out, causing her sister to pause midmeasure and swivel on her bench. “Danielle, I need to leave immediately. Could you take me to the tram station?”

Hulda hadn’t been away for even a fortnight, yet the island seemed different when the dinghy driver banked to drop her off. The place was filled with color, hues of yellow, orange, red, and brown. The green in the reeds and grass was slowly fading with the promise of winter. Songbirds still trilled in half-bare trees. Frost glimmered where the branches cast shade.

Taking a deep breath, Hulda pulled her shawl close and made her way to Whimbrel House. Nothing hung on the line, though perhaps it had been too cold to dry much of anything today. No one chopped wood, though the axe protruded from the stump in the yard. There was a faint smell of rosemary and sage wafting from the kitchen window, which served to bolster Hulda’s spirits and calm her nerves. She knew the house had changed, but she felt it, too, in a way she couldn’t quantify. As though a sense outside of the five—or perhaps six—that she possessed whispered it. And yet it still very much felt like home.

She paused at the front door, wondering if she should knock. Wondering if she wanted to have this conversation at the threshold instead of sequestered in a private room. Remembering that her contract had not yet terminated, she deemed it appropriate to open the front door and slip inside. The portrait on the wall took no notice of her; the painted woman merely stared ahead as she’d been created to do, depleted of magic.

A dog barked upstairs. Within seconds, the terrier mix darted into view and sprinted down the stairs, its paws losing purchase as it hit polished hardwood. It slipped to its rump, earning a laugh from Hulda, but recovered quickly, rushing to her and planting its front paws on her knees.

“You look like you’re convalescing well.” She rubbed Owein’s ears and allowed him to lick her chin. “Glad to see you. Where’s the man of the house?”

“Hulda!” Miss Taylor swept in from the dining room and rushed to her, hugging her with the utmost gentleness. “You’re back!”

“Are you well?” Hulda pulled away to survey her friend for injuries.

“Doing better every day,” Miss Taylor assured her. “Just can’t lift anything heavy or reach too high. Mr. Babineaux has taken up dusting.”

Heavy steps announced Baptiste arriving to investigate the noise. He made no physical reaction to Hulda’s presence. “You look well,” he said.

“I am, thank you. And you?”

He shrugged. “I’m preparing chicken.”

“I’m sure it will be wonderful.” She glanced back to the stairs, hoping to see Merritt appear atop them. “Is he working?”

“Mr. Fernsby went out for a walk about half an hour ago,” Miss Taylor explained, a small smile on her face. “West. I’m sure you’ll find him. He’s begun to wear a path.”

Hulda nodded, nerves igniting anew. “If I can leave my bag here.”

“Of course. I’ll put it in your room.”

Her room. She thanked her and slipped back outside. Owein tried to follow, but Miss Taylor called him back, whispering something Hulda didn’t catch. On reflection, perhaps it was better she hadn’t heard it.

Sure enough, a narrow path marked by trampled grass and goosefoot wound behind the house and westward. How often had Merritt walked this way since her departure? She followed it, rubbing her hands together, though it was more anticipation than the weather that chilled her fingers. The sun encouraged her, leaving a warm spot on the side of her head. A whimbrel called nearby.

She’d been walking about a quarter hour when she saw him near a weeping cherry, staring toward Connecticut with his arms folded and hair loose as always, wearing his coat, though by the fit of it, she could tell it was unbuttoned. The crunching of grass hardly made her approach quiet, but Merritt must have been lost in thought, for he turned around only when she was roughly six paces from him. His eyes, blue as the deepest parts of the bay, widened slightly, and his jaw went lax. “Hulda. I . . . wasn’t expecting you.”

She stopped at a good four-pace distance and lifted her nose. “You invite me to return and then say you weren’t expecting me?”

The corner of his lip twitched. “You have me there.” He reached into his vest pocket to pull out his watch, checking it. “The mail was much more timely than I gave it credit for. I was not expecting you to receive said invitation for another two days.”

She shrugged. “I was in Massachusetts, not France.”

“I ate an apple once that looked suspiciously like France.” Returning the watch, he closed the distance between them by two paces. Hulda’s heartbeat echoed in her ears. “Did you . . . like the book?”

She pressed her thumb into her palm. “I admit I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Oh?”

“I was rather distracted by a scene that did not fit the narrative in the slightest.”

Merritt glanced down and pinched the watch chain between his fingers. “And what did you think of it?”

“Competence is a very apt name. I would have preferred it over Hulda, as a child.”

He met her eyes again. “Truly?”

She tilted her head to one side. “It would have given me something to aspire to.”

The half smile that formed on his face was mesmerizing. “I hardly think you needed encouragement.”

She drew in a steadying breath. “Unfortunately, I often need encouragement.”

He took another step, leaving a single pace between them. “Is that so?”

She nodded. Swallowed. Glanced at his lips.

When Merritt took another step, her pulse resonated down to her knees. He took her hand, driving back the chill there. “And what did you think of the rest?” His voice lowered to just above a whisper.

Her cheeks flushed, which didn’t surprise her in the least. “I liked it very much.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. Closing her eyes, Hulda relished the weight of it. The warmth wafting off him, enveloping her with spring when she was surrounded by winter.

He squeezed her hand. She heard him smile when he asked, “Do you need more encouragement?”

Opening her eyes, she met his penetrating gaze. Held it for several seconds. “No.”

Tilting her head, she inched forward enough to brush her lips against his. Her nerves exploded like a flock of sparrows taking flight. Merritt’s free hand came up to cup her jaw and pull her a little closer, enough to truly, softly, and blissfully kiss her.

In that moment, despite the patterns of light dancing across her eyelids, she pushed her augury away.

She didn’t need magic to see a bright and joyous future for the both of them.